N
Neil Brooks
Guest
Three weeks into Moots ownership. Maybe 300 miles on the odometer.
Riding south in Chula Vista with Bill Sornson (Sorni).
I'm out front in the right lane (of a North-South street with two
lanes going each way and a left turn lane), in the Dreaded Door Zone.
This is not a heavily cycled part of town. I felt like everybody was
better off with me not taking the lane. In retrospect, that was a big
mistake.
I've learned (from decades of motorcycling) to be very vigilant in
watching parked cars for drivers who might unthinkingly open their
doors in your path, but between the early afternoon sun, the
sunglasses, and the deeply tinted rear window on the burgundy Toyota
pickup truck, I didn't see a head in this particular car. And he
didn't bother to look for me.
FLING! The door bursts wide open at the exact moment I enter its
radius . . . at about 18mph. CRASH! I'm down. The front wheel is
tacoed, my helmet is cracked, the right hand brifter is a tweaked,
scraped mess, and my clavicle area has taken the brunt of the edge of
his door.
Police are called. Ambulance is summoned. X-rays and CT's are taken.
All is relatively well.
But the Moots, I'm afraid, is now *far* from new. I've always known
that *things are just things*, but the novelty of this bike had
anything but worn off. It was too young. Our time together too
limited. Our journey not yet begun.
I don't know much about titanium welds and carbon fiber vis-a-vis how
they hold up to accidents. Neither do I know how much the force
sustained by the various bike parts was. All I know is my beautiful
new bike got all banged up today, and me with it. I also know that
Bill Sornson got to watch, and is a darned good guy to have along when
the worst happens.
Be careful out there, kids. Zoot has a lot of very apt epithets for
those car people. They don't think like we do, if at all.
Neil
Forlorn in San Diego
Riding south in Chula Vista with Bill Sornson (Sorni).
I'm out front in the right lane (of a North-South street with two
lanes going each way and a left turn lane), in the Dreaded Door Zone.
This is not a heavily cycled part of town. I felt like everybody was
better off with me not taking the lane. In retrospect, that was a big
mistake.
I've learned (from decades of motorcycling) to be very vigilant in
watching parked cars for drivers who might unthinkingly open their
doors in your path, but between the early afternoon sun, the
sunglasses, and the deeply tinted rear window on the burgundy Toyota
pickup truck, I didn't see a head in this particular car. And he
didn't bother to look for me.
FLING! The door bursts wide open at the exact moment I enter its
radius . . . at about 18mph. CRASH! I'm down. The front wheel is
tacoed, my helmet is cracked, the right hand brifter is a tweaked,
scraped mess, and my clavicle area has taken the brunt of the edge of
his door.
Police are called. Ambulance is summoned. X-rays and CT's are taken.
All is relatively well.
But the Moots, I'm afraid, is now *far* from new. I've always known
that *things are just things*, but the novelty of this bike had
anything but worn off. It was too young. Our time together too
limited. Our journey not yet begun.
I don't know much about titanium welds and carbon fiber vis-a-vis how
they hold up to accidents. Neither do I know how much the force
sustained by the various bike parts was. All I know is my beautiful
new bike got all banged up today, and me with it. I also know that
Bill Sornson got to watch, and is a darned good guy to have along when
the worst happens.
Be careful out there, kids. Zoot has a lot of very apt epithets for
those car people. They don't think like we do, if at all.
Neil
Forlorn in San Diego