D - 485 Days: Not My Best Ride

"Breakdown, I'm standing here, can't you see?
Breakdown, it's alright."
- Tom Petty

WARNING to the non-"readers": This one has a lot of words, not a lot of pictures. More pictures next time, I promise.

Sunday was a beautiful December day, with temperatures in the City getting up into the high 40s with sunny skies and only mild winds. I put my directions to Queens down on paper to tape to my gas tank, layered up, and started my motorcycle with no trouble (on Friday night I'd gone into Manhattan only after roll-starting the bike, a technique that seems to work pretty well when the battery is cold but still has some juice). I was in Astoria in about 20 minutes, and the impressive potholes on the BQE gave my swerving skills some good practice. I parked, bought a couple slices of pizza, and ate them while watching the Jets at a divey Irish bar filled with old drunks getting an early start on their Sunday drunkenness. It was even warmer when I left to head back to Brooklyn, so I was really looking forward to the ride.

At one point a guy on a sport bike came up behind me and passed me like I was moving backwards; he was moving so fast I never saw him in my mirrors and the first sign of him I got was the loud and sudden sound of him passing very close to me. I chuckled, thinking how it was pretty good that the scariest thing that's happened on any of my recent rides was having someone else fly past me and being startled by the sound. A few seconds later, I felt my bike start to lose power and knew I had a bigger problem.

It didn't shut down right away as it did the time I ran out of gas, but sputtered and surged a few times. I shifted down through the gears, trying to keep it going as I looked for a safe place to pull over, but I had just passed the Kent St/Wythe St exit and gotten onto a bridge with no shoulders that crosses over Washington St. I signaled and got as far to the right as I could as I rolled to a stop. I put down the kickstand but had to turn the wheel to the right and lean the bike against the concrete barrier running along the edge of the right lane to keep the bike from leaning into traffic. I took off my helmet before realizing that was stupid, then put it back on and walked away from the bike, toward traffic, trying to make myself as visible as possible to oncoming cars and trucks while cozying up to the barrier.

I first called 411 and got Verizon Roadside Assistance, where the IVR wanted my credit card number before giving me an operator. I hustled through the automated process to get a person on the phone. The attendant wanted a lot of information before dispatching anyone to actually help, and we were having trouble communicating above the road noise as passing drivers honked and, in some cases, gestured helpfully. When I stressed that I needed help sooner than later, she said that I should call the police if I felt I was in an unsafe location. So we hung up and I called 911, which was considerably and predictably more responsive than Verizon. An NYPD cruiser pulled up with its lights flashing about five minutes later. The cop driving the car asked if I could push the bike, and I said that I could, so we set out together at about 3 mph, me pushing and the police following. Pushing my motorcycle to the top of the bridge while smashing my right shin against the bike's left footpeg every six to eight steps was a thrill. And it turns out that when you push 400 pounds for a mile, half of it uphill, while wearing clothing and a helmet specifically selected to keep you warm while sitting still and being hit with a 60 mph wind, you get pretty damn warm (especially if you're a sweater to begin with). We stopped twice along the way so the cops could pick up discarded tires along the side of the road, and then we reached the Tillary St exit and I jogged it down and around the exit ramp and pulled up behind two broken down cars and a flatbed on the gloriously wide shoulder of the end of the ramp. I thanked the cops and went to introduce myself to the flatbed driver.

Grateful for a good cell phone with web browsing, I made a few phone calls in a vain attempt to find a motorcycle mechanic open on Sunday, made a quick call for advice or ideas from my Ol' Dad, then had the flatbed driver take the bike and me to my house. Along the way, the driver enthralled me with anecdotes about taking his GSX-R 1000 up to 175 mph. It turns out, he knows my mechanic and takes his bike to him for service as well.

Fortunately, when I got home, I had just enough energy left in my arms to do a few 12-ounce curls with a cold beer while I watched the end of the 1:00 football games. My shin remains bruised.

I called the mechanic today and we'll make arrangements for him to pick up my bike tomorrow. Ever since the breakdown, the electrical system is completely dead. When I turn the key, no lights or indicators come on, and the starter doesn't do squat. I'm curious to see if the problem is with the battery, the alternator, or the wiring. I guess I'll know soon.

It stinks that the towing and the repairs will probably eat up most of my fantasy football winnings. Hopefully I'll be able to recoup some of these costs when I sell the bike. You can bet that I'll be advertising it on Craigslist as having a brand new alternator (or whatever the case ends up being).

Lessons learned:

1) Don't take off your helmet on the highway under any circumstances.
2) Don't get TOO far from home if you're not sure your bike is pretty dependable (towing is expensive even before you tack on $4 per mile).
3) 911 is better than Verizon Roadside Assistance in a semi-emergency.
4) Carry highway flares.
5) If you ride in 20-something, 30-something, and 40-something temperatures for a month and then your bike dies, it will go up to 67 the next day.
6) Even if you know there's not much he can do to help at the moment, it's real good to be able to call Ol' Dad when things aren't going so well.