- My Dad
No preamble, no lead-up, no teasers. I bought this. This is mine.
I spent a couple weeks scouring Craigslist and Ebay and the Kawasaki Motorcycle forum that I read for every Vulcan 900 within about a seven-state radius. Then on April 8th I clicked an ad for a 2005 Vulcan 1600 Mean Streak and life started to change. The ad in the forum included a link to this Craigslist ad.
I emailed the seller and he sent me about seven high resolution pictures and a link to this video of the bike that he made and put on YouTube when he originally put the bike up for sale. I was sold and I wrote back to clarify a couple details of the deal and ask him to take it off the market because I was coming down.
I checked in with Ol' Dad to show him the info about the bike and ask if he foresaw any problems with the size of the bike. He said he had no reservations about it, that I'd do great with it, that the size and power would serve me well on the open road. I made my travel plans and waited impatiently through three days of work. I called him on Wednesday night to say that I was heading to Birmingham the next day to buy the bike and ride it home, and he told me, very appreciatively, that I was ridiculous.
I met Wayne at the Birmingham airport at about 1:45 the next day. We talked about bikes for most of the 30-minute drive back to his house, and most of the times he talked about the Mean Streak he followed his thought with "you're going to love the bike."
We got to his house and he opened the garage door and I got to see the Meanie in person for the first time. The pictures really hadn't done her justice. I threw a leg over and fired her up and twisted the throttle. The video that Wayne had sent definitely hadn't done the sound justice. Wayne had been right. I loved the bike.
We packed the bike's stock seat into a box to ship to Brooklyn (Wayne had upgraded the seat to a touring seat with a passenger backrest). I unloaded the contents of my backpack into one saddlebag and stuffed the empty pack into the other. We further loaded up the bags with a toolkit for the windshield, the software for the Power Commander, the CD containing the owner's manual, a pair of Kuryakyn mirrors, and a couple other little things that came with the bike. We went up to his office to exchange money and title and sign the bill of sale. I noticed on the bill of sale that the bike's mileage was 9079, which is the last four digits of my phone number, too. That felt like a good sign.
We went to the post office with me riding the Mean Streak and Wayne leading the way in his car. Easing the bike out of the garage and the driveway and into the road, the extra weight felt about how I expected it would. At 653 pounds dry and probably 700 loaded with gear and a full tank of gas, the Meanie weighs about twice what my old 454 does. I knew that I'd have to be extremely careful to keep my balance at slow speeds and stops while I got used to the bike's heft, but it didn't feel unmanageable or particularly intimidating.
When I pulled away from the stop sign at the top of Wayne's street and gave her some real throttle in first gear for the first time, the engine roared and the bike accelerated up the road with even more authority than I'd expected. I was ecstatic. We rode about 15 miles to the post office, hopping on the interstate for a brief stretch, and I was obsessed with the bike's ride. The comfort and stability of the bike's big body combined with the powerful acceleration and awesome sound and warm weather and uncrowded roads made for an experience that was completely different from the cold-weather jaunts through New York City streets that I was used to making on the old 454 that always made me worry that it was about to break down. I was falling in love with the beautiful motorcycle under me and giddy about the three and a half days and 1,000 miles and perfect weather forecast in front of me, and I may have talked to the bike a little bit. Is that weird? People do that, right?
We got to the post office and Wayne got out of his car as I was preparing to back into the space next to his, while I accidentally honked the horn while attempting to cancel my turn signal. It's not my fault Kawasaki put those two buttons so close together.
I mailed the seat and then we headed for the DMV, about 15 minutes away. I briefly got separated from Wayne's car on the interstate but gave 'er a little extra throttle when I had the chance and powered past a couple of cars to find Wayne's car and pull back in behind him. That was my first time accelerating from cruising speed to what we'll call "passing speed" and I was again in awe of how effortlessly the bike gains that extra speed.
The DMV acted like I was the first person ever to request the 20-day temporary tags that their very own office had told me I could pick up at this very location. Eventually my rare case was being handled by about five employees and before too long they were filling out a paper tag for me. Wayne and I affixed it to the bike, I followed him to a barbeque joint where he bought me lunch, and then I was on my way.
It was exciting, being on my own with the whole ride home in front of me after Wayne and I split up. I got some general directions on my phone and hit the highway. It was about 4:30 in the afternoon, warm and slightly sunny, and traffic was almost non-existent by the time I cleared Birmingham. I dialed up a little extra throttle and then I was going 90 like it was nothing. But I dialed it back a little to ensure that I didn't start the trip out with an immediate speeding ticket.
I rode about 150 miles to Chattanooga, TN that night, found a Qualit Inn with a room, and took a walk to find my dinner. All that I could really find within walking distance and with a pulse was Applebee's, so I took a seat at the bar and had a couple beers and an Ultimate Trio appetizer combo while talking to a couple of the other patrons. After dinner I took my bike's picture for the first time.
Friday was another beautiful day and I got a pretty early start around 9:30. I found a pulled pork sandwich for breakfast at a gas station, and it was every bit as fancy as it sounds. I rode up past Knoxville and stopped for lunch in Bristol, which is a town right on the Tennessee-Virginia state line with a main street of shops and restaurants running through the village. I sat at an outdoor table just a few feet from my bike and ate a buffalo chicken sandwich and a Guinness. I talked to the lady sitting at the table next to mine for a few minutes and before I left she took my picture.
I rode until dark, passing Roanoke in favor of continuing on to Lexington, which a couple locals at one of my many gas stops told me would be the next town of note after Roanoke. Lexington turned out to be the home of the Virginia Military Institute and my search for a hotel room took me past its campus and sort-of college-town bordering it. I ended up finding a Best Western adjacent to another Applebee's, again the only eating and drinking establishment within a reasonable radius of the hotel. Fortunately, I like Applebee's and wasn't up for much of a walk anyway after riding about 420 miles in the heat and sun that day. So dinner was pretty much a repeat of Thursday's, though I chose three different options for my Ultimate Trio.
Oh, speaking of 420 miles in the sun:
I wasn't dying to talk to anyone at the bar, so I spent a lot of my time at Applebee's Blackberry Chatting with my friend Kate. It turned out that Kate and her family were in Bethesda for the weekend but heading to Charlottesville, VA, on Saturday to visit Thomas Jefferson's home and have lunch at Michie Tavern. I was only about 80 miles from Charlottesville at the time, and in short order a plan to have lunch together was born.
The ride to Charlottesville on Saturday morning got me off of Route 81 and the scenery was beautiful. I stopped at a scenic overlook a few miles outside of Charlottesville for a short break and got photographed.
I made it to the Michie Tavern a while before lunchtime, so I rode out to meet the Murphys at the visitors' center. I met up with Kate, her husband John, their almost-three-year-old Sal, and Kate's cousin Molly. We looked like this:
We headed back to the restaurant, which was on top of a windy hill and half-surrounded with a wavy multi-level parking lot. I followed an attendant's instructions to park in what he said was the only flat corner of the lot, next to the employee cars. I pulled into that corner going forward, then backed up while turning the front wheel to the right so I could then swing around to the left and be backed into my spot. The problem was, I didn't back up far enough and couldn't cut to the left sharply enough to clear the curb separating the lot from the lawn. With my front wheel pushed solidly up against that curb, I tried to back up enough that I could make another pass to clear the curb. I pushed as hard as I could but went nowhere. I was pointed down an incline and the bike was too heavy to roll up it (alternately, I wasn't strong enough to roll it up the slope, but that's just semantics; I'm blaming the bike). I put down the side stand and went into the restaurant thinking of options.
I was actually pretty anxious about the whole thing, especially after a couple dozen more motorcycles showed up at the place. I really wasn't looking forward to having these guys watch me try to muscle the thing out of that spot, or perhaps get some pushing help and end up off balance and dropping the thing. I told John that I was probably going to need his help getting out of there, and after lunch we settled on the plan of me straddling the bike and pushing and steering while he grabbed onto the fork of the bike and pushed straight forward. We executed the plan to perfection and in the absence of witnesses, and got me turned around just seconds before a couple of the other bikers came out.
After lunch, the Murphys were heading back toward DC and I was heading to see my sisters in Silver Spring, so we caravanned for the first 80 or so miles. We again stayed off the main highways and were rewarded with light traffic and great views, first of some Virginia hills and later of horse farms and other big open green spaces.
I got to Silver Spring just about as scheduled around 6:00 that night, and motored up to Denise's house. She ooh'd and ahh'd over Miss Alabama, as I had taken to calling the bike over the last few hours after thinking of her as just "Alabama" or "Alabama Worley" (from True Romance) for most of Friday. Laura came over a few minutes later and repeating the oohs and the ahhs and then headed out to downtown Silver Spring for dinner, drinks and then ice cream.
On Sunday morning, I hit the road around 9:00 to try to make it back to Brooklyn in time for a 3:00 bocce game. Here's a picture of Denise and me that we took before I left:
I had a good ride back to New York, including some three great trips over the Verrazano Bridge. That was kind of a remarkable development. I didn't get lost for a minute on the whole trip, didn't veer even a mile off course for 995 miles (possibly excepting some detouring resulting from disagreements between Kate, Cousin Molly, and their GPS as I followed them out of Charlottesville) and then it all goes to shit as I try to return to Brooklyn. I crossed the Bridge, hit 278, rode it for a while, concluded that I had missed my exit or was going the wrong way, turned around, and accidentally ended up on the on-ramp for the Bridge again. I got to the other side, made two quick lefts, and came back over the Bridge and, this time, navigated the rest of the way home properly. I rode right to Union Hall, got there at about 3:10, and learned that the bocce league was running a bit behind schedule. Nailed it. Even had time to give my teammates a look and listen at the bike.
I think that covers all the important parts. Maybe I'll expand a bit on some anecdotes from the trip at some point, but I wanted to mention the main points and get this thing posted today since it's already taken me more than three weeks to get anything about the trip up on the blog.
For more detail, click here.
