What would I look like as a blocky green man in an uncomfortable position
This Motorcycle Ergonomics web app gives you the greatest gift a web app can: the ability to imagine oneself as a square-ish, green person. It then allows you to place this simulacrum on a variety of bikes from a pretty extensive list of manufacturers.
In theory this should take the guess work out of picking a new bike. It quantifies the ergonomics of a machine while giving you a visual representation of the position the rider would adopt.
In reality though, it's more a trivia fact machine. I sincerely hope I am not breaking new ground here when I say that bikes are visceral objects, meant to be touched and felt. The numbers provided are just that; numbers. Sure, they may quantify your degree of comfort (or the opposite) but ultimately we're all still gonna buy the bikes we want, regardless of how comfortable they may or may not be.
This app is a brilliant idea and one that has been executed with thoroughness and aplomb. But, if you're anything like me, you'll just wind up using it to torture the green man.
I had no idea that Mustang week was a thing. Later on I may even learn more about it, but for now, this video is all I need. The fun kicks off at 3:18 when one car leaving the show gets ambushed by the inevitable cop presence that any significant auto events attracts.
The REAL fun starts at 3:35 when too much horsepower and too little control meet with the predictable "ploughing into oncoming traffic"-y consequences.
Man, Mustang Week looks awesome and now I have to wait a whole 'nother year. Dang times.
You think I'm joking, but this is still better throttle control than I have.
Last Sunday I was lucky to finally cash in the gift voucher I had for one six hour lesson at a nearby dirt bike riding school. As the title suggests, I had long heard the advice that dirt riders make better road riders. As a kinda sucky road rider this naturally interested me.
The day got started at mid morning and after the required faffing around with gear and some introductions we got started on some actual course content. What followed was twenty minutes of torturous throttle control exercises with a 90cc Yamaha bike in which I learned that I have zero throttle control. Honestly, none. What so ever.
What followed was a battery of exercises that frankly made me question what I had been doing all this time. I was aware that dirt bikes constituted a different discipline of riding, but my definition of "different discipline" was significantly less radical than the reality. With no apparent idea of how to start, stop, balance on or turn a motorcycle I never the less plunged onward with the day, comforting myself with the illusion that, maybe, each time I tried I was sucking incrementally less.
I am completely sold on dirt bikes though. They are light, agile and very easy to maneuver. In contrast, my road bike feels stiff and generally uncooperative. Also, I cannot overstate how plush, comfortable and generally squishy-soft the suspension was. Not that that in anyway ablated the effect of the seat itself, which seemed to be upholstered in the skin of some kind of highly acidic, sandpaper crocodile. After two hours of "sliding" across the seat for cornering purposes, "sore" is only the beginning of the sensation I was feeling.
Sliding is a ball too, a gentle rain the night before had made the ground nice and soft. As such, my classmates and I took to it with gusto, sliding around with the gleeful abandon only people who won't have to repair either their bikes or the turf can muster.
All of this was facilitated by the fantastic instruction of the trainer. His emphasis on technique was outstandingly informative and each exercise built toward greater confidence on the bike and your own limits as a rider.
The crucial moment for me came at the end of the day. To end the day the class embarks on a short trail ride, including a descent of one very steep hill. When I say "steep hill" I mean that were I forced to traverse the incline on foot rappelling would have been my preferred option. "Fear of heights be damned" I thought to myself as I rode over the edge. For the first three quarters I was doing very well though, naturally. right up until the moment I thought to myself "I'm doing very well". With the bottom in sight I locked the rear brake and learned more about how willing I am to contort myself to remain upright in the following 90 seconds than I ever have before. When forced to choose between flapping about like a fool to stay up or using my face to slide down some rocks, I choose foolish flapping every time. What sensible gentleman would choose otherwise?
I'm a quick learner.
I never once "got the hang of it" and the sensation of perpetually being on the verge of disaster is exhilarating to say the least. It was, however, a hugely valuable experience for me and one that has vastly improved my ability as a road rider.
For me, this is a confirmed myth. Just five hours training has made all the difference to my riding and I'm already planning ways of affording to go back. If you are a road rider and you do think you could be better then you need to get out there and get dirty.
I'm fairly upfront about being an Australian. As such, it should come as no surprise to you that I've never been to the Outback. It's the same thing as British people not really calling each other "guv'nah". I've been to the Steakhouse, but I've never actually been to the Outback Outback. Recently, however, my partner of two years took a job in Bourke. I drove out to help her move and settle in, but had to come back quickly for a job interview. What follows is an hour-by-hour break down of the journey home.
Hour 1:
I woke at 6:00am. It's a brisk 4 degrees Celsius in the morning. The sun isn't up yet. I'm wearing two jumpers, a hoodie and a leather jacket. Still cold. I turn the car on to warm up and the drivers side headlight immediately blows. It's an omen that the whole day will blow too. I depart at 6:43am. I am carrying food supplies. Four bananas and a sack of tuna snacks, Vegemite snacks, LCM bars and two Red Bulls. Despite the cold I wind down all four windows and turn up Edguy's Ministry of Saints. For one brief and glorious moment I imagine that I am both the fastest and loudest thing this side of the Outback.
Hour 2: The Mitchell Highway is straight. Straight. Really straight. Quiet too. Ahead of me two cars stop in the middle of the road. One driver gets out to talk to another. I stop and ask if they need help, but it's a father and daughter stopping to chat. They are nice people, but they are also like R.M Williams mannequins brought to life. I press on to Nyngan. At some point I stop to take that photo. I stopped at that same place on the way in. As you can see the sun is barely up. The same people are sitting in the same chairs in front of the same pub behind me, one day later. I respect their commitment to the country lifestyle.
Hour 3:
I blow through Narromine on the way to Dubbo. The road starts to develops curves. I am initially cautious as I want to preserve my stamina for the trip. The traffic around becomes more numerous, but they stick to 80kmph in the 100kmph. I realize that though I want to preserve my strength, I want to preserve it at the speed limit. I start overtaking people.
Hour 4:
I reach Dubbo and decide to stop for half an hour for food and a bathroom break. I head back out onto the road. I knock back my first Red Bull and a banana. The potent mix of nutrients and additives they supply reinvigorates me. I launch a potassium and caffeine fueled assault on the highway. People are still being cautious on the roads due to the double demerit point weekend. I overtake a number of people on the road. The number is "All of them"
Hour 7: Having overtaken every moving thing on the highway I still feel confident enough to blow through a few smaller towns without stopping. It takes a to find parking in Orange and when I do it's outside the visitors centre. My bag of food is still full so I do my best to make a dent in it. My efforts are hampered by the haunted park I've chosen to sit in. A voice issues from a nearby statue reads me poetry about how people like me aren't tough enough to survive in the bush and I fully agree. The voice, however, does not care that the roads are clogged with slow moving holiday traffic. The kind of traffic that panic brakes on approach to every corner, that tailgates on the straights and habitually drifts into oncoming traffic. For seven hours I have felt besieged by never ending flood of incompetence. I have so long left to travel. I flip the statue off and head out. I am immediately almost involved in a crash when a small Honda rolls through a Stop sign. I remember that you can't drop your guard, even for a moment. I feel like Jet Li at the end of The One
Hour 8: I was still feeling confident that I would make it back before nightfall so I forgo the pilgrimage to the Bathurst Repco. Besides, I have no idea if they are open on the long weekend and I would have to buy the tools necessary to replace the headlight itself as I stupidly left those at home. My optimism seems so shallow and false now. I stop in Lithgow for a half hour nap. The weather has closed in the skies have traded blue for gunmetal grey and a surly drizzle has started. I could feel myself trending downwards and was forced to throttle back on the enthusiasm in my driving. I down the second Red Bull and leave Lithgow. Traffic is much heavier and aggressive now. There are warnings for congestion at Blackheath. How bad can it be though?
Hour 9/10: It's bad. Traffic is at a standstill at the top of Mount Victoria. The rains begin in earnest making a bad situation worse. Caravaners are to blame, that much is obvious, seeing the tailback in the right hand lane they plow their awful offroader tow cars with their awful caravans up the left lane, only to be forced back into the right. They cut off right hand lane traffic, slowing it to a crawl as the right hand has to brake to let them in. I settle back and try to rest while we crawl along.
Hour 11:
The enormity of what I am trying to do hits me. The creeping along isn't hard but it is relentless. I run out of water in the car and cannot bring myself to pull over knowing how long the tail back is. The traffic finally starts moving at Blackheath but I am ruined. I pull over for food and water which help ablate the light headedness.
Hour 12:
I feel perpetually flushed. It's like making a 24 hour flight but worse. This is the level of physical degradation you would experience after a 48 hour flight. I know two things; I do not want to take the M4 turn off. I do want to take another turn off. I don't know if it is the Picton turn off or not. I start to feel worried after I pass the Light Horse Interchange, a landmark I not pass on the way out. Exhaustion gives birth to melodrama. I believe that deciding not to continue is as good as death. In hindsight, giving up would have been far wiser and it's incredible that pushing on did not result in death.
Hour 13:
I take a somewhat circuitous route of the major city, hitting every stop light on the way. The final stretch is almost painless and I feel unbelievably thankful that it is. Traffic is non-existent. I arrive home in a daze. Somewhere distantly I realize that I am now very far from someone very important to me and it is only my physically dilapidated state that spares me from the full sensation of the sadness and anger that brings. I decide that I do not like country Australia. As I fall asleep it feels like I am falling in a spa bath.
