And judging from the thread title, it's not a Fermani-toothbrush detail of a Ducati, but rather, something quite different.
It must have been at least four or five weeks since I had a real day off. It was probably even longer since I ever left the office before 10pm.
And so, without an idea of what I was doing, where I was going, or what I really wanted to accomplish... I left town, with nothing but a Ducati and a toothbrush.
This is my story:
I came home well after 11pm stumbling like an athlete just completing a marathon. My body constantly ached from every joint, and my spirit was beginning to waver just as much. Owning a small auto detail operation doesn't look glamorous, but I can promise you it's even less-so than you'd imagine. The scene of me stumbling through the house making a straight line to the bed was basically the same route I'd taken every night I got home for the past few weeks. I was pretty sure I was wearing a hole in the carpet between my bedroom and the front door.
I lay face first on top of my my bed. No energy to actually get under the covers, still clothed, hoping my complete exhaustion would somehow melt away into my comforter, I couldn't help my mind from recognizing some growing "void" in my spirit lately. A feeling of a missing pillar of stability in my life of some sort. It wasn't a lack of attention from women, or social interaction with friends, or recreation or entertainment. Heaven knows that my circle of friends is good at one thing, and that's A LOT of fun in A SHORT amount of time. Perfect for the busy professional trying to build an empire, but it still didn't explain what this feeling of "emptiness" that seemed to be growing lately.
"This exhaustion isn't getting absorbed by this down comforter by any means," I thought to myself, so with few options left, I figured I'd give a hot shower a try. Heaven knows nothing feels better in this world than a hug from mom, closely followed by a hot shower. Mom isn't anywhere nearby, so we'll try option #2.
Option #2 didn't work. Doning my favorite pair of jeans, a t-shirt and strapping some Chucks on the feet, I started searching for the next route of satisfaction. I had actually bought an old school Ducati motorcycle the evening before. I had been so busy it almost slipped my mind that it was sitting outside still. Hell, with as much spare time as has been on my schedule lately, the entire transaction from meeting the owner, to kicking the tires, & handing over a rubber-band full of cash literally took somewhere in the area of six minutes. There are hood-rats in South Central doing drug deals daily that would have gawked at the efficiency of the whole deal. I stood in the kitchen, munching on some chips, staring blankly as I reminisced on the deal.
"Well ****, got the damn thing, might as well go for a cruise", I thought to myself with a casual shrug. The roomates were on the back porch enjoying some drinks and talking as I came out to ask what exciting escapades they had planned for the Friday evening. "Nothin on the gambit" was the general consensus. I told them I would be on a short ride to get some air, and I'd see them back at the house in a little bit.
Even I didn't realize I was lying at the time.
The cool air of the summer evening was AMAZING. The Ducati was proving to be such a unique experience to me in the motorcycle world. Having owned several Japanese sportbikes, I was quickly coming to the conclusion that the Ducati was a perfect mesh of a Ferrari and a Rat-Rod, made into a motorcycle. The beautiful handle bar clips, machined from one solid piece of a aluminum, and the exposed architecture of the frame, and exotic materials like titanium and exposed carbon fiber harked back to it's Italian engineering, just like a well-built Ferrari. Then the ridiculously unstable rumble through the frame of the V-Twin motor, couple of rusty fasteners and bolts from spending much of it's life outside, and the ear drum popping bark from the twin exhaust was unmistakably a Rat-Rod that was born with an extra chromosone where instead of four, it was only given two tires, and was thus born a ******* motorcycle. Every girl that had seen the bike thus far had hated it, "It looks... very... aesthetically unpleasing" on noted, and "Ummm, kinda looks like you built it in your garage?" another remarked twirling her gum stretched from her mouth to her pointer finger.
"PERFECT." I thought to myself. I would have it no other way
My ride stopped short. I pulled into Wal-Mart. Walking in I grabbed a tooth brush. I didn't need a tooth brush. Thinking back to my drawer in the bathroom at home, I vividly remembered a picture in my head of a package of like fourteen brand new ones. I could keep an entire school of children in Cambodia with sparkly-white Richard Hammond teeth with all the damn tooth brushes I had. And yet I grabbed a tooth brush. I paid for my purchase, all $3.46 of it. And walked back to the bike, still completely unaware conciously of what I was really up to. I think my own subconciuos was put on auto-pilot and the body was following. "Not" thinking, was a refreshing change.
The bike started with a loud bark from the twin exhaust pipes. A quick jump on I-15 North, a mile or two to the next exit, and I'd be a quick jaunt down a couple city streets and I'd be back home safe, with a refreshed spirit and a clear mind.
... Right?
But I didn't jump on 1-15 North. The feeling of the summer evening, and not being around anyone, and not thinking about anything, was cocaine. It was more than cocaine. It was, like, Megan Fox, hand cuffed to a hotel bed, with the entire Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders line up there, topless, and a coffee table with a mountain of cocaine, and Bono from U2, and Charlie Sheen in the corner having drinks and the keys to your Ferrari resting against your chest as they lay in the breast pocket of your Armani suit...
...it was a good feeling. And so what would you do if you have a good feeling like that? You chase more. I jumped on I-15 South.
And I rode.
I rode for a glamorous four and a half minutes before the seeming clear, perfect summer evening turned into a torrential downpour that soaked not only my clothes, but my skin, and my muscles, right until my bones turned to frozen ice structures. "WHAT THE FVCKING FVCK?" I was screaming inside my helmet. The storm came appeared from thin air. I imagined God and Zues sitting above the clouds, playing cards and laughing over cocktails, as God looked down on the little speck of me and the motorbike and said, "Lol, look at this little fvcker." I imagined Zues laughing and casually putting his hand out like he was Harry Potter about to put a spell on Hermione, and out of no where made a rain storm out of clear skies. They probably leaned back in their damn cloud-chairs laughing at the stars as they cheered their damn cocktails, gave each other a high-five and went back to cards.
"Damnit".
I rode 40 miles until I got to the next town, Mesquite, NV. A small town renowned for nothing more than a where a few Utahn's can come gamble and a few more Utahn's can make some regrets. I pulled off the freeway and made it about ten feet into the first gas station before getting off the bike and realizing I had already made a new friend.
The black-and-white Crown Vic with the OJ-Simpson-ending-push-bumper on the front that was about six inches from my rear tires was unmistakable.
"Hello officer!" I cheerfully said as my mind raced with thoughts of "Where the fvcking, fvck did this dude come from!?!?!?" as I retraced my route in my head.
Twenty minutes went by as the officer carefully explained that I had run the stop light at the end of the off ramp, done a small wheelie after pulling onto the surface street, don't have registration on the bike, any proper proof of ownership, any insurance of any kind, am illegally running a previous owners' plate and have illegal rear license plate mounts.
"...oh, so you saw everything." I thought to myself. Another unit pulled into the gas station. "And the plot thickens" I thought to myself again.
"Where you headed, what are you doing?" asked the officer, his young, clean cut face and time spent thoroughly thinking to himself before each question hinting towards being a relative rookie on the force.
"...I, well... I don't really know how to answer that." I replied.
Because, well let's be honest. Even I didn't really know what I was doing.
The officer spent an awkwardly long amount of time pacing around the bike, scratching his cheek occasionally, and dropping occasional comments like, "You know I can impound this, right?".
The laundry list of offenses I needed to be written up for, combined with the surely daunting amount of paper work for him associated with writting up that list and arranging a tow truck seemed to be enough to convince him of his final verdict.
"Get this thing home." He stated as he handed my license back to me, a defeated tone in his voice.
I really couldn't blame him. I wouldn't want to deal with me either.
YouTube - Grant Liban: With nothing but a Ducati and a toothbrush
I left the station with a full tank, and a little more blood flowing through the veins after a close call with Mesquites finest and a good bit of what I like to call "Motorcycle-gas-station-yoga". And anyone who has ridden long distances on a bike knows exactly what that is. And anywho who hasn't can picture it in their heads, although I'll have you know, it looks a lot more silly in real life than whatever you can picture.
It must have been at least four or five weeks since I had a real day off. It was probably even longer since I ever left the office before 10pm.
And so, without an idea of what I was doing, where I was going, or what I really wanted to accomplish... I left town, with nothing but a Ducati and a toothbrush.
This is my story:
I came home well after 11pm stumbling like an athlete just completing a marathon. My body constantly ached from every joint, and my spirit was beginning to waver just as much. Owning a small auto detail operation doesn't look glamorous, but I can promise you it's even less-so than you'd imagine. The scene of me stumbling through the house making a straight line to the bed was basically the same route I'd taken every night I got home for the past few weeks. I was pretty sure I was wearing a hole in the carpet between my bedroom and the front door.
I lay face first on top of my my bed. No energy to actually get under the covers, still clothed, hoping my complete exhaustion would somehow melt away into my comforter, I couldn't help my mind from recognizing some growing "void" in my spirit lately. A feeling of a missing pillar of stability in my life of some sort. It wasn't a lack of attention from women, or social interaction with friends, or recreation or entertainment. Heaven knows that my circle of friends is good at one thing, and that's A LOT of fun in A SHORT amount of time. Perfect for the busy professional trying to build an empire, but it still didn't explain what this feeling of "emptiness" that seemed to be growing lately.
"This exhaustion isn't getting absorbed by this down comforter by any means," I thought to myself, so with few options left, I figured I'd give a hot shower a try. Heaven knows nothing feels better in this world than a hug from mom, closely followed by a hot shower. Mom isn't anywhere nearby, so we'll try option #2.
Option #2 didn't work. Doning my favorite pair of jeans, a t-shirt and strapping some Chucks on the feet, I started searching for the next route of satisfaction. I had actually bought an old school Ducati motorcycle the evening before. I had been so busy it almost slipped my mind that it was sitting outside still. Hell, with as much spare time as has been on my schedule lately, the entire transaction from meeting the owner, to kicking the tires, & handing over a rubber-band full of cash literally took somewhere in the area of six minutes. There are hood-rats in South Central doing drug deals daily that would have gawked at the efficiency of the whole deal. I stood in the kitchen, munching on some chips, staring blankly as I reminisced on the deal.
"Well ****, got the damn thing, might as well go for a cruise", I thought to myself with a casual shrug. The roomates were on the back porch enjoying some drinks and talking as I came out to ask what exciting escapades they had planned for the Friday evening. "Nothin on the gambit" was the general consensus. I told them I would be on a short ride to get some air, and I'd see them back at the house in a little bit.
Even I didn't realize I was lying at the time.
The cool air of the summer evening was AMAZING. The Ducati was proving to be such a unique experience to me in the motorcycle world. Having owned several Japanese sportbikes, I was quickly coming to the conclusion that the Ducati was a perfect mesh of a Ferrari and a Rat-Rod, made into a motorcycle. The beautiful handle bar clips, machined from one solid piece of a aluminum, and the exposed architecture of the frame, and exotic materials like titanium and exposed carbon fiber harked back to it's Italian engineering, just like a well-built Ferrari. Then the ridiculously unstable rumble through the frame of the V-Twin motor, couple of rusty fasteners and bolts from spending much of it's life outside, and the ear drum popping bark from the twin exhaust was unmistakably a Rat-Rod that was born with an extra chromosone where instead of four, it was only given two tires, and was thus born a ******* motorcycle. Every girl that had seen the bike thus far had hated it, "It looks... very... aesthetically unpleasing" on noted, and "Ummm, kinda looks like you built it in your garage?" another remarked twirling her gum stretched from her mouth to her pointer finger.
"PERFECT." I thought to myself. I would have it no other way
My ride stopped short. I pulled into Wal-Mart. Walking in I grabbed a tooth brush. I didn't need a tooth brush. Thinking back to my drawer in the bathroom at home, I vividly remembered a picture in my head of a package of like fourteen brand new ones. I could keep an entire school of children in Cambodia with sparkly-white Richard Hammond teeth with all the damn tooth brushes I had. And yet I grabbed a tooth brush. I paid for my purchase, all $3.46 of it. And walked back to the bike, still completely unaware conciously of what I was really up to. I think my own subconciuos was put on auto-pilot and the body was following. "Not" thinking, was a refreshing change.
The bike started with a loud bark from the twin exhaust pipes. A quick jump on I-15 North, a mile or two to the next exit, and I'd be a quick jaunt down a couple city streets and I'd be back home safe, with a refreshed spirit and a clear mind.
... Right?
But I didn't jump on 1-15 North. The feeling of the summer evening, and not being around anyone, and not thinking about anything, was cocaine. It was more than cocaine. It was, like, Megan Fox, hand cuffed to a hotel bed, with the entire Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders line up there, topless, and a coffee table with a mountain of cocaine, and Bono from U2, and Charlie Sheen in the corner having drinks and the keys to your Ferrari resting against your chest as they lay in the breast pocket of your Armani suit...
...it was a good feeling. And so what would you do if you have a good feeling like that? You chase more. I jumped on I-15 South.
And I rode.
I rode for a glamorous four and a half minutes before the seeming clear, perfect summer evening turned into a torrential downpour that soaked not only my clothes, but my skin, and my muscles, right until my bones turned to frozen ice structures. "WHAT THE FVCKING FVCK?" I was screaming inside my helmet. The storm came appeared from thin air. I imagined God and Zues sitting above the clouds, playing cards and laughing over cocktails, as God looked down on the little speck of me and the motorbike and said, "Lol, look at this little fvcker." I imagined Zues laughing and casually putting his hand out like he was Harry Potter about to put a spell on Hermione, and out of no where made a rain storm out of clear skies. They probably leaned back in their damn cloud-chairs laughing at the stars as they cheered their damn cocktails, gave each other a high-five and went back to cards.
"Damnit".
I rode 40 miles until I got to the next town, Mesquite, NV. A small town renowned for nothing more than a where a few Utahn's can come gamble and a few more Utahn's can make some regrets. I pulled off the freeway and made it about ten feet into the first gas station before getting off the bike and realizing I had already made a new friend.
The black-and-white Crown Vic with the OJ-Simpson-ending-push-bumper on the front that was about six inches from my rear tires was unmistakable.
"Hello officer!" I cheerfully said as my mind raced with thoughts of "Where the fvcking, fvck did this dude come from!?!?!?" as I retraced my route in my head.
Twenty minutes went by as the officer carefully explained that I had run the stop light at the end of the off ramp, done a small wheelie after pulling onto the surface street, don't have registration on the bike, any proper proof of ownership, any insurance of any kind, am illegally running a previous owners' plate and have illegal rear license plate mounts.
"...oh, so you saw everything." I thought to myself. Another unit pulled into the gas station. "And the plot thickens" I thought to myself again.
"Where you headed, what are you doing?" asked the officer, his young, clean cut face and time spent thoroughly thinking to himself before each question hinting towards being a relative rookie on the force.
"...I, well... I don't really know how to answer that." I replied.
Because, well let's be honest. Even I didn't really know what I was doing.
The officer spent an awkwardly long amount of time pacing around the bike, scratching his cheek occasionally, and dropping occasional comments like, "You know I can impound this, right?".
The laundry list of offenses I needed to be written up for, combined with the surely daunting amount of paper work for him associated with writting up that list and arranging a tow truck seemed to be enough to convince him of his final verdict.
"Get this thing home." He stated as he handed my license back to me, a defeated tone in his voice.
I really couldn't blame him. I wouldn't want to deal with me either.
YouTube - Grant Liban: With nothing but a Ducati and a toothbrush
I left the station with a full tank, and a little more blood flowing through the veins after a close call with Mesquites finest and a good bit of what I like to call "Motorcycle-gas-station-yoga". And anyone who has ridden long distances on a bike knows exactly what that is. And anywho who hasn't can picture it in their heads, although I'll have you know, it looks a lot more silly in real life than whatever you can picture.
