I left early Tuesday morning for Phoenix, the closest place that had the type and size of tires I wanted. The forecast for when I left the house was 5 degrees, rising to 26 by mid afternoon. How the hell was I supposed to dress for that? I'm used to dealing with extremes of heat and cold on a bike, but not on the same day. I opted to leave the house wearing extra layers including the insulated thermal insert liner in my ballistic pants with jeans underneath, and a medium weight jacket. I went through the production of wheeling the bike outside and relocking all the locks behind me as I exited back through the house. I pulled the front door shut, having already engaged the self locking key in knob lock, reached into my pocket for the key to lock the deadbolt, and realized I had left it in my leather jacket, hanging in the closet. Crap! Nancy would freak if she found out I hadn't locked every single lock in the god-damn house when I left, so with no other option, I knocked on the door to get her to come and let me in so I could fetch my key. Five Full Fucking Minutes later I was still outside. How is it that the woman who is woken from a sound sleep by the slightest bump of a bathroom door can't hear someone pounding and kicking at the front door? I finally gave up. Let the Crack Heads have her.
As I got on the bike I realized the day was warming up fast and that I had worked up a sweat beating upon and yelling at the door. With no options I got on the bike and left. It turned out I was only a little overdressed for the drive in but it was obvious I wouldn't need all the clothing I had brought. When I waddled into the bike shop and asked if there was somewhere I could change clothes I was teased by everybody in the service department. "You're not in Canada any more!" was the theme.
The tires were swapped out in record time, and including labor it cost me less than it would have back home to simply purchase the tires and change them myself. The mechanic stood the old ones next to the new ones, and it was sobering to think that both Kevin and I felt they were still good.
And I was off! After taking it easy for the first 60 miles to let the new tires scrub in, I spent the rest of the day carving the corners in the canyons northeast of Phoenix in the Mazatzal mountains as far north as Payson, before working my way back down through the Sierra Ancha Mountains, then the Pinal Mountains, finally getting home 10 hours after I had left. The speed limit was 75 MPH most of the way, so I was usually doing closer to 90. It was a perfect day. Warm, no crosswinds, smooth pavement, no traffic, constant curves and level changes, and the bike felt like a Thoroughbred given it's head to just run. It was the kind of road that machine was designed for.
The only problem was fuel. The map showed places on the road that offered the hope of regular fuel stops, but it was a constant series of disappointments. At one point as I ran low it looked like my best bet would be a dot labelled "Sunflower". I went past the sign announcing the town, and as I crested a rise I could see a solitary building with a huge billboard on the roof. It read "Pete's TOPLESS Cabaret". I probably could have gotten gassed there, and maybe a couple of other things, but getting Gas was out of the question. The next dot on the map looked promising from a distance, but when I drew closer I could see that town consisted of about 50 billboards, and not a single dwelling or business. I think they just put the names on the map to fill up the empty spaces, there's nothing there, really.....
When I finally got home there was nobody to let me in, so I reluctantly text-ed Margaret, my landlady, and told her my predicament. She promptly text-ed me back saying she had a spare key with her at work, at Rigging Innovations, over at the airport. That's the company that manufactures the Talon series of parachute containers, and when I went to fetch the key it led to a complete tour of the production line.
Shortly after I returned home Nancy came in, and the first she realized that the deadbolt hadn't been locked when she was home earlier in the day is when I apologized for not locking it on my way out. She looked shaken, but said "Well as long as the gate was locked, I guess it's not a big thing." She then asked if I had climbed over the fence to get out, so I told her "Naa, all you have to do is push on the post a little and the gate just pops open, no key required." Her eyes grew huge, she swayed on her feet, and I'll swear I thought she was going to faint dead away, no doubt picturing the Zombie Crack Head Horde that could have been waiting for her. It's difficult to believe this woman jumps out of airplanes, but is worried about a gate not being secure. To the paranoid people who check behind shower curtains looking for axe murderers: If you find one, what's your plan?
Late today I received an email from Mathieu. He passed his Pilot Proficiency Check in the simulator in Louisiana last week, and after being endlessly poked and prodded by his flight surgeon, no doubt in some strange and unnatural ways, has been cleared for flight status, and can return to work. There, now we both have our lives back.
"Flying a plane is like riding a bicycle, it's just a lot harder to put baseball cards in the spokes." Robert Stack, in the movie Airplane!
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