Canyonchasers News

Today is a special day. For years I've frequented the same food stores for a favorite treat and rarely have I even been remembered. In fact, the only places where everyone seems to know my name is the local motorcycle shop. But today was different. I walked into my local Starbucks Coffee and the young Barista behind the counter tentatively asked "Venti, Toffee-Nut Latte?" I was in shock. That is exactly what I was planning on ordering! For the first time in my life I was remembered! I am someone! Oh the joy of it all! Christmas truly is a time of miracles!

So this morning, while driving to work, I got to witness the skill level of the average american driver. On the freeway I drive, there are two, what I would call gentle, sweeping corners. Now, to be fair, they are a bit tighter than the average interstate corner, but still. There was an econo-box car going really slow in the fast lane, as normal since drivers tend to slow way down and coast through corners of any degree. Anticipating this, I moved to the right and got around the driver who had slowed to about 50mph for the corner. At about the apex of the sweeping curve, I notice out of the corner of my eye the driver started drifting really wide. Fearing they may over-correct into me, I start paying more attention and watch as they continue to drift until they smashed into the concrete armco barrier about five feet beyond the yellow lane that marked the limit of the left lane.

In the words of the great motorcycle philosopher, Peter Egan, “Everyone has a bike that represents unrequited love-the bike you wanted but couldn’t have at some awkward, poverty stricken time of life.” For Egan that bike is the T100 Triumph, for me it was the Honda Hawk.


I wanted mine to be a T120 Triumph Bonneville. Even went so far as to rescue one from a derelict single-wide where it has been stored in a varied assortment of milk crates and cardboard boxes after some fellow won the 650 twin in a poker game from some other fellow who was seeking his riches with a scheme of collecting old British bikes from the U.S. and sending them home to England where they were worth a fair bit more.

I suck at wrapping presents. I really do. Which I find quite surprising. I mean, I can proudly adjust the valves on a Ducati and can deal with delicate tasks that require precise dexterity, so you would think that I'd be able to conceal the contents of any package with alarming accuracy and precision. But alas, I cannot. Everytime I find myself kneeling on the floor with tape and scissors at the ready, I agonize over how much paper should I cut. I rarely get it right, more often than than not, I come up way short, wasting a fair size chunk of multi-colored paper, or I have so much extra that I have to hack away at it to get it to wrap nicely. And even after that, the paper is nappy and saggy at all the seams. Yet at the same time, while I try my hardest to make Kris packages look their best, I am merely imagining her excitement as she shreads my hard work, depositing the decimated remnants of my labors onto the living room floor so she can bask in my thoughful gift purchases. "Thanks honey!" I imagine her saying "I really wanted a new set of ... kitchen rugs?"

Happy holidays from the CanyonChasers!

Yesterday I was riding my new Orbea bicycle on some empty frontage roads in the southern half of Salt Lake county. This is a route I take regularly for recreational rides because it is not very heavily traveled. Near my southern most point I was passed by two state vehicles, both of them white 8-passenger vans with state seals on the doors, and “EX” exempt license plates. The second van passed within less than six inches of me while the passenger rolled down his window and simultaneously screamed at me the instant his window was closest to my position. Because the vehicle was traveling so fast, I would estimate in excess of 50 miles per hour on a 35mph street, the shock of the close proximity combined with the verbal assault, I was too startled to get the entire license plate number beyond just seeing the “EX” on the Centennial tag.

If you live in the northern hemisphere, today marks the shortest day of the year, or the longest night of the year, depending on your persuasion. Which for us motorcyclists trapped in a winter wonderland while our motorcycle remain mothballed in extraordinarily cold garages or trapped under covers to fend off the cold, this means that we are over the hump as daylight begins to return. Solstice is a Latin borrowing and means "sun stand still", referring to the appearance that the Sun's noontime elevation change stops its progress, either northerly or southerly. So, now as we wait out the doldrums of winter, we can rest assured that summer, is finally, officially on its way!