I never dreamed slowly cruising through
a residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous!
Studies have shown that motorcycling
requires more decisions per second and more sheer data processing
than nearly any other common activity or sport. The reactions
and accurate decision making abilities needed have been likened
to the reactions of fighter pilots! The consequences of bad decisions
or poor situational awareness are pretty much the same for both
groups too.
Occasionally, as a rider I have caught
myself starting to make bad or late decisions while riding. In
flight training, my instructors called this being "behind
the power curve". It is a mark of experience that when this
begins to happen, the rider recognizes the situation, and more
importantly, does something about it. A short break, a meal, or
even a gas stop can set things right again as it gives the brain
a chance to catch up.
Good, accurate, and timely decisions
are essential when riding a motorcycle, at least if you want to
remain among the living. In short, the brain needs to keep up
with the machine.
I had been banging around the roads
of western Pennsylvania and as I headed back into Pittsburgh,
found myself in very heavy, high-speed traffic on the Turnpike.
Normally, this is not a problem, I commute in these conditions
daily, but suddenly I was nearly run down by a cage that decided
it needed my lane more than I did. This is not normally a big
deal either, as it happens around here often, but usually I can
accurately predict which drivers are not paying attention and
avoid them before we are even close. This one I missed seeing
until it was nearly too late, and as I took evasive action I nearly
broadsided another car that I was not even aware was there!
Two bad decisions and insufficient
situational awareness, all within seconds. I was behind the power
curve. Time to get off the freeway.
I hit the next exit, and as I was
in an area I knew pretty well, headed through a few big residential
neighborhoods as a new route home. As I turned onto the nearly
empty streets I opened the visor on my full-face helmet to help
get some air. I figured some slow riding through the quiet surface
streets would give me time to relax, think, and regain that "edge"
so frequently required when riding.
Little did I suspect?
As I passed an oncoming car, a brown
furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop immediately
in front of me. It was a squirrel, and must have been trying to
run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was
not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it-it
was that close.
I hate to run over animals and I
really hate it on a motorcycle, but a squirrel should pose no
danger to me. I barely had time to brace for the impact.
Animal lovers never fear. Squirrels
can take care of themselves!
Inches before impact, the squirrel
flipped to his feet. He was standing on his hind legs and facing
the oncoming 600R with steadfast resolve in his little beady eyes.
His mouth opened, and at the last possible second, he screamed
and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, "Banzai!"
or maybe, "Die you gravy-sucking, heathen scum!" as
the leap was spectacular and he flew over the windshield and impacted
me squarely in the chest.
Instantly he set upon me. If I did
not know better I would have sworn he brought twenty of his little
buddies along for the attack. Snarling, hissing, and tearing at
my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As I was dressed only
in a light coat, riding gloves, and jeans this was a bit of a
cause for concern. This furry little tornado was doing some damage!
Picture a man on a blue sport bike, dressed in jeans, a light
coat, and leather gloves puttering maybe 25mph down a quiet residential
street and in the fight of his life with a squirrel. And losing.
I grabbed for him with my left hand
and managed to snag his tail. With all my strength I flung the
evil rodent off the left of the bike, almost running into the
right curb as I recoiled from the throw.
That should have done it. The matter
should have ended right there. It really should have. The squirrel
could have sailed into one of the pristinely kept yards and gone
on about his business, and I could have headed home. No one would
have been the wiser.
But this was no ordinary squirrel.
This was not even an ordinary pissed-off squirrel.
This was an evil attack squirrel
of death!
Somehow he caught my gloved finger
with one of his little hands, and with the force of the throw
swung around and with a resounding thump and an amazing impact
he landed square on my back and resumed his rather anti-social
and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take
my left glove with him!
The situation was not improved. Not
improved at all. His attacks were continuing, and now I could
not reach him.
I was startled to say the least.
The combination of the force of the throw, only having one hand
(the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back unfortunately
put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the throttle.
A healthy twist on the throttle of a 600R can only have one result.
Torque. This is what the bike is made for, and she is very, very
good at it.
The engine roared as the front wheel
left the pavement. The squirrel screamed in anger. The 600R screamed
in ecstasy. I screamed in well, I just plain screamed.
Now picture a man on a blue sport
bike, dressed in jeans, a slightly squirrel torn coat, and only
one leather glove roaring at maybe 70mph and rapidly accelerating
down a quiet residential street on one wheel and with a demonic
squirrel on his back. The man and the squirrel are both screaming
bloody murder.
With the sudden acceleration I was
forced to put my other hand back on the handlebars and try to
get control of the bike. This was leaving the mutant squirrel
to his own devices, but I really did not want to crash into somebody's
tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured out how
to release the throttle my brain was just simply overloaded. I
did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little effect against
the massive power of the sport bike.
About this time the squirrel decided
that I was not paying sufficient attention to this very serious
battle (maybe he is a Scottish attack squirrel of death), and
he came around my neck and got IN my full-face helmet with me.
As the faceplate closed partway and he began hissing in my face
I am quite sure my screaming changed tone and intensity. It seemed
to have little effect on the squirrel however.
The rpm's on the Cat maxed out (I
was not concerned about shifting at the moment) and her front
end started to drop.
Now picture the man on the blue sport
bike, dressed in jeans, a very ragged torn coat, and wearing one
leather glove, roaring at probably 80mph, still on one wheel,
with a large puffy squirrel's tail sticking out his mostly closed
full-face helmet. By now the screams are probably getting a little
hoarse.
Finally I got the upper hand. I managed
to grab his tail again, pulled him out of my helmet, and slung
him to the left as hard as I could. This time it worked, sort-of.
Spectacularly sort-of, so to speak.
Suddenly a man on a blue sport bike,
dressed in jeans, a torn coat flapping in the breeze, and wearing
one leather glove, moving at probably 80mph on one wheel, and
screaming bloody murder roars by and with all his strength throws
a live squirrel grenade directly into your police car.
I heard screams. They weren't mine...
I managed to get the motorcycle under
directional control and dropped the front wheel to the ground.
I then used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a cloud of
tire smoke at the stop sign at a busy cross street.
I would have returned to fess up
(and to get my glove back). I really would have. Really. But for
two things. First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest
bit concerned about me at the moment. One of them was on his back
in the front yard of the house they had been parked in front of
and was rapidly crabbing backwards away from the patrol car. The
other was standing in the street and was training a riot shotgun
on the police cruiser.
So the cops were not interested in
me. They often insist to "let the professionals handle it"
anyway. That was one thing. The other? Well, I swear I could see
the squirrel, standing in the back window of the patrol car among
shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery, and shaking
his little fist at me. I think he was shooting me the finger.
That is one dangerous squirrel. And
now he has a patrol car.
I took a deep breath, turned on my
turn-signal, made an easy right turn, and sedately left the neighborhood.
As for my easy and slow drive home?
Screw it. Faced with a choice of 80mph cars and inattentive drivers,
or the evil, demonic, attack squirrel of death...I'll take my
chances with the freeway. Every time.
And I'll buy myself a new pair of
gloves.
