MotoGP Redux: July 2nd
Today's miles are unproductive in the sense that they circle back to Santa Fe, but in all other ways they are amazing. James and I mount up bikes and cruise NM 4 through the Jemez Mountains, which proves to be a roller coaster of sweepers and elevation changes, with just enough tight switchbacks and natural distractions to keep the speeds somewhere south of indecent. We stop to admire the majesty of the caldera and the mystery of Soda Dam before retracing our path through the undulating curves and away from the Albuquerque traffic.
We swap bikes mid-ride, James taking the reigns of my FZ1 and I aboard his '89 Ninja 750. Despite the years and miles that separate our bikes, it is a thrill to ride the bad boy bike of the pre-Simpsons era. While it's almost old enough to be vintage, the Ninja's performance is potent even by current standards, with cutting-edge DNA that lives on in Kawasaki's motorcycles 15 years later. The motor emits a raspy growl in the low range, but above 8,000 rpms builds to a pleasing howl that belies the stock pipes. Its 140-section rear tire seems a bit girly given the modern penchant for fat rubber at the back, but it sticks just fine for our canyon carving and promotes turn-in that borders on telepathic. And guess which bike stands out amid the wash of look-alike race-replica wannabes?
Later that afternoon, I trade the visceral for the cerebral and tour St. John's College with Gabrelle. Where most institutions tout their dominating athletes or esoteric research grants, this one defers to the collected wisdom of history's philosophers and thinkers. Nestled within the beauty and solitude of Santa Fe's rolling foothills, St. John's inspires introspection and discussion above competition and status, which makes it a rarity in U.S. higher education. A graduate degree here probably won't net you a six-figure Wall Street salary, but it almost certainly grants the enlightenment to realize that such ends are bullshit anyway.
The rest of the day is spent lounging around downtown Santa Fe, which provides mediocre chai served up by an arrogant and/or intently vacant barrista. I gather this happens a lot here, what with the mix of money and pretension that eminates from the immediate area. The universe then conspires to prevent us from watching anime or eating blizzards, perhaps in retribution for our mockery of the "GANDALF" license plate spied earlier, so we settle in for a night of videos and popcorn.
Nights of comfort and mornings of leisure are almost at an end.
We swap bikes mid-ride, James taking the reigns of my FZ1 and I aboard his '89 Ninja 750. Despite the years and miles that separate our bikes, it is a thrill to ride the bad boy bike of the pre-Simpsons era. While it's almost old enough to be vintage, the Ninja's performance is potent even by current standards, with cutting-edge DNA that lives on in Kawasaki's motorcycles 15 years later. The motor emits a raspy growl in the low range, but above 8,000 rpms builds to a pleasing howl that belies the stock pipes. Its 140-section rear tire seems a bit girly given the modern penchant for fat rubber at the back, but it sticks just fine for our canyon carving and promotes turn-in that borders on telepathic. And guess which bike stands out amid the wash of look-alike race-replica wannabes?
Later that afternoon, I trade the visceral for the cerebral and tour St. John's College with Gabrelle. Where most institutions tout their dominating athletes or esoteric research grants, this one defers to the collected wisdom of history's philosophers and thinkers. Nestled within the beauty and solitude of Santa Fe's rolling foothills, St. John's inspires introspection and discussion above competition and status, which makes it a rarity in U.S. higher education. A graduate degree here probably won't net you a six-figure Wall Street salary, but it almost certainly grants the enlightenment to realize that such ends are bullshit anyway.
The rest of the day is spent lounging around downtown Santa Fe, which provides mediocre chai served up by an arrogant and/or intently vacant barrista. I gather this happens a lot here, what with the mix of money and pretension that eminates from the immediate area. The universe then conspires to prevent us from watching anime or eating blizzards, perhaps in retribution for our mockery of the "GANDALF" license plate spied earlier, so we settle in for a night of videos and popcorn.
Nights of comfort and mornings of leisure are almost at an end.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
posted by wae at 9:20 PM
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