ArTravlR

FYI, the following is a message I sent to Under Armor yesterday... Under Armor Product Review Those of us who ride motorcycles for long distances in a single day require products that enhance the riding experience and anything that is annoying on a short ride turns into a real bother on a long ride. Then there are effects that do not appear until after you have completed 500 miles in a thousand mile day. An example of this is the Under Armor "Loose Gear" fly front boxer briefs. Under Armor is a company that markets their products as a top of the line functional "sports" oriented brand of under-ware. They do make good products for a price but these fly front boxer briefs are dangerous to the unsuspecting motorcyclist. I have several examples of Under Armor gear and I like the compression shorts for long motorcycle rides. I do not like the fact that these shorts do not have a 'fly front', which is very inconvenient while on the road. Anything that slows me down is eventually discarded for something better, therefore; when I saw the fly front boxer briefs, I just knew this was what I needed. Last weekend I went for a long ride to eat lunch in Missouri, almost 500 miles one-way. The first day was fine with a little discomfort. The second day was a real pain in the rear almost from the start. It was so bad that I wanted to stop and either buy replacement Under Shorts or go without. However, since there were numerous thunderstorms in the area I kept on humming until I made it home. The cause of the pain was the stitching that joined two fabric panels together. They are in a line that is in constant contact with the seat of my bike. In my opinion, this seam is placed in this location to enhance the 'style' of the product. I now have a nice "V" shaped red whelp with broken skin on my backside. The Under Armor 'Fly Front' Boxer Briefs are literally a pain in the ass. -- Robert Bashaw LoweST Red A$$ Arkansas CBR1000FL ST1100A2 STovokor VFR800A5 Interprize

Yesterday, we had a fair breeze blow in from Texas and the 8:00AM temperature was 52 degrees. I cranked up the Interprize for the first time in a while when we went on an RTE in Camden for Southern Fried Catfish. She fired right up and we went through town feeling dwarfed by the many SUV's on the road; mommas taken the kids to school. I motored the length of main and went into the post office. The janitor there is my friend. He is the first human I meet every weekday. He always has a smile and we genuinely enjoy the chitchat. We talked about the bike and I mentioned taking it to the 'Smokies' in the spring. His eyes got big and he said he wanted to go. I told him we would do it, picked up my mail and went on to work. At noon, I took the Interprize down to the local strip mall for a sandwich. I walked into Subway expecting to see Alene and Ilene, twin sisters about 40. Alene will take your order, prepare the sandwich, smile and tell you all about her 'babies'. She has never had any children but she does have 'babies'. Alene has a tat on her right arm, Ilene doesn't. They have been making sandwiches there all winter and were good at it. I am usually the only one in the store but today the line was backed up. There has been a complete change in management and operating staff overnight. I was shocked. I had to wait over ten minutes for these amateurs to even look at me. I ate my calories and slipped back onto the bike for the short ride to the office. As I left the parking lot turning right, I kept my eye on the big woman in the bigger SUV turning left across my intended path south. She did just what I feared, turned left in front of me. I grabbed ABS equipped linked brakes with both fear induced adrenaline and a little aforethought. I stopped so suddenly; I was a little unsettled with my balance and had to put my foot down. She had the nerve to signal me to move out of her way with an air of irritation. I wanted to flip her off. I realized she was anticipating my turn to the right and to go past her but she was anticipating to the point that she had moved over the line halfway into my lane. It looked like she was going to hit me. I hate it when they do that. Good thing I had covered the front brake.

Can I sit on it? Last week the job required that I visit some of the local courthouses and inspect some state owned equipment. The most interesting courthouse was the one for Desha County, Arkansas, which is Arkansas City. Arkansas City is located on a spit of land (Choctaw Island) surrounded by the Mississippi River. There is a truckload of history in this little town. Arkansas City was a major river port for the Mississippi after the Civil War. Nearby, in the middle of the Mississippi, was the town of Napoleon, which was a major river port before the Civil War. This is also the location of where the Choctaw Nation crossed the Mississippi River in 1830-32 on their way to present day eastern Oklahoma. Col. Warton Rector, Paymaster 2nd Cavalry, was in command of that operation. I arrive in Arkansas City aboard the Interprize, this is my 2005 Silver VFR800A model named Interceptor. The town of about 200 souls appeared to be deserted. I pulled into the parking lot and as I was taking off my helmet, some children ran up to me. I counted seven kids all below the age of ten some where white, some were black and some were of Chinese decent. (There is a complicated story concerning the immigration pattern for Southeast Arkansas.) These kids were gushing over the bike, they asked the usual questions of what kind is it, how fast does it go, and every answer was replied with the exclamation of 'Sweet!' One small boy asked to sit on it and I picked him up and let him sit on it. As you can imagine, he was saying vroom, vroom while leaning forward and twisting the throttle. The other children were saying 'Me too, Me too'. Everyone got a turn and the crowd grew as folks leaving the courthouse stopped by to see the 'purty motorcycle'. I then got into a conversation with another gentleman about my age about his Goldwing (GL1100) that he has been riding for over twenty years. The next thing I know there is a tall lanky teenager sitting on the Interprize and he has the sidestand up. As the old guy with the John Deer baseball cap talks about his Goldwing, I carefully watch the teenager and double check the key to the Interprize in my pants pocket. Suddenly, I am uncomfortable with people sitting on my bike. I am not sure why. I start telling folks that I need to go inside and get to work. Soon, everyone is moving on and wishing me a good day. I take care of business and move on to the next county. I had fun and was paid mileage too. Later in the week I take my 1990 CBR1000F to work. After lunch, one of our secretaries informs me that her fiancé had been sitting on the CBR, making vroom, vroom noises and saying, "I have to get one of these." I have to admit that I felt a twinge of frustration /resentment about this young man sitting on my bike without permission. I do not mind little kids sitting on the bike if I am there but I do not like 'grown ups' sitting on my bike without permission. I suppose the general public thinks that is unreasonable but, I have concerns that the bike will be tipped over or worse that the poser will be hurt. Those of us who ride understand this, I think. A little over a decade ago while in Saudi Arabia waiting on a war to start, a TV reporter used my bunk to interview a girl without permission. I really felt violated and I raised holy hell about it. The reporter and especially the cameraman thought I was being unreasonable. However, there is a long-standing tradition in the Army that you never sit on another persons bunk without permission. That is how I feel about my bikes. Robert Bashaw www.RideHSTA.Com LoweST Arkansas CBR1000F ST1100A2 STovokor VFR800A5 Interprize Sport Touring Calendar = http://www.lulu.com/content/1901567

Preface: It is cold this morning March 8th, 2008 with six to eight inches of snow all over LoweST Arkansas. Those of you who have purchased a Sport Touring Calendar, http://www.lulu.com/content/1899761, may have wondered why March 2009 has a picture of a piece of Cherry Pie from the Daily Pie Cafe atop the Continental Divide in Pie Town, New Mexico. This, as Paul Harvey says, is the rest of the story... Cherry Pie A story of the First Gulf War Early on Sunday morning, January 20, 1991 I awoke in my tent in Saudi Arabia not far from the Iraqi border. I swung my legs over the edge of the army cot and began to slip on my worn combat boots. As I was leaned over and without looking up I said to my Texan buddy across the aisle, "I sure would like to have a piece of Cherry Pie." We had been in the desert for several months and we would occasionally comment on how much we missed things that were 'back in the world'. We had also heard how some of our superiors had received certain coveted privileges and there was some resentment. We too coveted clean sheets, air conditioning, hot food and hot showers. The evening before, my Platoon Sergeant and Platoon Leader had returned from Dhahran Airbase and had bragged about eating at the mess hall there, over 300 miles away. To say the rest of us were jealous is an understatement. Richard looked up at me and said he knew where I could get some Cherry Pie. I gave my bootlaces an extra tight tug as I asked, "Where?" and gave him a demanding look. Richard said, "Dhahran Airbase." "That's too far away", I said. Richard said, "We have the day off and we each have plenty of new trucks to take us there." I looked at him and he had that kind of determined look that dares you to contradict him. I looked back down at my boot-lacing task and said we would get in trouble. Richard said, "What are they going to do? Send us home?" It is not my nature to deliberately defy my superiors but I was feeling rebellious and dared Richard by saying, "We could load a truck with shoring timber from the loading dock at the harbor and use it to shore up our fox holes." Richard thought that was a good idea and said, "Come on!" and walked out the tent as I followed. We walked out to where the trucks were parked and we climbed into a large Five Ton long bed truck with wooden side panels. I cranked up the engine and allowed it to idle for a few moments half expecting Richard to chicken out. I slipped the big truck into gear and we idled through the company area. No one said a word, we stopped by the chow hall tent, and Richard grabbed some MRE's (Meals Ready to Eat). We were dressed properly for stealing an army truck. We each carried a loaded M-16A2, bulletproof vest, dirty and faded chocolate chip desert uniforms with combat helmet & gear. I waved and smiled at my immediate supervisor as we idled by the entrance to his tent. He was holding a coffee cup and I read his lips as he said, "Where are they going?" I felt any minute that Richard would say something but the next thing I knew, he slipped a cassette into our boom box as we motored away from the unit on the little desert trail headed south towards Tapline Road. Once on the tarmac, we turned east towards the town of Hafar al Batin. We reached the little town and found the entire US Army was passing through at the same time. We were the only ones headed east. No one stopped us, no one asked a question. We even directed traffic at an intersection like that scene in the movie 'Patton' where the General is playing traffic cop to a bunch of tanks at a crossroads. It was exciting. Traffic jams, delays, detours and other things slowed our progress but we did not get lost and soon enough we were in Dhahran. We went to the harbor and cruised the loading docks picking up discarded shoring timber and tossing that into the back of the five-ton truck. We needed the timber to support those foxholes up on the line. Foxholes do not work very well in desert sand without some sort of support. I was hoping the highly prized timber would keep us out of jail when we returned to the front line. We even found a forklift operator who loaded the majority of the timber into the truck. However, the loading was hastily done and timber stuck out of the truck like a pile of toothpicks. We looked like the Beverly Hillbillies of Saudi Arabia. Entering a military airbase during time of war requires proper protocol. The gate entrance was secured with blocks of concrete requiring the truck to zigzag around these obstacles. Regulations require the truck headlights to be off and the passenger to lead the truck with a flashlight around the barriers. Richard was driving, I was leading and the truck was well loaded with long sticks of timber hanging over the edges. We looked different from the usual army trucks entering the base and were stopped by the Military Policeman near the guard shack. We exchanged the requisite passwords and greetings. I then told the guard that the lumber in the back of the truck was mine and that I did not want to be questioned about it when I was leaving. I told him we were from the 'North' and would be returning there after we had our supper. The MP was a little younger than I and had an amused look on his face. He worn the sleeve patch of the Statue of Liberty and that told me his unit was from New York. I had seen that amused look before. Yankees have this look when they hear my Arkansas accent. I was assured that I would not be stopped on my way out the gate and we moved on. We found a parking place, secured our belongings and found the enlisted man's chow line. We had to carry our weapons per regulation and we were the only ones with M-16's in the line. We were the only ones filthy as rats too. An airman approached us and asked if we would like to take a shower after chow. This was unexpected and he gave us directions to a shower and he said we could use the 'washer & dryer' for our uniforms too. We thanked him with genuine sincerity. The smell of the cooking food was driving us crazy and it was obvious. People gave up their place in line partially due to empathy and partially due to our body odor. It had not occurred to us that we were so offensive and we felt a little self-conscience. We did not bother using a plate, we had the cooks put the food directly on the serving tray and we loaded up with delicious hot cafeteria food, which I can still taste. We each drank soda pop, milk, coffee and ice water. We would point at simple things and say, "Look! Napkins." "Salt, Pepper!" I stashed a pepper bottle in one of my pockets. I realized we had an audience and several people brought samples of food to our table telling us to try the pudding or the peas. It was all good. I then went to the dessert table and brought back a whole cherry pie and a glass of cold milk. An Air Force Colonel was watching intently and I felt like we were finally going to have to pay the piper. I asked him if everything was ok and his response, with a big grin on his face, was he wanted to see me eat "that whole pie." He asked a few easy questions and we talked about 'the world' such as where we were from back in 'the states'. I ate the whole pie. It was a Mrs. Smith's frozen oven baked pie like the one I see every day now in the grocery store. I have never had better pie. On our way out the door, we stopped at the dessert table and we each carried away five pies stuffed back into the cartons they came in. I saw one of the cooks look at the Air Force Colonel before he gave us the pies, I can only imagine the Colonel had given his nod of approval. We found the shower, tossed our clothing into the washer and then waited for progress. We stayed in the shower a long time and we found our cloths had been placed in the dryer for us by one of the airman. The kindness of strangers... We quickly dressed in the still damp faded chocolate chip uniforms and loaded the cooling pies in the big truck. As we neared the exit at the gate, I again began my chore of walking the big truck past the concrete barriers. When I got to the gate, an MP stopped me and he yelled towards the guardhouse, "Sarge! Here is the guy you were talking about!" In an instant, I had several New York MP's gathered around me offering cigarettes and asking questions such as where are you from 'back in the world' or 'What is your name?' I knew they wanted to hear my southern accent so I hammed it up a little for their amusement. They were all very nice; some said they were from Brooklyn or Long Island. Places that meant nothing to me. They said they were all policeman back home, in New York City. I told them I had flown through JFK and LaGuardia a few times. One said he lived near LaGuardia. It was only a few minutes, less than half a cigarette of camaraderie. Soldiers do that, I suppose they always have and always will. When I loaded myself in the truck, Richard asked, "What was that all about?" I said it was nothing and soon forgot about it. It took us all night to get back to our unit. It is tough picking your way through a war zones' build up area and travel three hundred miles without turning on your headlights. We were stopped once in the middle of the night by some suspicious MP’s but before they asked too many questions we offered them a whole pie. The two MP’s greedily accepted the pie and we were rolling. We arrived at our unit at daybreak. Our boss hurried over to meet us and asked where we had been. I pointed at the back of the truck and told him we had stolen some shoring timbers for the bunkers and foxholes. He looked at the truck and smiled. Then he asked where we had gotten all of that lumber and I told him Dhahran dock. He smiled and said good job and walked away. Richard and I gave our subordinates the pies and we were quite popular with the troops for a while. That should be the end of the story but... Years later, I was waiting on the delivery of a new motorcycle in Little Rock on the morning of Nine Eleven. Someone turned on a television and we witnessed the second plane strike the World Trade Center . Like most Americans, I was in shock. I didn't believe it at first. I dismissed it as nonsense. I thought it was a bad movie. How could that have happened. Later I learned of the story of the First Responders, those heroes that gave their very all. Recently, I was watching a late night television show, Charlie Rose, and they played a few excerpts of recorded conversations of the First Responders. As I listened, the memory of those guys at the gate flooded back into my memory. One of the voices sounded familiar, sounded like I had heard that voice before. Could it be? Is it possible that one of those guys I met that night perished at Ground Zero? I don't know. I don't want to know but my heart grieves for those guys just the same. I try to enjoy Cherry Pie on occasions in memory of the war and those guys. So, where is the best Cherry Pie in the world?