![Josua Placa Hard Times](images/DailyArticles/February2010/JoshPlacaHardTimes/Josh-Placa-Hard-Times-LeadT.jpg)
Tread Life is the Only Life
Story and Photos by J. Joshua Placa
These are hard times. Feels more like we skipped recession and went straight to depression, except prices are high and still climbing. Inasmuch as they should be, motorcyclists are not exempt from the same economic forces that punish and torment ordinary citizens.
In a strange inverse reaction to what the hell was going on with the rest of the world, the motorcycle industry perked up a bit when gas prices exploded. Sales zoomed, mostly in scooter and small-displacement motorcycles, with some spillover to big boy bikes. Spending dollars at a dealership to save pennies at the pump has some flaws, but if going cheaper and greener convinced the spouse that riding was a sensible solution to a shrinking budget, well, cool.
During this economic crisis, the cost of anything made or transported using some kind of petroleum product, which is just about everything, has boomed, which means we’re experiencing runaway inflation. So, what’s a motorcyclist to do during a depress-a-recess-aflation? We may be looking at some serious dollar stretching for some years to come. But when it comes to our beloved bikes and sacred lifestyle, when does belt tightening make our collective cajones pop off? Kind of makes you want to go off your meds, doesn’t it?
I needed to figure a way to make some damn gas money, so I could ride my bike, so I could make the world cleaner and greener. I looked at my bike, always a practical way to get around, do errands and good deeds, and thought how much of this routine maintenance and safety checks do I really need? Oil and tires and tune-ups cost cash, you know, money I could blow on rent and food.
Maybe all this stuff about tire tread, fluid changes, bulb replacement, chain and belt care blah blah are more suggestions than actual rules. I think it’s possible and only thrifty and ecologically minded to get that last thin layer of rubber out of your radials, use every slippery drop and last precious molecule of that space-age, secret protective polymer in your motor oil, and turn-signal bulbs, well, that’s why the DMV invented hand signals like a thousand years ago, Dude.
I live in the whimsical wonderlands of Sedona, AZ, a spiritual refuge of faith and healing known throughout the cosmos. People here carry crystals for positive star energy, read taro cards to divine the future, check the astrology charts before leaving the house, meditate on certain rusting red rocks thought to be inter-dimensional vortices, speak to angels, and generally see life colorfully through groovy aura glasses.
I didn’t leave New York City to join a New Age cult; I came to Sedona because I got tired of rain and snow hitting my head, and more importantly, because the beer was cheaper. But since I was here anyway and short in the pockets, I thought I’d may as well grab me some of that alternative woo-woo mojo. So I climbed up to a vortex, drew a pentagram, drank a 40, did a little dance and chanted to my inner dolphin. He told me what to do: transcend the earthly decadence of material things. I don’t know what the hell that meant, but I figured it translated to don’t worry, be happy, keep riding no matter freakin’ what.
The fat rear tire on my Harley was nearing its final fatal tread. But, of course, to get every hard-earned cent out of that old tire, I took the tread-bare bike out for one more manful scoot before I plunked down some $300 for a fresh rubber. The tire was about bald, although I did see some remnants of what I was pretty sure was a contact patch. I figured as long as it didn’t rain, I was good. What could go wrong? At first, nothing; and so the 300-mile roundtrip ride to and around big bad Phoenix City went pretty much without incident.
Just as I was about to roll out for the return leg, I noticed the little shiny steel cords holding the tire together were popping out. Cool, more chrome. But that can’t be good. So I weighed the good and bad of attempting to bite another 100 and something clicks out of the used-up donut. I could make it with no problems, just another sunny and pleasant cruise up the superslab spreading my usual happy mischief and mayhem. And then I could save a cool hundred bucks ordering a tire from one of those wholesale outlets you see advertised in these glossy pages, or somebody’s glossy pages. That would be good, and economical, and maybe even ecological.
Or the tire could slowly go flat and I could be stuck somewhere in Nowhere, need a tow, maybe get attacked by wild animals or locked up by the blue meanies for failure to have any damn sense. Not so good. Cost would be minimum $1,000 for the tow and bail and miscellaneous jailhouse vending machine expenses. And the dumb thing is I’d have to get a tire anyway.
Or the tire could blowout at 90 per and I would crash and explode in a big fiery ball of biker fuel and other such flammable parts, such as me. This would be bad. Cost would be minimum $100,000 to put me and the bike back together. After careful consideration and calculation, paying $300 now or a possible $100,000 later, it was a no-brainer. I fired up the big chop, said so long to all those tire shop suckers and took aim at the highway.
Do not attempt this at home. You know, sometimes stretching a dollar can snap back and smack you in the face really hard. Anyone out there spare a biker a hundred grand or two?
Bio: Joshua Placa is the former editor of Cruising Rider magazine, contributor to Barnett’s off- and on-line magazines, and reportedly is willing to work for parts and psychiatric treatment. He can be reached at 928-282-9293 or joshua1@npgcable.com