Tropical Storm Isaac

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Tropical Storm Isaac tracking through the western Atlantic as reported late Tuesday by the National Hurricane Center in Miami:

Let's face it, it's been a while but here we are once more in the cone of the storm. This is typically the peak period of Atlantic Hurricane Season which goes from June First to November 30th. It's been a few years since we could be the target of a hurricane and the reaction I've got from my friends and neighbors was one of surprise, "It's been such a long time..."

There was a time when the bumper sticker "Another Weeekend, Another Hurricane" was quite popular as they never seemed to stop coming. This one is a long way off, maybe a week away and the way it looks now, from very far away, is that Cuba will take the brunt and likely their landlmass will do it's job and weaken the storm before it makes landfall in Florida. Currently it looks more likely to whack Miami than Key West...but a week is a very very long time in the storm prediction game.

Part Restoration, New Orleans Style

For some people the St Charles streetcar symbolized the city's return to life after Katrina. These days the street cars run all the way and their elderly gravitas looks as it always did.

The wealthy white neighborhoods of New Orleans are protesting the Times-Picayune's decision to fire reporters and publish online. That the paper comes out in print just three times a week is a sore subject. Especially as the paper was turning a profit when it made the changes.

The mansions by the lake were badly flooded and wrecked by Katrina but they have come back in grand style:

And the lakefront parks are restored and lovely.



Lots of city workers out here trimming the public nose hair.



The black neighborhoods, separate but equal look slightly different.



Quite a bit different.



Not equally restored.



"Not For Sale" says the plywood sign, spray painted.



One wonders when and how these wrecks will ever be restored.



Canal Street is back in fine fettle, where the tourists go.



Who wouldn't want to go shopping here?

And yet, even in the business district these wrecked zombie office high rises gape like rotting flesh, leprous scars in the middle of shiny bright office windows.

Wreckage amid the boardrooms.



It is a fascinating town, New Orleans.



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Looking In The Mirror

I am not from Minnesota nor am I a regular visitor to the Gopher State, except by way of weekly visits to Lake Wobegon, but I am a fan of Minnesota Motorcycle Monthly, available online and in my list of web links. You should be too if you like simple talk about motorcycles and motorcycling because MMM is not about burning rubber or pulling wheelies. It's a magazine that treats motorcycles as interesting yet sensible objects worthy of thought. Consider this brilliant essay, then go to their website Minnesota Motorcycle Monthly.

This essay reminds us to be sensible, wear gear, and take responsibility for ourselves. It goes against the grain in a society where blaming others is the national obsession. If you don't have a license don't ride. If you just got a license don't ride a big bike and don't think high viz will save your ass...(that alone will piss off a few geeks)...

by Thomas Day
thomas@mnmotorcycle.com

In 2009, 4,281 motorcyclists died in crashes, 22% of those “motorcyclists” did not have a valid license, 45% of the motorcycle deaths were single-vehicle crashes (rider only) and 30% of the fatalities involved a rider with a BAC greater than 0.08. In 2010, the average motorcycle was ridden about 2,200 miles. (I think this estimate is incredibly optimistic, but it’s still opposed to about 11,000 miles for passenger cars.) The complete 2010 and 2011 details are not yet available, but I don’t think we can expect the statistics to be significantly different. So, it seems to me that before we hope for miracles as we try to convince the rest of the world to “Start Seeing Motorcycles,” we need to take a hard look in the mirror. Pogo was talking to us when he said, “We have met the enemy and he is us.”

I just read a series of local police reports and the theme is consistent. These are the shortened (and grammatically corrected) police summaries:

• Traveling southbound on Hwy 57 went off road into ditch. Driver found to be intoxicated.

• Motorcycle was northbound on Hwy 42 when it left the roadway and crashed into a fence.

• Motorcyclist laid bike down on I-94 to avoid rear-ending vehicle in front of him.

• Motorcycle was eastbound on Hwy 27 and ran off the road in a curve.

• Motorcyclist drove through the semi parking area, attempting to exit back onto the interstate, missed a curve, laying the bike on its side.

• Motorcyclist was traveling westbound, lost control and laid motorcycle down in the westbound lane.

• Following a pursuit on westbound Hwy 10, driver of motorcycle went over the handlebars resulting in injury.

There is a popular movement among motorcycle enthusiasts to blame the rest of society for our terrible safety statistics. Many motorcyclists still cling to the delusion that safety training and public education will make a dent in our over-representation in vehicle crash statistics. Motorcyclists gear up for political fights more than do for a motorcycle rides One result or that misdirection is that we are consistently 12-15% of highway deaths and about 3% of crash injuries. Considering that we contribute no more than 0.6% of the total miles driven (not including bicycles), we’ve produced a dismal record.

All of this depressing data might make a convincing argument for moving motorcycles out of public transportation and into the recreational vehicle category. It could happen sooner than we like to think. Smart cars are on the horizon and public transportation demands could have an effect on our roadway access. I still believe that motorcycles have a valuable contribution to make to both transportation and society.

In 2009, Michigan State University researchers published “Donorcycles: Do Motorcycle Helmet Laws Reduce Organ Donations?” This study compared the before and after helmet law repeal organ bank contributions from motorcyclists and found that we are slightly more “giving” after helmet laws go away. In politically correct language, that study concludes, “every death of a helmetless motorcyclist prevents or delays as many as 0.33 deaths among individuals on organ transplant waiting lists.” In other words, we are 33% of an actual person. In too many ways, this makes sense. We are, clearly, not that bright.

If we’re going to turn around the “donorcycle” image, it’s going to take gear, training, and a whole different attitude toward the purpose of a motorcycle. Too many motorcyclists model the behavior that has created a negative public image and terrible fatality statistics. As long as a certain group of characters believe that riding in their underwear and covering their heads with napkins is cool, we’re doomed. I have never seen an example of functional self-regulation, but if we’re going to stay on public roads we’re going to have to be part of the solution or continue to be the problem right up until we’re run off of public roads. Nobody else cares about us. We haven’t given the rest of society a good reason to care about us.

Marginally productive groups like the AMA, ABATE, and the usual suspects are wasting resources and time fighting helmet laws and should, instead, be arguing for cracking down on unlicensed riders and unrealistic license testing. The 22% unlicensed fatality statistic could be reduced or eliminated pretty quickly if riding without a license resulted in confiscation of the motorcycle. Tiered licensing was a good idea and needs to make a powerful comeback. That might result in some reduced 500cc-and-up sales, but fuel economy standards were supposed to do that for SUVs and large pickups and the actual result was less than dramatic.

As for the rest of traffic looking out for us, that’s a hopeless wet dream. It ain’t gonna happen. The reason “why” is simple: we’re not a threat. The highway is full of hazards that can kill the average cager as quickly as a hippobiker landing on his protective napkin. The list of things to watch out for begins with the biggest and ends soon afterwards. On the interstate in my worn-out Escort (or on the bike), the first thing I worry about is the meth-addled, always-tailgating truckers, followed by the cell-phone-retarded “contractors” in their oversized constantly-lane-swapping crew cab pickups. Next come the mini and maxi-vans piloted by insane momma bear soccer moms, the rolling-living-room SUVs and anything driven by a kid wearing a backwards baseball hat. By the time I’ve logged and avoided all of those highway hazards, I might have the time and attention span to glance around to see if a pack of Village People is sneaking up on me. The ordinary, single motorcyclist attempting to behave like the small sane portion of traffic is almost invisible because he presents no threat to my survival. If you’re surrounded by vicious tigers, you won’t notice a moonwalking teddy bear. We can decorate the freeway with flashing signs broadcasting, “Share the road” and “start seeing motorcyclists,” but the combination of our low threat and insignificant numbers will easily defeat that campaign.

The gangbanger look is an attempt to raise the threat level, but it’s ineffective. Too many doctors, dentists, lawyers and other boring types are hiding behind the Village People dress code and nobody is afraid of them. The loud pipes gambit is an attempt to sound like a WW-II fighter plane, but cruiser motors are 10 cylinders short of a super-charged Packard V-1650 and sound more like a poorly tuned 1950’s farm tractor. The absence of 50-caliber machine guns removes a good bit of threat, too. Even wearing a half-Holstein of leather and with a blubbering 1,800cc twin between our legs, we’re still about 3,000 pounds short of dangerous to the smallest cage on the freeway. Our attempts at looking dangerous are, mostly, comical and the average person avoids bars where bikers can be really dangerous.

If we’re going to get our crash and fatality statistics down to acceptable levels, something more drastic is going to have to happen. First, motorcyclists are going to have to learn how to ride. Second, we’re going to have to ride more often than in an occasional parade. Third, we’re going to have to get over our childish fears and phobias and gear up. Remaining a substantial portion of fatalities while being an insignificant portion of traffic is not an option.

MMM



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The Great River Road

I saw the little bathtub Porsche driven by an old gray beard out reliving his youth - it's what we do as we grow old, if we're lucky. He was having fun, me less so as we bounced across the expansion joints on the endless Louisiana bridge in our modern Ford.

Interstate 55 seemed endless cutting through the bayou at 65 miles an hour, or perhaps more. Bumpity-bump.

The bridge was astonishing, rising as it did, vertically out of the flatness surrounding it. It needs a clearance of 220 feet (70 meters) to clear ocean going ships steaming upriver.

Had there been anything to see the view would have been magnificent.

Foul weather from years ago has left it's mark and around here they don't bother to clean up much. You'd be hard pressed to find signs of Hurricane Wilma's 2005 devastation in today's Key West.

The Great River Road ostensibly follows the mighty Mississippi River all they up toward Canada but why it's most famous for is the stretch between Baton Rouge and New Orleans.

This stretch as unprepossessing as it is, is home to sugar plantations and chemical processing plants. The past and the present.

And as usual the cemeteries are there, alongside the road, sprouting for no visible reason in the middle of the sugar fields.

We think of Louisiana and the movies have made us think of cypress trees and swamps and Spanish moss but take a look:

Flatlands and a tall bridge.



And up we go, the sole point of interest as we turned back toward New Orleans.



And back on that endless bridge.

I wonder that our modest seven mile bridge is as fascinating as it is.


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The Check Is In The Mail

I talked to the owner of the Vespa P200E Saturday morning from my sickbed where I am coughing up copious quantities of congestion. The $2500 check is in the mail to Iowa and I plan to fly up in a month and take a week to ride the 33 year old Vespa home in this Modern Vespa Ad

I had sent Jeremy the ADVrider essay I wrote some years ago about my cross country trip on an identical machine and he perked up a bit about selling his beloved ride to someone who knows about and cares about two stroke Vespas. At the same time he noticed how beat up my bike got six months after riding it across country. Seen here in Mexico on the main road north to Nogales:

Yes, I said, you're the kind of guy one wants to buy a motorcycle from sight unseen, not me. He sounded a tad rueful as he agreed. He then said he would send the bike in to his vintage Vespa shop for a last tune up (!) ready for my arrival the last week of September. The deal is done. Gulp.

On first contacting him Jeremy sounded reluctant to sell as he told me about the dreadful state of his scooter since it's 2009 ground up restoration. He thought a slight ding on the fender might kill the deal. He blamed an errant child on a bicycle for the awful minuscule scrape but I was headstrong and I still wanted his beloved. "It's time for it to go," he mumbled mournfully as I offered to rescind the deal if he wanted to keep it. I sense a powerful female presence in the background.

I have a few purchases to mail to his house, a second mirror ($33) a floor mat ($27) to dampen ride vibration of which there is a fair bit, a front luggage rack ($115) all of which I will order and mail to a complete stranger 1769 (Google Map) miles away. It will be long ride home for me and MY low tech two stroke. U Haul is my back up - unworthy thought.

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Laura Plantation

Thirty years ago when I was riding around the US on my Vespa I spent a bit of time in Louisiana and I seem to remember checking out a sugar plantation on a tree covered road. Perhaps my memory is confused with the movie Forest Gump because today the River Road looks like this:

And locals ride All Terrain Vehicles on the Mississippi levees, making a horrendous din.



We were there for a more civilized pursuit, seeking knowledge through History.



And Cheyenne needed a pee.

It was a hundred and one sultry degrees yet the crowds were lining up for their chance to check out what is said to be the best plantation tour in Louisiana.

With a recommendation like that from Lonely Planet I reserved the right to be skeptical but tell you what, Amethyst our guide knew her stuff and brought the story to life. It was fascinating stuff for those that like their History.

The plantation house was at the center of 12,000 acres of sugar and being owned by French speakers it was painted bright colors, as opposed to the white homes preferred by Anglo Protestants.

The live oaks are they say a couple of hundred years old so when the house was being built they would have been saplings, if that. Nowadays they look the part we expect when you say "plantation."

The founder of the plantation, Guillaume Duparc got into a bit of trouble when he killed a neighbor in a duel in his native Burgundy and his father sent him off to Louisiana to redeem himself. He fought in the Revolution and President Jefferson gave him a land grant in Louisiana, where he had been Governor under the Spanish. He married Nanette Prudhomme and started the lineage that would end up with Laura after whom the plantation was named. She died in 1965 in Saint Louis.

Duparc was said to be a nasty violent man but he ran a tight ship among hundreds of plantations that lined the Mississippi, the river that served as the connection with the outside world that served the planters. Each black hash mark on the map marks a Creole Plantation in the 19th century.

There are 15 plantations left and among them the Laura Plantation is said to be among the most complete and we got to see the basement and it's wine racks, bottles imported from France by the tens of thousands for the wine-less colonials.

We heard about Laura's Great Grandmother Nanette who was the first of a long line of women who essentially did what the men couldn't do and ran the operation. Much to Amethyst's delight.

We liked being in the basement where it was dark and cool.



The house was deliciously air conditioned.

The Creoles liked to show off their beds, oddly enough and it was their habit to conduct business first on the porch and then everyone would go indoors and hang out in the bedroom that also combined living room functions.

Apparently this didn't go down well with Anglo Saxon Protestants who were squeamish about seeing Creole women's beds. Cultural clashes were the order of the day even as Louisiana struggled with statehood.

In their French speaking world the lived quite nicely thank you, an idyll interrupted by the arrival of an Anglo majority in the state capital, Baton Rouge. When the dreary Anglo Protestants took over French was banished from public offices in 1916 and the schools started teaching in English.

The beds got moved out of the offices and many mansions were painted white to conform to the English speaking way.

The plantation kitchen still exists out back. When Laura decided to marry a Protestant businessman in Saint Louis by the unfortunate name of Gore she lost her rather pleasant French name of Locoul and became Laura Gore.

She sold the plantation and took off on a steamer to her new life Up North and a bunch of philistines bought the plantation and ran it bas a farm until the 1970s, in the Anglo manner I guess.

This house below is the original in-law unit for the widow of the founder of the plantation.

And this was what it was all about, literally miles of sugarcane. Some of the original slave quarters are still on the property, most recently used as employee(!) housing, no electricity and no running water provided...

Two slave families shared these huts and the were a total of 175 slaves at the plantation's peak.

We dutifully stomped around the plantation sweating while our dog slept blissfully in air conditioned comfort back at the car.

There was a lotto reflect on as we drove the thirty miles back to New Orleans that evening.

It occurred to me that in some ways sugar was the equivalent of nasty modern chemicals. Consider how sugar sucks the nutrients out of the soil and requires ghastly manual labor to harvest, even today Florida imports Jamaicans to do the cutting, and the processing was a business involving more hard work as well. Today Louisiana has lax environmental laws such that chemical companies love to so business the among their impoverished who hunger for jobs. Not exactly slaves ad sugar, but perhaps not too dissimilar in the 21st century.


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