Thanks Mike. It's been ten years of Ratsun. I have been driving Datsuns since 1967 and next month will be 44 years owing my 620.
Yeah, so I was driving over the Chehalem Pass last nigh in a torrential rain storm. I was coming back over to Portland from the farm where Iv'e been a few days. There is no TeeVee so I hadn't heard weather or news. It dumped an inch in six hours, the worst of it on me, water blowing the truck sideways. In some of the switch backs were in solid fog banks where I was virtually blind going 5 mph. I'm thinking; How many times have I been caught out in surprise monster storms like this. Dang... I could die out here!
That is when I remembered "Longboard Man"! I hadn't thought about him since the event happened last summer. In hindsight, Longboard Man is a Player in the Cosmic Game. Pretty sure he knows. I mean we are all Players in the Game but it is rare to encounter "Pieces" who are aware of how it works. Not like knows the rules, because the rule seems to be that there are no rules. But that is how it works.
This is so hard to explain. I've never tried to tell anybody about this. Either you have already have the understanding... or you're going to think I'm just making this story up. But maybe you already know about the “Cosmic Games”.
When I was about 45 years old, I had a motorcycle riding buddy named Jack Skip. He was 35, single also and traveled a lot. He made a lot of money selling catalog printing for big commercial accounts like, LL Bean, North Face and Nike.
Skip and I met spectating the 1997 World Superbike Races at Laguna Seca Raceway. We were big fans of both formula cars and any kind of motorcycle racing. He was into sport riding, so I introduced him to Dennis Pegelow Safety School and Starz race school with Reggie and Jason Pridmore. We began to do a lot of open track days together. Skip was a naturally fast rider, but untrained. I had been riding for a lot longer, with experience at California Superbike Schools and Riding Camps. I was pretty fast too, because of my better understanding of tires and suspension set-up. For a few years we were doing race schools and track days every month.
Over time, we both got to be very confident, quick riders. We bought five insurance totaled Honda CBR600F2 motorcycles cheap, turning them into two dialed-in track bikes. We learned racecraft on mind blowing closed course natural terrain, road racing circuits, like Thunder Hill Raceway Park , Laguna Seca and the old Sears Point International Raceway. We met riders and racers from all over the world, and were coached by National and World Superbike Championship winners.
Life was good. I had finally arranged my contracting business to run 5 days a week. We never worked on the weekends anymore. I could schedule some weekdays off. My guys were glad to see me go motorcycle touring. Haha.
Skip and I used to do 300 and 400 miles days ripping Highway One on the California Coast, then rip all the deserted back roads and canyons through the Coast Ranges. On a typical Saturday, we might to ride from Skip's apartment garage in the Fillmore District of SF, out east, up Highway 4, over Sonora Pass through the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
We would find a cheap motel or Casino Hotel in Carson City Nevada, then blast back Sunday, over Highway 108. We rode all the Sierra alpine passes both ways, and up Highway 395 or Highway 89. We used to burn rubber, gas and stretch chains, running big loops all around the Lake Tahoe region.
After a while we kept two bikes on my utility trailer with all our gear in locked boxes. If we were lazy or it was hot out, we would hook up the trailer to Skip's SUV, then cruise a couple hours to a great place with tunes, AC, cold drinks and no stress in traffic. Then burn a tankful strafing apexes on deserted twisty mountain roads, driving home in comfort. Pretty spoiled, but why waste fuel and racing oil sitting in traffic?
We got these voice activated two-way “Communicator” devices that attached to our helmets like fighter pilots. They worked for separations of a mile or so, mostly line of sight. Great for navigating in traffic or coming up on junctions we didn't know. We would have conversations about houses on remote mountain tops that were really hard rides to get to. We thought, wouldn't it be cool to have a place to stay out here? Yeah, dream on.
One day Skip called me. He had received a huge bonus from a printing job, so he was at the Auto-Auction chasing down insurance totaled, exotic late model sport motorcycles. He bumped into a guy we pitted with at the track a few times who was selling a vacation house for cash to go pro racing. Skip bought his house, just off of Highway 267 in Kings Beach. A few miles north of Lake Tahoe. It was the plainest house in the nicest home development. It backed up to the Tahoe National Forest, with a spectacular elevated view of the Lake. We hatched plans to renovate it into an indestructible, ski-boarding, snowmobiling winter cabin... and a dirt biking, mountain biking, summer party road house. That is what we called it, the “Roadhouse”.
Year round we kept our Yamaha YZ125 dirt bikes under the house in a heated shop space. We would roll'em out the back door and ride forever. Never got Snowmobiles, but eventually we bought second sport bikes to leave up under the house all year. In the summer we had fast road bikes to blast through the Sierras on. We were so spoiled.
Skip did a lot of his sales work at the Roadhouse, flying for business meetings out of Reno. He paid me to renovate different house projects. I took two of my carpenters up there for a week to make dramatic changes. Then Skip and I worked for a couple weeks on a grand front stairs and deck. It was great, we went riding every afternoon. I spent a lot of time up there for a few summers. We would take our girlfriends up there to party, Winter and Summer.
Skip spied two very exotic Ducati 916s for sale at the dealership in Reno. They were the previous years sponsored customer's, AMA team bikes, restored to street legal. Only 2500 miles, with Factory Race Kits and many aftermarket race goodies. You couldn't do what they did for less than $25k each. They wanted $12K for each. Skip gave them $19K cash for both and they were glad to get it. They needed it for a $48K Ducati Corsa 998 race bike from the Factory.
Wow! Now we had two very red, very fast, very sexy Superbikes with Nevada license plates! Nevada... as in no speed limits... in Nevada.
As we were getting the deck and stairs finished, Skip received an emergency call during a large, expensive, press run. He abruptly flew back east. I worked all day to get the deck railings finished. Early the next morning my new Ducati was calling me to go for a ride... in Italian... haha. Suited and booted, I saddled up heading east along the Lake. Down and out Highway 50, into the huge expanse of Nevada desert. No traffic and perfect air temperature scented with Ponderosa Pines.
You should have heard these bikes run! Italian music. I was used to riding inline 750cc road bikes, and our track bikes had a similar inline 600cc 4 cylinder engines. The 916cc Duc was a 90° V-twin, fuel injected 4-valve-per-cylinder liquid-cooled engine, making 110HP. Extremely quick and fast. As I got out into the Desert on remote Highway 50, two lanes and a broken stripe, vanished to a point on the horizon.
I rolled on the throttle evenly to see how hard it pulled in the top gears. Crazy torque throughout the rev range. It made power much differently than Japanese bikes. Let's wring this baby out before it sucks the fuel tank dry! There ain't nuthin' out here, it's a road to nowhere. The enormous sky and flat desert bisected with an endless horizon, So huge your depth of field becomes two dimensional like a kids water color art.
I snapped my helmet visor shut, leaning forward onto the balls of my feet, planting the pegs into the soles of my race boots. Rolling on the gas in fifth gear, made the big bore Duc's Desmodromic valve train scream like an Italian Opera singer!
I held the throttle wide open. When I bumped the shift lever into sixth gear, a solid mechanical “Snick” was all I felt through the little re-inforced patch on my race boot. My knees were hugging the indents in the tank through my leathers. My leather clad butt barely touching the saddle. Two fingers of my Kangaroo hide, studded Carbon/Kevlar layered, road race gloves, pinned the twist[grip to the stop. Only a very light push needed to guide the wildly vibrating bars. Just behind the windshield, I tucked the chin of my helmet into the indent in the fuel tank, finding the only calm spot out of a building hurricane. Breathing and relaxing, I looked as far ahead as was possible. Because at 150MPH plus, I'm covering a lot of ground rapidly. I'm there... NOW!
The whine of the Desmo cams and the big booming exhaust note turned into a roar, then a howl, as the tach crossed 9000RPM. Rocketing forward, I had to focus and relax. I pulled my left glove off the bar laying it flat on the tank, tucking my arm out of the wind stream. My heart was pumping at probably 140 beats per minute. I had to remember to keep breathing... and blinking... to keep my eyeballs wet.
My world started to go wrong fairly fast about 150mph. My first thoughts were... Oh, it's just the throttle bumping up against the Rev Limiter, the ignition/fuel mapping is cutting out. The ECU is just keeping me from blowing it up!
Before I could back off the throttle or anything else, a sensation like when a digital TV signal pixilates or deteriorates, overcame me. It was across the whole bandwidth of my awareness, like all my sensory input was shorting out. Suddenly, I experienced a catastrophic perception of reality shunt... like shaking an old school, five-cent Pin Ball game... TILT!
POP! There was an electrical snapping sound like an old tube TV being shut off. That sensation, coupled with a sudden bright white flash in the center of my mind. My consciousness dissolved. Oh no! GAME OVER?
All is relatively quiet... except there is a sound... or a vibration. Involuntarily I take a deep breath, that opens my eyes. Before me, is an ancient Zenith analog TV, hanging on the wall. It displayed a black and white network test pattern from the last century. The only sound was a 60 cycle hum, as if it had never stopped.
I know where I am. The Town House Motel in Crescent City, California. I'm sitting in a familiar chair in the room where I always stay. It's a corner room managers put motorcyclist in, because there is an over-hang to park bikes out of the marine fog.
Wait... am I dead? I'm kind of buzzing all over , Exhausted like I worked flat out all day. I'm whooped but not hurting. I closed my eyes and opened them again. Just checking.
It was June of 1986. I has just ridden 330 hard fast miles from Portland down hrough the Redwoods. I was exhausted and dehydrated as hell. I had made this trip before riding to the Portland rounds of IndyCar Racing. I was ravenous. Lunch had worn off a long time ago. Out of habit, I looked out the bathroom window checking the commercial fishing harbor for a reassuring sight. There overlooking the boats and docks, a lone weatherbeaten two story building, lit with a familiar red neon “Restaurant “ sign.
The hair stood up on the back of my neck! The world had stopped!! There were no sounds, except the hum of the test pattern. There was no wind, waves or movement of the boats. No seagulls, no sounds!. I whipped around to look out the front window for my Red White and Blue, '84 Honda FV750F Interceptor. Oh good, it's parked next to the most gorgeous metallic purple 1938 Oldsmobile Coupe. This all seems right.
After I registered for the room, I pushed my Honda under the overhang. A 65 year-old Father and his 40 year old Son, were deep in discussion about a minor cooling issue with their 550HP, small block Chevy. They found this completely original car in a Montana field, then spent $150K and three years, building a super street rod. This was their first shake-down road trip. They had driven through the Coast Range over from Hopland, and said it handled like a Corvette.
The Son waved at me, “Nice bike there buddy! What an awesome day to give it some gas!” Dad chuckled, gesturing with his hands, like he was screwing on the throttle and sawing the bars. I liked these guys instantly. My kind of people.
Their upholstery, dashboard, stereo, trunk, engine compartment were each detailed exquisitely. The deep purple metallic paint, and pin striping was of show quality. Stunning. Red-Blooded American car guys!
But where were they? Where was anybody? What the hell just happened to me!!
Am I sure I'm not dead? How did I get here? Why was I in Crescent City of all places... and the '80s! This is where we cue the spooky music sounds. I was all about ripping through the desert on a 916 Duc. Did I die? Shit I missed it? Wow, it didn't hurt.
Just as those thoughts cascaded out, a small voice from the old motel room television set! It had been quietly talking to me, explaining everything. Well not talking, strictly. Not a human voice, but sort of telepathic vibrations revealing concepts, schemes, organizational ideas and relationships. Out of the hum and snow of the analog screen, new paradigms and concepts were understood instantly.
I didn't feel threatened or afraid of this “voice” or Persona communicating with me. They or It, was amusing and good natured. Reassuring. I had to laugh, this omniscient voice was doing Schtick.
It “announced”, “Dude you broke it! Rarely do “Pieces” find the bug! But you did! BONUS POINTS!! Now you have been RESET!”
I felt like I knew this cat! Cat? NO SHIT! It's my big Tabby Cat Figbuck! No! No way this is happening!! Am I dreaming that I'm dreaming? I don't know. Am I aware in my dream? Yeah, it's like a vivid Alice in Wonderland dream.
It's not just Figbuck my cat free-styling telepathic comedy, but every other cat identity that I have ever owned or met too! That's why cat's look at us like they are reading our minds. We are so slow and stupid... they are trying not to laugh in our faces.
Through my whole existence, it's the same kitty. The whole spectrum of feline consciousness is the same Cat Persona. In the same way many individual human personas operate out of single consciousness. A consciousness that is basically a “Gaming Program”, with bad lines of code.
My cats have always let me stare into their eyes. I've felt like there was an intelligent connection there. Here now was a resonance explaining the theory of everything. Wait a minute... RESET?
Figbuck my cat vibrates; The good news is that now you know your USER(S). Both singular and plural! “USERS(S) wish to apologize that they are lazy fucks. But it's just a minor code thing. It's a bug USERS(S) never got around to fixing. Because in a perverse way... a way... you as a Game Piece won't be able to fully grasp. USER(S) enjoy it when “Pieces” in the “Game”, crash the Fractal Algorithm that runs your universal dreams.
Here is where my attempt at a rational explanation fails. This episode only took a few moments. Now I understood. Next, I got up to answer a knock at the door. It's the Father and Son, ready to go eat a 5 course Salmon dinner at Harbor Restaurant.
We had a wonderful meal, watching a spectacular Pacific sunset from the second floor picture windows. We talked about our lives, and dreams for the next big projects and drank a toast to “Buildin' Shit”. The next day I ripped 400 miles of roller-coaster Highway 1, down the scenic California Coast to San Francisco. Honda Interceptor... more fun than was allowed by law.
I lived my life. Ten years later I met Jack Skip at the races. We were great motorcycle touring buddies and race-track rats. He did buy the Roadhouse, and we spent a week up there building stairs and deck railings. But different things happened to us. I bought a trick Honda CBR600RR from the mechanic at the Reno Ducati dealership. It was my track bike, I never rode it on the street. Skip ordered a Harley Davidson Road King from the Factory. And rode it back from Millwaukie.
I know about riding the 916 and the good times at the Roadhouse, but I also know this other outcome. The USER(S)... or just USER(S)... explained how it's a game or pastime, with high levels of, skill, performance and competition. The goal or reason to play is not to beat USER(S), but to show off USER(S) skill and expertise at creating Universes and Worlds, populated by civilizations.
It's an art and a prestige thing, USER(S) or my cat Figbuck vibed to me.
Oh Man, how do I explain this? USERS(S) said, think of a two dimensional stick man in a flat world. How can he understand the third dimension? He can't. There is no there, there. So we can't understand infinitely more complex higher vibrational fields. USER(S) exist in the 7th, 8th and 9th dimensions. Game Play doesn't exist in the 10th and 11th dimensions, because they are too thin, not a lot of separation between them. Maybe too much alike. Play does exists in the 5th through 7th dimensions, but it is sparse, because those dimensions are quite elegant and complete.
The “Games” are played in the 3rd and 4th dimensions. USERS(S) dig the funky basic nature of our worlds. It is simple and kind of inelegant. Not especially beautiful or desirable, but wildly open ended in the infinite combinations of experience that are possible.
But here is the thing; USER(S) said space is an illusion, brought on by time? Or the other way around. All I can remember or know, is that I began to bump into the very edges of the gaming field. The algorithm created by USER(S) had a bug of sorts. causing breakdown in my perception field. It's all a Fractal Hologram created virtually as needed. It's not at all weird that my cats are communicating with me telepathically.
It has something to do with We... as Pieces in the Game... like Pawns, Knights and Queens. Each of us manifests an extraordinary conscious life force, resulting in Auras and outward fields of energy radiation. These function as vibrational binders, gluing all individual realities into a single universe.
Imagine USER(S) wearing a universe with worlds of civilizations, like fancy clothes worn to a party. USERS(S) create many parallel universes with all possible outcomes. They all curate shows of their creations in time. Elaborate fractal patterns of resonant vibrations cycling through wave form episodes, dancing through consonance and dissonance.
But it's not like They create the reality. We “Pieces” create the reality in time. It's kind of flakey the whole universe system. It amounts to about as far as you can see, hear, feel and smell. It's not gigantic or galactic at all, except virtually. Infinity is more fake than real.
Past that , it doesn't need to exist in reality... so there is nothing real past your immediate life force. Other people are simply little individual cracked pieces of a single cosmic mirror. It's not others you see, but small reflections of your own radiating human construct. As you get away from other people, your perceptions of reality have to work harder to create the universe, Less glue, thinner vibrations. Less reflection too.
So when I was by myself in the middle of nowhere, I inadvertently poked a little hole in the algorithm by going fast on a motorcycle. That and a minor bug in the code running USER(S) “Games”. The result was pixilation as the “Game” crashed.
Not crashing the bike, the “Game”. A lot of the perception of reality is created on demand. As far as we experience living life, a physical universe is not necessary, when a virtual one is the same thing.
USER(S)' whiskers seemed to twitch as It laughed at me. Because now I know about It's/Their manifestation. I am off the hook. I get that there is no death now. There is Life only because we, the Pieces in the game. believe Our/Their manifestation. We buy into the Personas we each create completely. That is all it takes. It won't stop, it can't stop. Life as the vibration we experience, doesn't exist really, only virtually. Haha, it's USERS(S) joke!! Laughing at you and me now!!
What does it all mean Mr. Natural?
It don't mean Sheeit!
One reality is: God is some Old Guy.... and his Son who build badd-azzed street rods... off in the 7th dimension. They like to polish 'em up, then show their creations off. God is some fool in the Desert trying to red-line a Ducati 916 in top gear...
Ride Fast and Take Chances