VROOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!!!!!

I completed a two day motorcycle riding course offered by the Motorcyle Safety Foundation.  Here is the result.

It was a loooooong two days.  Actually, this is the work of a recently deceased Tucson artist who worked in metal and discarded items.  However, if I did ride anywhere other than the football sized range on which I practiced, I would most likely closely resemble the image above.

And yes, I did indeed pass both the written test and the range riding test -- evidence above.  If I lived in Arizona, I would have trotted down to the DMV this morning and exchanged this piece of paper for a motorcycle endorsement on my driver's license, making it legal for me to ride a motorcycle of any size, shape, and form not only in the state of Arizona but anywhere in the U. S. of A.  Given that I had the lowest passable score on the riding test of any person who'd ever taken it (I may be exaggerating but not by much), I agreed in writing, using my own blood, to never, ever take the handlebars of a motorcycle within the state of Arizona.

If I don't get a motorcycle, though, what am I going to do with this cute little sticker?  Suggestions accepted.

My class was intime, to say the least.  For most of the course, there were only three of us.  Here are two of my fellow students as we face our written test.  No wonder Jacki has such a dour look.  For me, of course, the written test was a breeze.  I'd typed out the practice questions in the back of our book, then typed in the answers, complete with page number where each answer was located.  I highlighted the answers in red, and printed three copies, one for each of us.  Can you spell a n a l?

One of our two instructors, who looks as if he's assuming the persona of evil testing person.

And the second instructor, out on the range.  Course format was about 8 - 10  hours of classwork, and about 8 - 10 hours of riding instruction.  Instructors are certified by and follow the curriculum of the Motorcycle Safety Foundation, although the course itself is offered through Pima Community College.  Fortunately for me, the West Campus where the range is located is about three miles down the road.  I say fortunately because we began at 6:30 AM.  Both instructors participated in both class work and range instruction.  And, again fortunately for all of us, we were a very small class.  I say fortunately because, as a student on the range, I self-classified into the severe developmental delay category.

All the stuff on the table and bench is mine.  I'm a wuss; I don't like discomfort, such as comes from cold, wind, and rain, all of which we had on Saturday morning, our first day on the range.  With me I had extra pants, shirt, and dry socks.  The dry sock thing is genetic.  Daddy said that after the invasion of Okinawa, when the Marines had to wade ashore from their LSTs, the first thing he did was pull out a pair of dry socks and put them on.  On this day in April but an almost wintery Saturday morning, I was wearing sweats under water-resistant pants with a warm lining, and four layers on top.  Except for my hands (I was wearing crummy left-over gloves from previous students), I was warm!

Sunday morning on the range was sunny and became warm, but at 6:30, it was still chilly, especially when riding, even though I'd barely make it up to 15 miles per hour (aka the fear of falling factor).  Here I am stripping down a bit, having removed the sweat pants, a few top layers, and am now putting my shoes back on.  Beautiful, beautiful day.

And a happy me.

The riding range is the size of a football field, and sits just down from PCC's instructional buildings.  We could run up to the buildings if need be, but why waste precious riding time?

When students arrive, motorcycles are ready.  Otherwise, they remain quiet in a beat-up cargo container, along with helmets and crummy gloves, if a student lacks them.  This makes it possible for someone like me, who lacks a helmet, to be able to ride.

#10.  Mine own for range instruction.

Sweet little machine.  Just my size.

Jackie and Larry await range test scores.  I didn't think I would pass the range test, as I'd gone so far outside the box that even Boss in Cool Hand Luke wouldn't have been able to find me.  The box is a rectangle within which the rider does two U-turns, entering one end and exiting the other.  I'd actually managed one very good box during practice but during the test couldn't do it with three tries.  Regardless of whether or not I passed, I was thrilled that I'd actually finished (and with minimal whining), especially given the miserable weather on Saturday.  My fellow classmates had least some riding experience, and had done well on the range, and I knew they'd pass.  The instructors had assumed I'd want to be the last person to test, and were a bit surprised that I wanted to go first. 

Notice how beautiful the weather is:  sunny, clear, no clouds.  Contrast that with the day before:  miserable, wet, rainy, cold.

Instructor expressing his feelings about having his photo taken.

Class photo!!  The young man on whom I have a strangle-hold joined us only for Sunday's range instruction and testing.  His class had actually been cancelled about halfway through because the weather got so bad.  Apparently, that's a rarity.  He was reluctant to join in the photo but he had no choice!  My fellow students were very kind to me, in my ineptitude.  Thank you to them and to our intrepid instructors!

How to Dry Clothes in Dry Climes

OR: No This Is NOT a Yard Sale.  Way back when we bought a house in Tempe, we very quickly bought a washing machine; I HATE going to the laundromat.  However, we held off getting a dryer, instead stringing line around the carport.  Clothes were protected from the sun and in the "dry heat" of Arizona, well, they were dry almost as quickly as I got them hung out.  When it rained, we'd hold off washing, unless it was a necessity; then, we'd run down the street to friends and use their dryer.  That worked pretty well, since it didn't happen more than about once a year.  Then we hit a rainy spell.  And it rained and rained.  We built an ark, and it rained some more.  We bought a dryer.  Back in Tucson, I'm loathe to use the dryer when the sun is free...and fresh, so here's my method.

Oh yeah.  Gambel's quail.  The reason to watch carefully.

 

Hail!

Hail happens, even in Tucson, though rarely.  And here's the evidence.

I like hot-tubbing when the air is cold, but not sure about being hit by hail, even though the hail was a bit smaller than a marble.  Even my head isn't quite that hard...I think.

Didn't hide the patio stones but covered them pretty well.

Not only did this volunteer survive, it is thriving.  I've been pulling other little green stuff that sprouts between the patio stones but this one had the courage to bloom around the time I arrived...and will be there when I leave ... which will be soon.

 

Ouchy!

The desert is not the place to walk barefoot.  The desert, in fact, requires, nay demands, strong footwear.  Neither Shirley's backyard nor front yard nor side yard has that green stuff on the ground that back east we call lawn.  Shirley's yard is desert.  So walking Abbey in the back desert with me wearing flipflops was....

Not intelligent, as you can see from a couple of the critters which I removed from one foot.  I call them critters rather than plants because, without any provocation whatsoever, three of them leaped off the ground and viciously attached themselves to my foot.  They are impossible to remove by hand.  And they seem to have little barbs which imbed themselves into tender, innocent flesh.  I had to remove my flipflop and limp, with the maimed foot bare, over rocky ground, back to the house.  Now, an efficient and effective way to remove these barbarians from flesh is with a comb, but I'd forgotten that technique.  Altogether, I had 11 barbarian invasions from the three pods.  Several were in so deeply that their departure left little puncture wounds.  Fortunately, no infection.    Damn dog!!!