Snow storm rider

My son was in the Cleveland area this afternoon and passed this year rounder.  Way to ride brother. Thanks for the picture Jonathan.

BMW K1600GT Hidden Function

Awful 10+ Dirtbike Pileup On Horribly Narrow Ridge

I would look like a bad ass with these.

I am always on the lookout for new products and gadgets.  This week I found these tatted sleeves that claim to offer a rider protection from harmful UV rays.  I don't know if that claim is true or not, but they certainly would make me look like a bad ass on my BMW.

MissingLink has released a nifty way to protect exposed arms from harmful UV rays while riding. The ArmPro is a four-way stretch sleeve with SPF 50 protection. Not only does the ArmPro have a stylish tattoo design, but it also wicks away sweat and provides muscle compression. Fabric is stretch- and fade-resistant, and can also be worn wet when riding in hot temperatures. The ArmPro is packaged in pairs.

Contact: Missing Link, 888-489-9984, www.missinglnk.com

Ducati unveils a new design concept for their dealerships.

Finally, Ducati reveals what their newly designed dealerships will look like. Dennis Johnson gives us the story.

For 2012, Ducati North America has launched a new retail design program aimed at improving the customer experience and communicating the "story" of the Ducati brand.

The move, which will see changes in design and fixturing and participating Ducati dealerships throughout the U.S., is part of the Italian marque's new corporate changes announced at its 2011 dealer meeting. These improvements included the addition of new staff members, improved communications between DNA and the factory in Italy, and a new IT system meant to support and synchronize marketing, dealer support, product availability and delivery information.

With the investment in infrastructure and product R&D — see the Diavel and Panigale for proof of this — it's now time to focus on improving the retail-consumer interface, says Dominique Cheraki, Ducati North America general manager.

"Everything we've done is with the same goal and objective in mind, which is to satisfy the customer," Cheraki says. "We know very well that most of our customers, they don't just buy a bike, they buy a full story so we need to make the store really attractive. "It's very important for us to work with our dealer network to implement this new retail identity program. It isn't just a revamping of the show room, it's a completely new process to properly design the [store]."

The first store to undergo the transformation is Ducati New York, Ducati's flagship store in Manhattan. The unveiling today coincides with the moto-press happenings going on this weekend during the New York City stop of the Progressive International Motorcycle Show tour.

The new design — which features elements of the brand's trademark Italian design, performance and lifestyle through images, furniture and fixtures — will give equal weight to the show room and the store's service area. Given the legendary attention to detail that Ducatisti show to their bike's performance and service, taking the service department out of the "back shop" is important. As Cheraki says, "Service is part of the experience. The work being done by those technicians, who have been trained by Ducati, should be shown to the customer."

The space in-between, which in many dealerships is a customer lounge or reception area, is being called the Red Zone. There will be a specific design to this area, Cheraki says, that includes a social area, seating area, a help counter and video monitors.

Since the initiative's introduction at the dealers show in Florida, more than 50 percent of DNA's dealer network has signed up for the project — among these are dealerships that account for 60 to 70 percent of DNA's sales, Cheraki says. "I think it's a pretty good result," he adds.
Overall, Cheraki notes that the design changes are meant to be easy for a dealer to implement. The product is the star of the show," he says. "We don't have to create a show around the bikes, apparel and accessories. Let's just give them a nice way to present them."

The retail design announcement come alongside reports from DNA that it saw a 43 percent growth in motorcycle sales in 2011, compared to 2010. The company also reports that it has a record market share in the U.S., Canada and Mexico, and that for the first time, North America is now Ducati's No. 1 market.

International Motorcycle Show comes to Cleveland.

Give me a heads up if you are going to be there.  You can buy me a beer!

January 27-29 I-X Center Cleveland OH

www.motorcycleshows.com

Author and cross-country motorcyclist Tamela Rich to speak at Motohio.

Motohio is hosting a guest Speaker, Tamela Rich, on Tuesday January 24 at 6:00pm. Please join us as Tamela will share her motorcycle adventures while traveling with the International Motorcycle Show.

Author and cross-country motorcyclist Tamela Rich wrote Live Full Throttle: Life Lessons From Friends Who Faced Cancer based on two years of riding her motorcycle across the US and Canada with other women committed to the breast cancer cause. She learned how a brush with cancer helped survivors re-examine both their priorities and their assumptions about how to live their best lives.

 www.TamelaRich.com  

An American Motorcyclist: Chris Carr

The Two Phone Calls That Changed My Life

by Rick Slark

I was getting ready for work on a frigid January morning when my mother called me, “Edward, I have just received word that your father has had a seizure at work.  I need to go get him, can you drive me?”  “Sure mom,” I said.  “Is he okay?”   “His boss said your father is disoriented and quite confused. He didn’t know the details, but thought it best if I came right away,” mom continued.  “I am on my way,” I said, as I headed toward the door.  Two months after this phone call the doctors diagnosed my father with Alzheimer’s disease.

Over the next three years my dad’s mental and physical health deteriorated steadily until our family could no longer provide for him.  Sometimes dad would get lost driving to the factory where he had worked for twenty six years.  He was constantly misplacing things. On one occasion he even put their toaster in the refrigerator.  The most noticeable change came in dad’s personality, this man once known for his pleasant and easy going style had become cruel and tyrannical. The mischievous gleam in his eyes was replaced with an empty stare.  His deep brown eyes were lifeless!  

Now, fearful my dad may hurt himself or someone else, our family made the painful decision to place him in Birch Hill Care Center, just six blocks from the house my parents had shared the past forty seven years. Even though I was confident that professional care was in his best interest, the unspoken guilt of this decision weighed on my heart until my father’s death.

In an attempt to make his stark and sterile room feel a bit more like home my mother brought family photos, my dad’s favorite recliner, and other items from their house. I tried to visit him as often as possible.  Nearly every Thursday I would mount my old Norton motorcycle and ride SR 57 to spend some time with him, I imagine I have ridden the eighty mile round trip from St. Vincent to Strasbourg twenty times in the past six months, but with each mile I rode the visits became harder and harder.  I have often said that the two most difficult things I have ever done in my life were; “walking into that place, and then walking out!”

Today’s ride home was especially painful as my father’s condition had deteriorated significantly since my last visit.  I immediately sensed something was wrong when I walked into corridor B, and noticed dad was not sitting in his usual spot near the nurses’ station.  I was uneasy, almost panicked, as I walked down the long hallway toward my father’s room. The sickening smell of bleach and the faint cries from helpless residents filled the hallway.

                As I entered my father’s room I found him asleep on his bed with his face to the wall.  The frailness of his form shocked me. “Surely this isn’t the man I have called dad all these years.” I said to myself.  Just then Dr. Landon; dad’s physician, entered the room.  John Landon has known my mom and dad for twenty five years and was more than just dad’s doctor, he was his friend!   “He hasn’t been well, Edward,” said Dr. Landon. “This has been a very difficult week for him.  He fell out of his bed on Tuesday night, and suffered some severe bruising on his left side. Now it appears some of his organs are beginning to fail.”  He then firmly placed his hand upon my shoulder as if bracing me for the words to follow then said, “Edward, your father will not be with us much longer.”  

His words stung like a wasp. I was immediately overwhelmed by a flood of emotions.  Tears welled up in my eyes and my lips quivered uncontrollably. I hung my head, and being unable to speak nodded slightly to let him know I understood. He squeezed my shoulder then turned and left the room. 

                Now standing alone in the middle of dad’s room I knew in my heart that Dr. Landon was right.  It was only a matter of time.  I walked over to my father’s bed and knelt quietly near his side. I brushed his flowing gray hair aside and softly kissed his forehead; “Sleep well dad, I love you,” I whispered then quietly backed out of the room.  I was numb as I hurried down the hallway; tears streaming down my cheeks. I ran to my motorcycle and sped out of the lot.

By the time I had reached the entrance ramp to SR 57, I was mad as hell: “God, why did you let this happen?”  I screamed from under my helmet. “He is a good man!  He doesn’t deserve to die like this!”  I yelled, riding as fast as the old bike would go. “I don’t get it!  Why do you allow shit like this to happen?” I said.  “I suppose you are going to strike with me down with is damn disease too! I thought you were supposed to be a kind and loving God!” I shouted sarcastically.    I continued arguing with God for several miles, as nearly three years of pent up guilt, anger, and confusion, spewed out like red hot lava from an erupting volcano.

I was beginning to lose my voice as I came upon my favorite section of SR 57.  Gently rolling fields planted with wheat and corn can be seen for miles along this stretch of road.  Martin’s creek, named for a local family who has farmed this land for generations, borders the highway and the sound of its rapids rushing over the well worn rocks leaves each passerby a sense of peace.  The sweet fragrance of honey suckle filled the air as I rode over the one lane bridge where it grows on either side. It was along this unruffled five miles of road that my anger began to fade, and vivid childhood memories began to flood my mind.  I remembered being eight or nine; still in elementary school, when my father would take me fishing on his day off.  I would anxiously wait all day for the final school bell to ring, then scurry to the place my father would always be parked.  Waves of excitement would wash over me each time I saw dad sitting in our white, station wagon loaded with our fishing poles and tackle box.  “Are you ready to catch a big one Eddie boy?”  Dad would ask.

We would drive about thirty minutes south of Strasbourg, to the small town of Masseyville. We always parked along a dusty lane lined with overgrown thickets and blackberry brambles.  I still remember how excited I would get as we climbed the hill, walked across the abandoned train trestle, and carefully made our way down the steep bank to our favorite spot. I wonder if he ever knew how much those days meant to me.  I never told him.   I recalled one afternoon as we prepared to put our lines in the water that I slipped on the sheer incline and accidentally kicked the Styrofoam container filled with two dozen night crawlers into the water.  My dad was mad as hell!  Needless to say, that was a very short fishing excursion!

As I leaned my motorcycle into the gently sweeping curves, my boyhood memories continued. 

As a kindergärtner I only went to school until 11 AM.  This allowed me the opportunity to run errands with my father and sometimes those errands took us downtown. For me, being downtown was always a thrill.  There was so much traffic, so many people, and the tall buildings were fascinating.  But the primary reason I enjoyed going downtown was because I loved to ride the escalators in the cities largest department store.  Dad would hold my hand as we jumped on the slowly moving stairs and make our way to the next floor.  Often he would drop my hand and say, “Eddie boy, I will see ya at the top!”  Then he would run up the escalators as fast as he could leaving me far behind.  When I finally reached the top dad would be standing there with a huge smile on his face and say, “Where ya been Eddie boy? I’ve been waiting on ya.”  I would laugh and laugh.   I wonder if he knew how much I enjoyed that game.  I never told him.

Traffic began to slow as I came upon the St. Vincent city limits; I was nearly home and needed to focus on riding through the congested traffic.  As I rolled to the stop light at Whitaker and Mason, I lifted the visor of my helmet and wiped the remaining tear from my eye, “God, I feel like I have been hit by a truck!” I said under my breath. “I need a whiskey and a nap!”   I rolled into the driveway and took off my helmet and threw my  jacket over the cracked leather seat of my bike.   I entered the house and headed straight for the small bar in the far corner of the kitchen. I picked up the bottle of Crown, poured myself a double shot, and walked toward my room. I sat down near the edge of the bed and pulled off my riding boots kicking them toward my dresser.  I downed my whiskey then collapse back onto the pillows. 

 I couldn’t have been asleep for more than fifteen minutes when I was startled by the ringing of my cell phone.  “Shit, who would be calling me now” I said, as I rolled over toward the nightstand and picked up the phone. “Hello!”  I said in an agitated tone. “Edward?” this is Dr. Landon.  “There has been a terrible accident.  It appears your mother was driving over to see your dad when another vehicle ran a stop sign.”

  Doctor Landon then drew a deep breath. “I am sorry to have to tell you this over the phone Edward, but you mother has been …”