One of the common jokes on social media during the onset of the pandemic was, “Let’s get hand washing down this week, Next week we work on turn signals.” I thought it was funny stuff since I was taught hand washing as a child.
I was also taught the use of turn signaling when I started driving yet let me take one little trip to town, where I find that ninety-one out of one hundred drivers I encounter, believe that I am psychic, and their use of turn signals would only diminish my need to use my special powers.
It turns out I am psychic, but the direction they’re turning is not what becomes apparent to me, nor is it the thought that is going through my head. Not that I want to share that thought with them, but any passenger in my vehicle certainly knows what I am thinking. (If you notice the precision of ninety-one out of one hundred, you should appreciate the fact that I am actually counting!)
I had no desire to get on a soapbox when I sat down to write, but that was just hard to resist. My motivation was due to me recalling some memories about some other signals. It is a common practice to use hand signals when you are riding. Hand signals are more visible and if you are riding with a group, they can be seen further back in the group, whereas the lighted turn signals on a bike may be blocked by other bikes in the pack.
Proper use of a hand signal in that situation can relay the intentions to several riders and if in turn if all the riders sequentially use that signal the message is relayed along the entire string. And so, the story goes.
It was a very cool autumn morning in the past when I, Brother Ray, and my grandson Troy left for the regularly scheduled event that was held each year during the time that the foliage was changing on the trees. My Brother Ray, for those that have never been introduced, is not my biological brother.
Ray Rich, Roger Gates, and Tim Howard were so close to our hearts and household that for a period of time my Grandson Troy referred to them as Uncle Ray, Uncle Roger, and Uncle Tim. Roger passed almost six years ago, Ray now lives in Bisbee, Arizona since that climate is more supportive of his physical condition, Tim is still local, and he and Ray are still loved as much as ever. More about these three in the future, now back to our tale.
As always, I had loaded the bike for the week ahead and this meant the saddlebags were full, tent was packed, sleeping bags were sitting on top of the saddlebags and we were set to go. I had removed the factory bags from the bike due to routine wear, they were replaced with a new set of throw-over bags, which it turns out that I had not properly adjusted for clearance.
A light misty shower held over us until we were about ten miles south of Fayetteville. It was as we were passing through the tunnel that Ray, who was riding in the rear, began to notice some smoke in the air.
As we exited the tunnel, he pulled alongside yelling at the top of his lungs, “Your bike is on fire!” One of the new saddlebags had settled on top of an exhaust pipe and once the damp misty conditions went away, dried out and eventually reached combustion temperature.
Once we pulled to the shoulder, we discovered that it was not actually the bag on fire, but the contents. A few items were lost, but nothing of consequence.
Ray stated, “I knew the signals for; I need fuel, I need a pitstop, but I never learned a signal for, Your bike is on fire!” Well, I guess there is no signal for that. You must either be psychic, have a loud voice, or really good hearing. In our case it was Troy that heard the cry from Ray!
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