It is the night before the 2015 Redbull US MotoGP and Indianapolis is electric. I am about to attempt a very difficult maneuveur that I probably should have YouTubed before attempting in front of so many people.
I ride up to the only available street parking space for miles on a BMW 1200 RT motorcycle and consider the tiny slot into which I must squeeze the 550 lb. testament to German engineering, which has grown hot and downright grumpy at the slow pace of urban movement. There is not much time. Traffic is beginning to move again and I am in the middle of the street.
The sidewalk is packed with pedestrians and patio diners at the Capital Grille. The street is a barrage of exotic exhaust notes and tattoos and leather and chrome and colors that would look great alone, but together mix awkwardly like a kindergartner's finger painting. Someone honks. It is not unfriendly, but the sentiment is the same. You want to have it both ways? Fine. Just hu...