Up Front

UP FRONT

Artificial intelligence

David Edwards

I’VE SUSPECTED IT FOR SOME TIME NOW. My word-processing computer, an IBM 386 with Samsung monitor running XyWrite III Plus, is taking on a life of its own, starting to think for itself. Artificial intelligence, the pointy-headed byte-boffins call it.

I have proof. One of the great crutches of modern computer-based journalism is the ability to call up the thesaurus function and access a directory of clever alternates for everyday words. Problem is, when tech terms, industry jargon, brand names, etc. pop up, the program defaults to another screen with a listing of words it suggests might be more “appropriate.” Some creative condensing of the lists yields startling results.

For example, the computer contends that Bimotas are billet bistro bikes. See? I defy you to come up with a better definition. A Guzzi is gutsy. A Norton is a nostalgic notable. A Bonneville is a booming bombshell. A Ducati, as any Italio-addict can tell you, is both a duck and a drug. Suzukis are svelte with a swagger, which pretty well sums up the new-style GSX-R750. A Buell is a bubbly brute. MZs, designed in England, funded by Malaysia, built in Germany and powered by Japanese motors, are mysterious mutations. KTM’s hooligan Duke gets tagged as a dubious dude. A Vincent is a virile vintage machine. A Velocette is a venerable vehicle. The grand old Henderson Four, gone since 1931, is a heroic heirloom. Beemers, always solid, are bedrock beauties. A Valkyrie is a valid vagabond, especially in saddlebag-shod Tourer guise. Remember that cool Zodia cruiser showbike Honda teased us with last year, then quickly hid from view? A zesty zilch. A Ninja is nimble nirvana. A Katana is a keen kayak. A Wide Glide is a wicked widget. A Gold Wing is a godlike golden goliath, and who’s going to argue with that?

Laverdas don’t fare very well, however, described as laughable lavatories. Harleys are hard-headed and harmless. BSAs are budget buckets. NSUs (noxious nuisances), DKWs (docile dogs) and AJSs (ailing alibis) don’t rate very highly, either. Hondas are homogeneous, if honest, although the Helix scooter gets ruthlessly dissed as hedonistic heresy. How about Suzuki’s forgotten VFour Madura of 1984-85, a cruiser ugly as an 1RS audit? A macabre machine affirms the computer. And Kawasaki’s wheelie-poppin’, frame-tweakin’ HI from the 1970s is quite rightly described as a hairy hacker from Hades.

My computer is also something of a race commentator, sort of a digital Dave Despain. Motocross is motley motion. Roadracing is risky rocketry. Flat-track is a flamboyant flare-up. Enduros are endless endeavors, which I can vouch for first-hand. Speedway is a spherical spectacle. Hillclimbs are high-pressure hikes.

For the incomparable Mike Hailwood, who met his demise much too early in life, the computer fittingly suggests hallowed with a halo. Motocrosser Jeremy McGrath, he of the nipple rings and porkchop sideburns, gets pegged as a maximum maverick. Five-time World MX Champion Roger DeCoster is decisive, dedicated and decorous. Roadracer Kevin Schwantz is scintillating and scorching. Fast Freddie Spencer is speedy and spectacular. GP master Mick Doohan is double dominant. World Superbike ace Carl Fogarty, no fan of American racetracks or riders, is (what else?) a foggy foe. Doug Chandler, Number One on the AMA Superbike circuit, is a champagne champion. Scott Russell, known for his Georgia drawl and his ability to jump teams, is a rural runaway. The great Gary Nixon, who bounced around and rode for Triumph, Yamaha, Kawasaki and Suzuki, is characterized-a bit harshly, I think-as a nit-picking no-holds-barred nomadic.

I’m sorry to report that my computer has a bit of an attitude problem when it comes to the Cycle World staff-chalk it up to a severe case of professional jealousy. Editor-at-Large Peter Egan, for instance, is alternately described as an effete egghead or, slightly more flattering, an Einstein with elan. The blasphemous box accuses Tech Ed Kevin Cameron of being a callow calibration candidate, probably because the damn thing is afraid KC will rewire its disrespectful guts and use ’em to power a lowly CNC milling machine. Road Test Editor Don Canet gets viciously libeled as a cantankerous canine. Our resident teabag, Euro-reporter Alan Cathcart, is catty and cavalier, which just isn’t cricket, old boy. Contributing Editor Nick Ienatsch is savaged as an illnatured ignoble. Managing Editor Matthew Miles, in charge of enforcing deadlines, is unjustly besmirched as mindless and militaristic. Off-Road Editor Jimmy Lewis is a lewd letterman, the less said about that the better. Production Editor Robyn Davis, who answers phones, routes copy, pays bills and restocks the library, is a dazed daughter. Art Director Elaine Anderson? Animated anarchy says the screen-which, come to think of it, pretty much describes her when we’re on deadline. Elaine’s assistant, Brad Zerbel, is seen as a zany zygote. Another Anderson, Contributing Editor Steve, was once OFs technical editor and is unkindly impeached as an ancillary android. Like many of you, my computer seems to remember Executive Editor Brian Catterson’s trouncing by a Dodge Viper last year, and perhaps his little...er, mishap while whipping my borrowed Seca 650 down a gravelstrewn backroad in “The 1000 Mile Ride.” Catterson, therefore, is a catastrophe catalog. Associate Editor Wendy Black’s last name gives the computer no grief, although as a proud child of Tennessee, it has to be tough to see her first name morphed mercilessly into windy Welsh wench.

Oh yeah, I looked up Edwards, just to see what the Mighty Samsung had to say about its own boss. It came back with effective effervescent editor, which only goes to prove, I suppose, that even computers are not above a little solicitous brown-nosing.

’Course, I kinda like that in my electronic appliances... □