FSOD

I was changing the oil on my Yamaha TW200 when it all started.

I was trying to undo the mess I’d made of my brand new, not even three payments made(!), motorcycle. I’d driven the poor thing into a pond and somehow limped it back home. It was important that I drain the oil (which was massively contaminated with water). I’d left it sitting overnight and even that made me nervous. (I’d had evil dreams the night before about Ray Nagin. The dude had a time machine and kept breaking into my garage. He wanted to steal my bike. I’d chase him away but he kept coming back until he got it and dropped it from a helicopter into the floodwaters of Katrina. It was a bad night! I had endless frustrating images of snorkeling around a bunch of rusted school buses looking for my stolen bike. I guess I was really wound up.)

But every day is a new beginning and I was going to fix everything. This would earn my redemption. I had a bag of stuff I’d bought at the dealer. It included fresh oil and filters and whatnot.

I popped the drain plug and sure enough, there was plenty of water in the oil. Yikes! Then I pulled the airbox and more water came out. Sheesh.

I had done this… I’d inflicted this atrocity! What. A. Dumbass!

Soon, I’d replaced the oil and completely cleared the airbox. I’d washed and re-oiled the air filter. I stuck in a new spark plug for no particular reason. I crawled all over that bike looking for damage.

The headlight housing still had water in it. Every nook and cranny was filthy. Beyond that, the bike was fine.

Given what I’d done, it was a miracle the bike got me home. It’s a stupid simple bike and I’d bought it in part for that very reason. I hadn’t nuked the engine. It had started and gotten me home. For $13 in consumables I’d completely undone the mayhem. It was as good as new.

The plucky little bike had earned a nickname. “I shall call you… Honey Badger.”

That’s when I heard it. The Female Sniff of Disapproval.

All men have heard the FSOD.

Most of men would rather have a rabid badger shoved down their pants than deal with the FSOD. Those who disagree just haven’t encountered the right woman to provide the right FSOD to properly train them.

I looked around for Mrs. Curmudgeon. She avoids my workshop like the plague and was nowhere to be found.

No sane man will actively seek the source of a FSOD. They’re that dangerous! If I’d done something to piss off Mrs. Curmudgeon such that she’d peeked into my shop, FSOD’d, and left… I might as well just fake my death, change identities, and move to Mongolia.

So I didn’t investigate.

Puzzled, I went back to cleaning the motorcycle.

Another FSOD! And this time it was even angrier.

I looked around. “Is anyone there?”

“WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!” Came the response.

“What woah, hey.” I stammered.

“You’re too old for her!” The voice hissed.

It was furious.

Rather than open my mouth, I waited.

“You look ridiculous riding that thing. Have some damn dignity!”

“Shadow? Is that you?” I glanced at my 1999 Honda Shadow cruiser motorcycle. It was parked in the corner, covered with dust. I hadn’t brought it out of mothballs yet. In January I’d tried to start it to move it out of the way so I could park my tractor in that garage stall. Shadows have smallish and oddly shaped batteries. The brutal winter had nuked the battery. So I’d pushed it back against the wall and ignored it for several months. Now it was early summer but with the lockdown and all, I’d been distracted. Plus…

I glanced at the 2020 Yamaha TW200. I had to admit…

“That’s a child’s toy!” Fumed my Shadow. “I’ve got five times the displacement.”

“Yes, of course.” I stammered. “Different designs for different environments…”

“I don’t want to hear it!” The Shadow was having none of my excuses. “Haven’t I been good to you? Haven’t we had great times together?”

“Of course, we’ve ridden…”

“We’ve been everywhere!” Shrieked the Shadow. “Death Valley, over the Rockies, from the Pacific to the Atlantic. Crossing the whole nation.”

“Yes, but..”

“And now you’re riding that blocky little child’s toy in a goddamn farmer’s field!?! What kind of adult rides on dirt?”

“Well the good news is I didn’t ride you into a pond…”

“I don’t want to hear what disgusting things you two get up to in the forest!” Hissed the Shadow.

“Don’t be that way…”

“What happened to you? You had it all. You had chrome and curves… leather saddles and huge handlebars.”

“But Shadow, there’s room in the garage for us all…”

“Look at that thing. It’s not even grown up yet. The headlight is square, it’s got one anemic little cylinder, it has a chain. I’ve got a v-twin that knows how to rumble. Shaft drive, disk brakes, liquid cooled! We pinned the rev limiter all the way across Nevada. Remember that?” I did remember. We passed Area 51 on a day when the weather was perfect. Traveling just slow enough to touch the ground we didn’t see another car for hours. One of my life’s best moments. “And now you ignore me for that lawnmower with wheels? You disgust me!”

I glanced at Honey Badger. I had to admit, compared to a proper cruiser, it’s butt ugly and small.

“You had Jessica Rabbit!” Shadow continued.

“You went out and got Dee Dee from Dexter’s Laboratory.” She finished.

“I may have to work on my similes. I seem a bit outdated…”

“Nothing is outdated if it’s timeless!” Shadow insisted. Then she launched into the kind of speech only riders understand. “You love the open road. Blast through wind until you become the wind. Lean into curves; playing physics like an instrument. The road is your adventure. When everyone got stupid and scared; it affected you too. You’ve pussied out!” I wanted to argue there’s adventure in crashing through nature but I got the point. It’s a matter of scale. I kept quiet. “We crossed the continent a dozen times like a king surveying his domain. Now you’ve scaled down to riding a lunchbox? You should ride proud, spend the night in hotels, eat steak, and drink whiskey. You’re scrabbling through the underbrush, coming home at night, eating MREs, and sipping from a water bottle. You’re weak!”

Indeed I’d been neglecting the proper world of a rider. Or at least part of it.

I glanced at the bag with the oil filters and spark plugs. I had an ace up my sleeve.

“Don’t be that way baby. I can make it all better.”

I reached into the bag and brought out a brand new battery. Honda Shadows need weird batteries and they’re a total bitch to acquire. I’d bought a new one just that morning.

“For me???”

“Of course, you know you’re my first true love.”

I installed the new battery. After a few cranks the garage echoed with the glorious rumble of v-twin thunder. The little TW sounds like a blender by comparison.

Hurriedly, I wiped down the dusty bike. I did a quick check of the air pressure (the tires hadn’t lost a pound over the winter!). I did a safety walk around. Beneath a patina of road dust the Shadow is still gorgeous. It’s 21 years old and is one wash and wax from looking like brand new. (I’ll never wash or wax it but don’t tell her!)

I put on my battered riding jacket. It was dry, if a bit muddy. All of my bike gear is hopelessly worn… but it’s safe enough for now.

In the riding jacket pocket I found my SpotX. I keep it with me when I do solo outdoor adventures.

“Leave it.” Shadow purred. “We’re not going on a hunting trip you know.”

I agreed. I clipped the SpotX to the tool boxes bolted to Honey Badger. I used my cell phone to text Mrs. Curmudgeon. “Taking Shadow for shakeout cruise. Back by sunset unless…” I glanced around me. It was Saturday morning. It was warm out. I’d been cooped up for weeks. “…unless I stay at a hotel somewhere.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon texted back. “I thought you were going to mow the lawn?”

Nope. The Shadow was warmed up now and purring like a kitten. “Lawn can wait. Bike needs a ride.”

I could almost hear Mrs. Curmudgeon giggling through the text. She knows me well. She knows I sometimes just take off on a long haul. “Have fun Easy Rider. :-)” Mrs. Curmudgeon is a keeper!

I started to stuff the cell in my pocket.

“Leave it behind.” Shadow suggested. And I did.