Ride!

A few weeks ago I was camping. It wasn’t very cold for February. Rather than a battle against the elements my campout was mostly happy hours sitting by the fire in 30-40 degree weather. Overnight lows were around 13, which my hot tent handles well.

Could it get any better? Yes it can get better!

I worked in my home office watching the outdoor thermometer. It inched up. Higher. Higher. The sun was brilliant. By noon it had broken 50. It might go a few degrees higher before the late afternoon rays slanted too much and the temperature began to drop again. Each night, the roads freeze, each day they thaw. As does my heart.

“Suit up Poindexter!” The spirit of the road manifested itself and kicked in my door.

“I’ve got… a meeting tomorrow. Need to be prepared.” I argued, lamely and with terrible grammar.

“Shut the fuck up. Ride! Now!” The road calls stronger to some than others. To me, it pulls like a chain.

“It’s only March. Spring will come. The roads will progress through break up. Then I will carefully fire up each of my motorcycles, give them a safety check, and…”

“Shut up! You’re boring me!”

“Why are all the manifestations of my imagination hard asses?”

Having received a legitimate question, it listened. The response was heartfelt. “You know how Jim Henson made Kermit the Frog?”

I nodded.

“Kermit is filled with kindness. A special gentleness of soul that makes everyone like Kermit. Right?”

I nodded again.

“Well you’re not Jim Henson! You’re an asshole and I’m not Kermit! Put this on!” He tossed a helmet at me.

I paused, gathering my thoughts. Remember when you were a kid and you were stuck in school. Ignoring some half-sentient mid-level graduate of teacher-ology rambling on about adverbs and algebra. Shit you knew years ago. She tuned her pitch for the dumbest fuckstick in the class and you just had to take it. Year after year. Even after she led the dumbest invertebrate in class to the promised land of finding X, the blithering moron wouldn’t get it. Then, the same crap would be assigned as homework, as if repeating Shakespeare to a toad makes a toad literate. And when you didn’t hand in that damn homework, because you didn’t do it, because it was stupid and repetitive, all the adults in the vicinity would piss and moan about how you needed to do this dumb shit another dozen times. For some reason it was for your own good. Remember that? Remember how you were a virtual prisoner. Remember how you thought you’d someday be an adult? Remember how you thought adults were free of all that?

Do you really remember? Or have you become the adult? Do you make those goofy wah wah noises of the adults in a Peanuts special?

My imagination paced back and forth angrily while I worked through my situation. I pondered life and its true meaning; looking at the sun over the muddy field and the birds flitting about and the tax forms on my desk. I haven’t done my taxes yet. I will have taxes to do every year. And then I will die.

Ten minutes later I was in my garage, clearing away junk that was between me and the bike. I am among the richest men on earth. I have three motorcycles!

The newest, a dirt bike, was out of the question. Given the freeze and thaw cycles of break up I’d tear a hole in the forest if I tried trails right now. I’d also get covered head to toe in icy mud and probably hit a tree.

The oldest, and my most recent acquisition, is a street bike, perfect for long hauls and carrying tons of gear. In a few months it’ll be filled with camping gear and rolling toward a horizon. But… Well it’s new to me. I’ve only had 1,500 miles to assess the bike. How reliable is it really? I’m sure it’ll run flawlessly for 100K but it hasn’t yet earned my trust for bad conditions.

That left my first bike; an old friend. A basic black and chrome cruiser, it was purchased only days after I’d earned my motorcycle endorsement. I learned on this bike. I put my first mile on this bike. The bike put the first mile on me.

Because I learned as an adult, I have a clear memory of that moment. I didn’t “evolve” with motorcycles gradually over time. I took the hit all at once and never let go. I remember rolling out of the dealership; wincing over the pain of monthly payments and wondering if I’d purchased far too much size and power for a novice. It took all I could do to wobble the beast out of the dealer’s lot and onto the road.

I’d rolled the dice on this bike after decades of longing. I’d wanted a motorcycle since Fonzie rolled across my family’s black and white TV. Like all GenX, I’ve been forced to endure stories dripping of nostalgia for a time that was dead before I was born. Ten year old me didn’t care. The society and the people and their stories meant nothing. All I wanted was Fonzie’s bike.

It took a whole human lifetime before I got my own motorcycle. When the time came I bought a motorcycle big enough to last me forever, or beat me to a pulp, and I didn’t even know if I’d really like it or not. All I really knew was that I’d grown up poor enough that I might only get one shot at it. Now you know why I’m giddy to have more than one motorcycle in the garage. And why the first one will never be for sale.

I have owned this bike so long that I recently installed “collectors” plates. Only old men can put collectors plates on a machine they bought new. I have earned that right. And the motorcycle has earned my trust. Unreasonably, stupidly, outlandishly reliable… if anything will wake from a frozen slumber months before schedule and roll it’s loyal owner to the next time zone, it is my first two wheeled love.

If you live up north you know that all sorts of shit can go wrong when you first bring a bike out of mothballs. For once, the odds were in my favor. Last fall I’d done myself a solid. I’d last gassed up with Sta-bil treated fuel. I’d run the carbs dry. I’d kept it on a battery maintainer. Even the shiny new “collector” plate had been lovingly installed in the middle of winter. Sometime around Christmas I think.

She turned over a couple of times; listening to me mutter prayer and encouragement under my breath. Then she caught. Yes!

Extraction was the next challenge. The air might be in the 50’s but the slope to the garage was shaded and frozen. It was slick with ice. I hacked at it ineffectually with a shovel. I sprinkled some salt to melt the ice. That was all I could do.

I suited up like I was going on the most dangerous ride of the year, which I was. There would be patches of gravel on paved roads. Dirt roads would be squishy and unreliable. There might be ice in shaded spots. The bike’s tires would be cold and sluggish, flexible fittings and hoses would be less supple. Plus cold is hard on the rider. Fifty degrees is tolerable but it’s not 70. I’d be out of practice and suited up in clunky heavy layers.

Living a thing takes more commitment than sitting inside imagining it.

Once I was suited up, head to toe, I rolled gently backwards out of the garage. I made it about 15′. The rear tire got into an area exposed to the sun and sunk into the mud’s warm embrace. The way to handle this is a delicate dance. Push forward which compresses the front forks. Then press the front brake when the forks are squeezed down. Hold it like that, adjust your footing, and then push back while letting go of the brake. The expanding front fork gives you a smidge more momentum and you’ll roll back harder than you could pulling on the handlebars alone. If the bike rolls free, go with it. If it rolls back a few inches and then starts to rock forward again, lock the front tire again before it rolls back to where you were. Shift weight and let it bounce forward on the front forks starting from a few inches backwards. Do the dance again. (This is why heavy Goldwings have reverse gear.)

I tried rocking back and forth and got about a foot but the rear tire had sunk into mud and the front tire was on a patch of ice about a foot square. I couldn’t compress the shock, it just slid back and forth across a dinner plate sized area. Hmmm.

Fuck it. I clicked her into gear and rolled forward. I took a wide gradual arc on a shaded part of my lawn, riding high on frozen grass and ice. I got it lined up and rolled straight as an arrow across the sun melted part. I squished down but through and rolled out to my driveway. I squished down the driveway. I squished down the dirt road. I found myself with muddy tires at the paved road. I waited for a nice big break in traffic before I rolled out in the gentlest of turns and held it in lane for a couple hundred yards.

Finally! I was on pavement, my tires were clean, the engine was warmed up, and I launched. It felt so good. Nothing is more glorious than a motorcycle and it’s especially glorious when you’ve been deprived for several months.

I do not have wings, but I have a motorcycle.

I planned only to ride to the nearest gas station and tank up on fresh fuel. But I the bike didn’t want to go home and neither did I. We rode from nowhere to nowhere, happier every mile. My warm gear was just right for the ambient air, I could ride indefinitely. I rode to a greasy spoon and ate a cheeseburger. I rode further. I found myself singing in my helmet.

I didn’t get home until sunset. It was a lot easier riding up across the ice to the garage than backing down out of it. I parked and smiled and haven’t stopped smiling. I still haven’t done my taxes. It may snow tomorrow. We’re all gonna’ die sooner or later. But that’s ok. I took wing when I had the chance and that’s all that matters.