It’s a frozen weekend in February. Nature has dumped some ungodly combination of snow, then rain, then snow. When the storm finished, I took one wild step out my door and ended up on my ass. This one to two inches of snow-ice won’t even bring the snowplows down my dead end street. I won’t be riding this weekend. Still on my ass, I give the bike a lovelorn glance. I wonder what is this urge to ride a motorcycle?
It's deciding where to go when you’re not trying to go anywhere. It's paying careful attention to the weather. It's the dialing in and layer on gear, putting in the earplugs, tightening the strap around my neck. Motorcycle gear somehow simultaneously smells intensely of fresh air and sweat. Taking the bike out of the garage takes some work. Moving a motorcycle with the motor off makes you appreciate the heft of the machine. A quick flick of the throttle removes all the heaviness as it breathes to life. The first acceleration reveals all the mistakes in wardrobe. That lace is dangling, that velcro isn’t cinched, your collar isn’t closed, your fly is down. Best to stop early and fix rather than fixate.
Now we're cruising. I can remember the exact moment I shifted into 3rd gear on a motorcycle for the first time. It was the sensation of starting to go fast and suddenly tapping into a whole mess of additional power. The wind is whistling a constant chaos in your ear. Even if you had a companion, it wouldn’t be possible to communicate. You are alone with your wandering thoughts. At the same time, there are life and death decisions to be made every moment. The blend of these two ingredients produces a unique type of focus. It’s the drug of the thing.
All of these joys are just the baseline. You typically meet nice people, do fun things, go to interesting places atop a motorcycle. I pick myself up from horizontal. This snow-ice is too disuading, there will be no ride this weekend. The bike is parked.
-jk