It dawned on me a couple of years ago that “passionate” might
a nice way of saying “crazy,” or at least maybe I get described as “passionate”
often enough that I have begun to suspect there is a hidden implication. I can’t
help it—or, I could, but I don’t want to—there are just certain topics that get
my rpms up.
One of those topics is, of course, motorcycling. I pity the
fool who, following social norms, politely inquires of me whether I’ve been out
on the bike lately, because I will immediately heave my own manners out the
window and launch into a monologue that can sometimes only be ended by the
other person standing up and leaving and once I didn’t even let THAT stop me
because there are some words that are just so delightful to feel in my mouth I
will whisper them to myself as I go about my daily chores: gasoline, tires, throttle, gear, lean, engine, my brain in a call
and response, let’s go let’s go let’s go.
Anyhoodle, thanks for asking, it is indeed motorcycle season
here, FINALLY, though this “spring” continues to be very rainy and so I’ve only
been out a couple of times. My very first ride of the year was the also first
time I’d been on a bike since I returned the F700 to Kindly Neville in Sydney
and holy schnikes I had convinced myself the BMW wasn’t too far off from the S3
but I was wrong. Not even to the
light at 10th Avenue and I was immediately starring in my own
commercial: The Triumph Street Triple. Accept no substitutes.
I keep my bike in a motorcycle-only garage in a location I
cannot disclose as the owner is extremely concerned about security (it’s on 55th
between 9th and 10th). One of the bennies of being in
that garage is access to an outlet so I can put the battery on a tender and
another is a real, fancy, professional-grade air hose so I can wrestle that
around and put 10 pounds of pressure into each tire after I left the thing
sitting for almost six months and I am only slightly ashamed to say that was
the extent of what I did to prepare the bike for entry/exit to the offseason,
all hail modern machines!
[Tender, by the
way, is another good word: the tender takes care of the battery, it tends to
it, but the word also carries connotations of care and kindness and so I like
to imagine my battery tender as solicitous, checking in with the battery with
every cycle: You okay, buddy? Your levels
look good, you feeling good, too? You’ve got lithium in you, battery: you’re
gonna live forever! The battery preens under this attention, I imagine,
purring softly and snuggling deeper into its nest under the seat, all dark and
cozy and sleepy; the steady pulse of the tender creating a low, humming reminder
of the power within. I assume everybody else lives in a world of animated
inanimate objects: you do, right?]
Tires addressed, on the first day of (my) season, I rolled
the bike out of the garage to the sidewalk, turned the key, pulled in the clutch,
and damned if it didn’t fire right up. Here is a reason to dislike me and trust
me when I say very sincerely I do NOT care: I’ve got an aftermarket exhaust on
the bike, which I Single-White-Femlaed from my friend B’s bike, except I had
the baffle removed and hot DAMN that thing sounds so good. It’s got a low
throaty rumble and the distinctive rhythm of a three-cylinder engine comes
through pop pop, pop. I know what it’s
like to have the daylights scared out of you on the highway by a bike coming
out of nowhere and screaming by, but I’m not that kind of rider and even if I
was I guess this is a place where I would get shirty and start making a list of
annoying/loud noises that other
people are allowed to make and then quickly stop because I Don’t Care What You
Think (about my exhaust). Vroom-VROOM it sounds so good maybe go back to figuring out how to set your phone to vibrate
when you’re at the freaking philharmonic, SIR.
My first ride of the season was with Michael, happily, and given
how many thousands of miles we’ve ridden together it should be no surprise that
we picked up as if we have never left off: we discussed several possible destinations
but headed out without making a decision, we managed to lose some guys who
wanted to ride with us because they were too slow coming out of the parking lot,
and once we hit the PIP Michael set his cruise control at 69 mph and then
lifted his right hand to give me a wave. I used my left hand to send back a
one-fingered salute, and I have often wondered if any people in cars have seen
this little ritual and been curious about it. In short, Michael waves with his
right hand to show off the fact that he has cruise control and I don’t; I give
him the finger in return because I am jealous of the cruise control and also
because I would be remiss if I did not protest that he has set it at 69 like he
is a twelve-year-old boy instead of an adult man but if motorcycling doesn’t bring
out the exuberance, the exhilaration, the sheer unadulterated joy we associate
with childhood then we’re doing it wrong.
So we're in our forties, but who cares, we've whipped around the on-ramp and we're at cruising speed now and I'm shooting the bird at my favorite ridding buddy while we're bombing up the Palisades on our way to a day of
who-knows-what-awaits adventure. Do it, my brain hollers, and as we pass under an old stone bridge I pull in the clutch and give the throttle a quick vroom-VROOM so I can hear
the roar of the exhaust echoing all around me. In a blink we're back in
the dappled sunshine, tires humming on pavement, the bike an easy, familiar
presence beneath me, reined in but ready, my hand on the throttle and the road
ahead curving away, calling back let’s go
let’s go let’s go.
x
Ah, the sound of spring in New York...there’s nothing like it on a bike... your description makes us all feel like we are riding alongside you.
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