5 am, 17 miles and 28 degrees

It was twenty-eight degrees this morning as I buckled, zipped, and snapped my leather cocoon into place. The forecast was calling for rain showers to move in around six or seven pm tonight. But I should be home by four thirty pm. But as my luck goes, the rain may move in early and my first ride of spring will be ruined. So, as I continued to armor myself, I entertained thoughts of abandoning the ride today in favor of a more motorcycle friendly forecast. But how could I live with myself if I were to back out now, climb in my cage, and spend yet another boring ride to, and from, work, listening to the same old songs on the radio. Don’t get me wrong, I like my truck. But it has no soul. No ability to free and relax the mind. There is little thought process to the controls of the modern family chariot and the fact that there are already autonomous propelled cars and trucks on the road frightens me in more ways than just the fact they are driverless.
A motorcycle, by contrast, demands attention, a bit of coordination, and a great deal of alertness. (Especially for those drivers (I use the term “drivers” loosely) that would probably be better off, and safer to the general public, ridding in one of those self-driving cars while they text and yak on the damn phone while donning make-up and adjusting hair.)
Yep! My mind is made up. I’m gunn’a ride damnit! So, after installing the batteries in my new electric gloves, grabbing my thermos and lunch, and running a mental check list, I headed out the door to the garage.
As the garage door opens, the light sparkles off the red/orange metal-flake paint and off in the very distant background, I could swear I hear the theme music to “2001 Space Odyssey”. It has been five, very long and cold months, since my bike, Clyde, and I were last together. Now Clyde is even more anxious than I to begin the new season. To seek out new roads and new civilizations. To boldly go where many have gone before. (Apologies to Gene Roddenberry and Robert Justman and the cast and crew of the original, and still the best, Star Trek. But you get the idea.) Anyway, where was I? Oh yea…
There sat Clyde on top of the triple-tree hurrying me along with his incessant nagging chatter. “Com’on, com’on, com’on! Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” Clyde shouted as I stuck my helmet on my head and buckled the chin strap.
My new heated gloves are slightly on the snug side I noticed but if they work, they’ll be worth the money paid, and labor spent getting them on.
Ok, kickstand up. A quick check and re-familiarity with the controls. “Beeeeeep!!!!” I accidently hit the horn checking the turn signals. “Way to go idiot!” Clyde scolded “Now you just woke up the whole frigg’n valley.”
I pulled my goggles down, put the bike in gear and pulled out of the garage. A sharp right and I’m finally on my way.
Traveling north on my road I travel through five miles of heavily populated woods and fields by members of the white tail deer. A.K.A. “Speed beef”. I’m always extra alert and cautious while traversing the first five miles of my daily journey. There are always remnants of, or whole, carcasses of deer that made kamikaze attacks on passing motorists within these five miles.
About three, or so, miles into my journey I noticed that my fingertips were getting cold and numb. “Well, there goes good money down the drain.” I thought. Then I looked down, there is no red light on the gauntlets indicating the gloves are on. I forgot to turn them on and before he could say a word, I told Clyde to “Shut up and just keep your eyes on the road.”
At the end of the five miles there is a “T” in the road and just to the left, after heading north on the “T” is a watering hole bar/restaurant where I can pull off and see to turn on my gloves.
Once I was back on the road, and clear of neighborhoods, I was motoring along at fifty-five. The air was painfully cold on my chin and cheeks, but my hands and finger tips were pleasantly warm and despite the numbing cold wind, I was enjoying the ride.
After another five miles or so, another right turn will take me through the small village of Toby. Just before getting into the village of Toby, a friend and former co-worker lives along the same road. It has been a tradition of mine to beep the horn whenever I pass his house in the wee early hours and today will be no different. As I pass “Joe’s” house at 5:10 AM several loud and short blasts were his wake-up call to another day. The first of many to come this season.
Pulling into the parking lot of SinterFire I feel refreshed and awake. Happy to know that this is, once again, the start of a new beginning. But most of all… I can get my helmet off without running into the building and running hot water over my fingers first.