In prep for the Springtime riding season, last week I took the bike to Dixon’s ATV out on Gatesville Road for servicing — changing the oil and filter, flush and refill the radiator, check all other fluids, new plugs, etc. Lovely day in Brown County for a ride, it was, one of those first days of Spring when it seems like Winter is dead and gone for the season. Early this morning I had my one window of opportunity this week to go retrieve the machine… and a lovely day for riding it wasn’t at around 15°!
Now, when I was lad of 10 or so, my dad taught me to ride on a pretty little red 1960 Yamaha 250. This may seem awfully young to be riding a motorcycle, but truth is he would have started me sooner, but I had to first wait for my legs to grow long enough to reach the ground (kinda like it was with the brake pedals and learning to run a bulldozer, now that I think of it).
Being young, compulsive and indestructible, Winter was no big thing when it came to racking up biking hours. I’d bundle up in an old pair of surplus Air Force flight pants, a heavy coat, winter boots, leather mittens, scarf, ski mask and helmut and go riding in any weather. I’d go exploring the backcountry for hours like this. Nothing says gonzo like barreling down a country road on a motorcycle with your feet sledding along on the snow on either side lest the thing slide out from under you.
Fortified by my childhood experience, this morning wifey and I drove out to Dixon’s, paid for the service, and I then bravely engaged in the 10-mile ride back to Taterbug Hill on my ’89 Kaw 450.
Riding in cold weather was not as I remembered it, to say the least.
For one, I didn’t have the flight pants. Nor the scarf, nor the ski mask under my helmut (which I most assuredly DID have). While there was no snow to slide around on, it was nonetheless a right nippy ride. About halfway home, I found a sunny spot on the side of the road to pull over and warm my gloved hands on the piston heads chugging along happily beneath me. My fingers were numb, as were my toes, cheeks and neck where the wind chill of riding went zipping under the shielded helmut.
But manly man that I am, I grumbled not one bit, and finally arrived back on the hill, parked my bike and went inside, where a cozy fire in the woodstove invited me to pull up a rocker and put my now slippered dogs on the stove handles, coffee cup heating and hot steam rolling from the stove humidor pot.
I texted wifey to let her know I made it home safely. She texted back something about my no doubt having icicles on a certain body part. I countered that I had icicles on body parts I didn’t even know I had.
I figure this was the coldest ride I’d had in 50 years. I’m fairly confident it will be 50 more before I try this stunt again. At least without an old pair of surplus Air Force flight pants. And a scarf. The scarf would have made the difference.
