Morning ride

Waking up with it still dark outside, I take a few minutes to relax in the knowledge that it’s my day off and there’s nothing but clear skies outside. It’s going to be a hot mother later but for now the breeze from the open window is chilled. Easing out of bed I kiss Gail without waking her, get dressed and head to the kitchen. With the coffee brewing, I open the side door of the garage and I’m met with the intoxicating, if not just down-right sexy smell of oil and gas that permeates the air surrounding the aged shovelhead.

I do a slow, keen visual of the bike while confirming bolt tensions assuring that everything is still tight. I pull the Langlitz from its hook and head back into the house. The coffee is strong and hot and needed.

Sitting out on the back porch with nothing but the sounds of the creaking of my jacket and an occasional rig running through the gears as it enters the highway off in the distance, I take in the quiet and solitude. A slight wind carries a heady mix of Evergreen pine and salt-laced tang from Puget Sound as the first faint signs of morning slowly come to light while the stars remain heavy in the west. Time alone.

Back to the garage, I undo the old Master Lock on the rear rotor, slide the key into the ignition and get my gloves and helmet together. Man-handling the broken main door open, it makes a sharp grating noise of metal on metal that both amuses and reassures me. I don’t even try to suppress the perverted smile that comes over me knowing that I’m waking the neighbors up at ‘oh hell no:30' on a Saturday while being of the mind that the loud and obnoxious door serves me well as a working man’s anti-theft alarm.

With the '77 rolled out on the driveway and the task of closing of the p.o.s. door complete, I grab my stuff and lock up the still quiet house. While studying the stance of the shovel in the fading cast of the street light I pull my helmet down tight (silently cussing while fumbling with the D rings), and work my gloves on. The choke is open and two squirts are loaded in the Super B. I give the bike a few primer kicks, switch the key on and heave a solid kick through. The ritual is rewarded as the motor lights up and settles into a healthy rhythm. Focusing on the steady note put out by the straight pipes I feel a primal satisfaction.

It will be only but a few drawn out minutes before I’ll be down the road and the cool stillness will once again overtake our pastoral neighborhood. And as its inhabitants, the good folks who smile and wave at me during the day, try to capture those hard fought and precious last few hours of sleep I would lay odds that they’ll be doing so while cursing my name. And I’m ok with that because when I pull in the clutch and tap her into first gear I can’t help but savor the moment.

The sun is getting ready to throw the first shadows of the day; I have a few bucks in my pocket, a full tank of gas, and all the time in the world with no destination in mind. I point the 19 south, gauge the vibrations coming through the drag bars as the motor’s rpm increases and experience the surging momentum of the bike as the back wheel hooks up. As I move out I feel good.

Pretty damn good…