I’ve been moaning and groaning and in generally a foul humor for the past few weeks now. I’m tired, my ears are giving me trouble and my nose is constantly running. My freaking allergies are kicking in. But it’s still mostly cold and dark, and winter just seems to hang on for all it’s worth. Doesn’t want to let go. I’m sick of the Dark Age. I’m ready for spring. And why the heck do I have to deal with my seasonal allergies and not have the weather to go with it? They start earlier each year… annoying.
Yesterday, I had this overwhelming urge to go get some 600 grit sandpaper. I looked at the temperature readout and find that it is 95 degrees on my front stoop (that’s where the “not weatherproof” sensor is located). Yes. I need some sandpaper, stat! I dig out my summer gear, slide into it via my moisture wicking base layer and head for the front door. Bright sunshine and the sound of children playing greet me as I step outside, locking up behind me. I squint into this awesome spring afternoon and am glad I had the foresight to change my shield to the tinted one. I can feel the warmth of the sun through my gear and the air even smells good today. I still don’t get it.
As I’m ready to push off and roll down my concrete pad and into the street I notice that the Pirate is covered in a bright yellow, green-hued neon-colored dust. No wonder my throat is sore and I can’t breathe at night anymore. The Augusta Nationals are but a few weeks away, the grass is growing at an astonishing rate, we’re covered in pollen, and fluticasone propionate sales are up. Yes, it’s spring time in Georgia.
A few miles into my trip I notice, as I swiftly merge onto I-20, that I’m smiling. I’m actually feeling pretty damn good and I’m enjoying my ride to the hardware store. A quick glance at the speedo tells me I’m enjoying my ride a little bit too much. I’m two miles short of hauling a ton. I change into the right lane and settle down to a more respectable speed. For the first time in a long while I’m sitting up straight into the wind. No need to tuck and hide myself behind the windshield to stay out of the cold airstream as much as possible. I see all manner of bikes out and about. It is Friday afternoon and the weekend has begun. I get it now.
Stash those battery tenders and dig out your warm weather gear, for riding season is finally here! Start your engines. It’s time to play in traffic!
I have said before that I am bored with street riding and that I’m done with it… I am not done with street riding. I confused perfunctory winter commuting with riding. I confused racing with riding. The time to ride, to really ride is upon us.
Life, again, is good!
Fun #MissBusaFact: Today, 23 years ago, I experienced my first kiss.
…and upon posting, another WordPress Surprise:
I have read this post twice now. I am so impressed with it, I just have to share it with the rest of my readers (and accidental stumblers). If you are not already subscribed to “The Dandooligan” blog, get over there now. Grab the feed, subscribe by email, whatever… just do it. The man has nerves of steel and he is passionate about the ride. If you come here regularly, I promise you’ll like his style (in print and on rubber). This one goes out to you Northerners who are snowed in at the moment. To all you Southerners: Look the other way, this is not for the faint of heart. 🙂
If I still lived in Germany, I would have to try this myself.
I’ve been riding around for a few days now, with those yellow and black WERA numbers on my bike, and I must say I feel pretty stupid playing in traffic with freaking race numbers plastered all over my bike. And what am I going to do when I have to bring the thing in for its now very-overdue 12K service? How am I going to explain that one? Dial *113 and tell me how you like my driving? Umm… no. I was in a creative kind of mood, wanted to know if I could do it; ran out and bought supplies and happily went about my business. Sometimes, I just don’t think stuff through. More often than not, I don’t think stuff through. I just get a wild idea and run with it.
I suppose I could take the offending pieces off and when my (newly recruited) BMW dealer asks where the hell the rest of my bike is, I tell them that I am glad they asked and that “the weirdest thing happened to me on the way up here. That is also why I’m late for my appointment. Anyway, I was hungry and pulled into this truck stop at Exit 114…”
I need to rework this. With removable and reusable vinyl, so I can just slap them on in the pits the evening before race day. Yeah right! You can’t just “slap” stuff on with them angles on that tail piece. It took me over one whole hour to get the crap to follow the lines the first time around. My lowers are too small for regulation sized number plates… wait a minute… maybe there is a way. I need to go out and measure again.
I just can’t live with those fugly numbers on my bike. First off, yellow is so messing up the theme; secondly, my douche bag factor has increased exponentially (and riding a liter bike certainly doesn’t help there *grins*); and, for some unknown reason (but I could venture a guess), the incidences of cars wanting to race me has tripled in the past week. I’m tired of bruising the egos of those poor Schmucks in their muscle cars (albeit toying with rednecks in pickup trucks gives me a deep sense of pleasure)…
I need race bodywork. Stat!