James Burleigh
Well-known member
Yesterday morning I woke up to find that my dear darling Fang was already awake and enjoying her breakfast. Entering the kitchen I had to squint against all that bright sunlight and blue sky that perked my ears to a familiar song rising from somewhere deep inside my soul, or maybe my garage, which is a lot tidier--a song not unlike that irresistible Siren song that tempted Odysseus way back over there in Greece a couple years back.
Only this Siren was a shiny, blue, metallic, 1298-cc, liquid-cooled, fuel-injected, five-speed, inline four, right-handed, 4-stroke Yamaha feckin' FJR! And its song was unmistakable: “JB, It’s riding weather! Are you a pussy man, or are you a, you know, pussy...man?” (It’s a bike. It’s not smart.)
The thermometer outside the kitchen window read 35 F, just above official freezing unless you live in Canukistan or some other o'dem places like Norweden where they have a different freezing temperature (sometimes I’m sorry I missed that day in fifth grade when they mentioned the metric system).
But the weather speculator promised it would reach 65 somewhere in the Bay Area, and that meant I didn’t need to rely for the whole day on my lame-ass sometimes-it-works-and-sometimes-you’re-f**ked Gerbing heated gear.
“Good morning, my love,” I said to Fang, pouring myself a cup of coffee. “Say, honey, is it okay with you if I go out and play motorcycles with my friend today?”
She looked up from her whisky sour, struggled to focus, and muttered, “Is that you, Bubba?”
“No, honey, it’s just me.” Maybe she hadn’t gotten up before me after all; maybe she just hadn’t gone to bed yet. It’s always hard to tell since she usually sleeps on the floor.
Looking at her I saw Manet’s The Absinthe Drinker. Gone were the days when I saw Falero’s [NWS] Dream of Faust and Mephisto. She took another sip of breakfast, and I texted my friend that the ride was on. We would meet at 10:30 near the western entrance to the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge, then head into Marin County along Lucas Valley Road on our way to Highway 1 for lunch at Point Reyes Station.
It had been many months since my last weekend ride. For the past couple of months all my riding has been in 10-minute increments, shunting along in the cold between the commuter train station and home, muttering curses about my so-called heated gear. Walking away from my bike in the parking lot toward the station, I always glance over my shoulder to see what I left on the seat this time, my gloves, helmet, keys, or lunch, and invariably in my mind’s eye I see a racehorse tied to a pony-walk ride. So the bike and I were both ready to let out the reins and stretch its legs.
My riding buddy would be a work colleague, the fellow who remarked upon hearing that I was a motorcyclist: “How cool is that?—The campus risk manager rides a fire-breathing motorcycle!” Except it turns out he’s the one who rides the fire-breathing motorcycle: an Aprilia Tuono. Apparently it wants to buck its rider off in every gear whether accelerating (wanting to wheelie) or decelerating (wanting to do a stoppie). Sounds too cool for school.
To make a long story short and get back to living my life: We met, we rode. Here are some pics. Oh! And when I told my buddy I needed to take a few mandatory pics to post on the forum, particularly in order to taunt those poor dumb sumbitches who have to park their bikes six months outta the year on account of snow, all he had to say to that was “Chumps.” Well, he got that right.
Only this Siren was a shiny, blue, metallic, 1298-cc, liquid-cooled, fuel-injected, five-speed, inline four, right-handed, 4-stroke Yamaha feckin' FJR! And its song was unmistakable: “JB, It’s riding weather! Are you a pussy man, or are you a, you know, pussy...man?” (It’s a bike. It’s not smart.)
The thermometer outside the kitchen window read 35 F, just above official freezing unless you live in Canukistan or some other o'dem places like Norweden where they have a different freezing temperature (sometimes I’m sorry I missed that day in fifth grade when they mentioned the metric system).
But the weather speculator promised it would reach 65 somewhere in the Bay Area, and that meant I didn’t need to rely for the whole day on my lame-ass sometimes-it-works-and-sometimes-you’re-f**ked Gerbing heated gear.
“Good morning, my love,” I said to Fang, pouring myself a cup of coffee. “Say, honey, is it okay with you if I go out and play motorcycles with my friend today?”
She looked up from her whisky sour, struggled to focus, and muttered, “Is that you, Bubba?”
“No, honey, it’s just me.” Maybe she hadn’t gotten up before me after all; maybe she just hadn’t gone to bed yet. It’s always hard to tell since she usually sleeps on the floor.
Looking at her I saw Manet’s The Absinthe Drinker. Gone were the days when I saw Falero’s [NWS] Dream of Faust and Mephisto. She took another sip of breakfast, and I texted my friend that the ride was on. We would meet at 10:30 near the western entrance to the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge, then head into Marin County along Lucas Valley Road on our way to Highway 1 for lunch at Point Reyes Station.
It had been many months since my last weekend ride. For the past couple of months all my riding has been in 10-minute increments, shunting along in the cold between the commuter train station and home, muttering curses about my so-called heated gear. Walking away from my bike in the parking lot toward the station, I always glance over my shoulder to see what I left on the seat this time, my gloves, helmet, keys, or lunch, and invariably in my mind’s eye I see a racehorse tied to a pony-walk ride. So the bike and I were both ready to let out the reins and stretch its legs.
My riding buddy would be a work colleague, the fellow who remarked upon hearing that I was a motorcyclist: “How cool is that?—The campus risk manager rides a fire-breathing motorcycle!” Except it turns out he’s the one who rides the fire-breathing motorcycle: an Aprilia Tuono. Apparently it wants to buck its rider off in every gear whether accelerating (wanting to wheelie) or decelerating (wanting to do a stoppie). Sounds too cool for school.
To make a long story short and get back to living my life: We met, we rode. Here are some pics. Oh! And when I told my buddy I needed to take a few mandatory pics to post on the forum, particularly in order to taunt those poor dumb sumbitches who have to park their bikes six months outta the year on account of snow, all he had to say to that was “Chumps.” Well, he got that right.
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