radman
R.I.P. Our Motorcycling Friend
A perfect Minnesota Fall day-62 degrees, bright blue skies, light breeze. That touch of crisp in the air that makes a day like this so delicious: a treasure, rare and valuable. Trees still green, but some have decided to dress a little different to celebrate the changing season, red here, gold there, a suggestion of things to come.
The cloud of smoke indicates the Zook is running, as if the two stroke snap, crackle, and pop wasn't enough. Eager, it seems, to go, 2 kicks were all it required to light off the 92 octane premium treat it has just been fed. As he warms in the sun, the smoke diminishes, and he settles into a lovely lope, still needing some work to rid himself of the small carbon build up that comes with not seeing redline yet-still new, things have just recently bedded in. It's time.
Out the driveway, and slowly through the gears as the gear oil gains heat enough to allow more spirited foot movements-the sun sends sparks flashing off the tank chrome onto everything around me, like a little traveling light show, as I pass it delights kids and also those old enough to remember when this bike, for a little while, was King Of The Street.
The roughness clears as I pass a farm, the cattle enjoying the afternoon heat, soon it'll be but a faint memory as winter wraps it's cold arms around them. Through the gears faster now, 8 thousand revs come quickly, the too low gearing evident, soon my new sprocket will be here from Glasgow, and Zook will again be able to hover at a hundred-for now 80 will have to do. The trees start flashing by as redline approaches-the sound, glorious two stroke howl, surrounds me, the little motor straining to go where I can't let it, visions of rods dancing on the pavement prevent me from giving in, as much as I want to just keep going. Traffic, what little there is on this fine day, is far behind me, where they were once close behind, eager at first to get past this little smoking antique-but soon left far back as Zook gets his game on. The ladies frown at me at stops, the men grin in envy, stuck in their Grand Caravans with the windows up, as if to deny that such fun is still possible: grownups don't indulge in such fantasies, do they?
Speeding along, deftly twisting around pebbles in the road that a bigger bike would just try to smash flat, the Zook transports me back to a day when things were so much simpler, when the world didn't make any more sense than it does now, but with such devilry available with just a twist of the wrist-who cared? I slow in a particularly beautiful stretch of country lane, farm and oak groves to my left, sparkling blue lake water to my right, just strokin' along at 50 the Zook takes a breather, quiet and reserved as if to say "who, me?", denying the smoke trail and echoes of high rpm banshee wail could have been produced by little ol' him.......but a long downhill straightaway dispels any notion that he's anything but a juvenile delinquent with a passion for speed.
Finally, the rides end comes. At the stop sign before my house, the Zook gets a last thumbs up from yet another boy, now grown old and wistful, trapped in a cage. Maybe, long ago, he enjoyed such lustful sinning on a machine such as this, but now those days are but a memory. Me? Today, they were lived again, once more 15, dangerous, carefree, unbeatable.
And happy. B)
The cloud of smoke indicates the Zook is running, as if the two stroke snap, crackle, and pop wasn't enough. Eager, it seems, to go, 2 kicks were all it required to light off the 92 octane premium treat it has just been fed. As he warms in the sun, the smoke diminishes, and he settles into a lovely lope, still needing some work to rid himself of the small carbon build up that comes with not seeing redline yet-still new, things have just recently bedded in. It's time.
Out the driveway, and slowly through the gears as the gear oil gains heat enough to allow more spirited foot movements-the sun sends sparks flashing off the tank chrome onto everything around me, like a little traveling light show, as I pass it delights kids and also those old enough to remember when this bike, for a little while, was King Of The Street.
The roughness clears as I pass a farm, the cattle enjoying the afternoon heat, soon it'll be but a faint memory as winter wraps it's cold arms around them. Through the gears faster now, 8 thousand revs come quickly, the too low gearing evident, soon my new sprocket will be here from Glasgow, and Zook will again be able to hover at a hundred-for now 80 will have to do. The trees start flashing by as redline approaches-the sound, glorious two stroke howl, surrounds me, the little motor straining to go where I can't let it, visions of rods dancing on the pavement prevent me from giving in, as much as I want to just keep going. Traffic, what little there is on this fine day, is far behind me, where they were once close behind, eager at first to get past this little smoking antique-but soon left far back as Zook gets his game on. The ladies frown at me at stops, the men grin in envy, stuck in their Grand Caravans with the windows up, as if to deny that such fun is still possible: grownups don't indulge in such fantasies, do they?
Speeding along, deftly twisting around pebbles in the road that a bigger bike would just try to smash flat, the Zook transports me back to a day when things were so much simpler, when the world didn't make any more sense than it does now, but with such devilry available with just a twist of the wrist-who cared? I slow in a particularly beautiful stretch of country lane, farm and oak groves to my left, sparkling blue lake water to my right, just strokin' along at 50 the Zook takes a breather, quiet and reserved as if to say "who, me?", denying the smoke trail and echoes of high rpm banshee wail could have been produced by little ol' him.......but a long downhill straightaway dispels any notion that he's anything but a juvenile delinquent with a passion for speed.
Finally, the rides end comes. At the stop sign before my house, the Zook gets a last thumbs up from yet another boy, now grown old and wistful, trapped in a cage. Maybe, long ago, he enjoyed such lustful sinning on a machine such as this, but now those days are but a memory. Me? Today, they were lived again, once more 15, dangerous, carefree, unbeatable.
And happy. B)
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