Boxer Shorts December, 2004 - 2 of 4
Editor's Pillion
by Victor Cruz
December already. On the cover of this month's
issue, when I first typed in the letters
that created the word "December",
I felt my foot step on the long tail of an
eerie ghost; the ghost of a riding season
past. Time passes and seems to pass by faster
the older and wiser you get. The day's over
sooner now. Long shadows cut across your
path as early as 2:45 p.m. The day ends faster
than it begins. December already. It doesn't
surprise me or depress me. It has me wondering.
It has me wondering what the hell am I going to do with a bike under wraps? A bike most likely to be taken off the road, as we are loath to admit, the plates handed over to the insurance agent with the mustard stain on his too-tight neck tie because someone is too cheap to pay the $80 monthly on something that is just going to sit around most of the winter like the owner himself.
The bike's already serviced for winter. It has a spanking new rear Metzeler and fresh oil in the crank. It has a set of guards that nicely cover the head scratches. A sticky floater in the tank has been fixed under warranty, as has the high-beam switch that refused to lock in. A bike that's ready for a season that won't officially kick start for another four months or 121 days, 2,904 hours, 174,240 minutes. You see how I spend my time now? Playing with a frick'n calculator!
Some of you will say, "bah humbug!" to the winter and just ride it. Like the BMW poster for the now defunct R1200CL says, The Taj Mahal is nice, but can you ride it? Freezing temps, black ice, snow drifts, ice melt on the always-wet roads? No problem. Just ride it. Like the guy I heard about in North Conway who doesn't own a vehicle and so rides his bike on packed snow-covered streets with both feet off the pegs, dragging for balance. MSF will tell you that's not a smart thing to do.
I'm growing cranky and in a few weeks I'll be dying of cabin fever. But what a season. No heat wave. No long periods of rainfall. About 10 of you rode 6,000 unforgettable miles to Spokane and back. Maurice Kornreich brought home a souvenir, a deer bone sharp enough to cut your gizzards out, and that caused him a flat tire yet an inflated spirit. Nobody got hurt. Let me re-phrase that. Nobody got seriously hurt while riding this year. Nobody got the dead kind of hurt.
And for that, we all ought to be thankful and grateful. We have all been very fortunate and lucky too. It points to how we value skills, safety, and above all else, delusions of safety.
If you're reading this, chances are you're still alive. Congrats. You've survived another year of riding motorcycles.
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