Turning the ignition key for the first time since the sun came back felt warm and pleasant. A faint and wispy trail of a cobweb trapezed from the left grip down to the floorboard. That’s where my gloves and my boots were soon to be re-claiming their proper space. Before pressing the starter button, I looked in the mirrors and reflected on the long and drizzly winter now gone. The Vintage motor cranked once, and then roared to life as if the last several months didn’t count. As if there were no lonely, dank nights alone in the garage, and as if when we put up for the last time, just before the rains, we would be out again the very next sunrise. Of course we weren’t and with each passing week, as the clouds got thicker, memories of summer rides and those sunny morning starts began to diminish into a distant horizon.
I twisted the throttle and let gently out the clutch. We started to move and it felt different than during that patch of winter when locomotion could be sluggish and limited. Now, it was fluent and flowing where balance became a dance and the warm wind a partner.
Passing by a deciduous forest full of bloom, I remembered stopping there on a winter’s day. Maybe it was the shortest day, huddled against a different wind, then cold, whistling through its stark and skeletal outlines. Meanwhile, when no one was watching, the trees sprouted small buds and were now robust and dense.
We picked up some speed and leaned into a corner. A little steeper lean than necessary, but I wanted the new tires to know just what we were getting into during the upcoming summer days. They gripped the blacktop with enthusiasm and confirmed to me they were ready. As I shifted into fourth gear, the winter months were fading fast in my mirrors, and in my mind.
It didn’t take but another mile or two, and it was as if we were never apart. My feet were expertly massaged by the comforting vibration of the road and my hands were soothed by the feel of the motor through the frame. It was an overall pleasing effect, highlighted by the unique characteristic of moving air not confined by a window. The sway and the camber of the road unfolded and unveiled sights, smells and sounds only experienced from the saddle. Coming up and out of a corner, a great meadow was revealed and the aroma of fresh field dirt and wild grasses filled the air. The wind fluttered and whispered sweet nothings in my ear.
It was hard not to be lulled into the serenity of this ride. My mind was respectful of it, yet receptive to its seductive power. The rhythm of the road was starting to intertwine with the tempo of my breathing. In and out, a regular cycle, and small beads of sweat appeared on my brow. The cadence of the motor chugged out an ode to this highway. The road then turned into another one and different clouds appeared above and the meadow became a mountain. Somehow, that first ride, the day when the sun came back with recollections and cobwebs, got dissolved by the months and the miles. I was riding on another day and down a different path. The new tires fully broken in now and comfortable like an old pair of jeans. The dust on the paint and the crinkles around my eyes attested to the experience. It was hotter now, but soon the leaves would change and a crisp bite would be in the morning air. I was the seasoned rider giving advice on this road or that, and telling tales of sweeping corners and clear mountain passes, and when long ago how warm and pleasant it was, when the sun came back.