Someone asked what happened to my "Fits Like a Glove" post, so I did a search. Apparently it was deleted. So here it is again; enjoy...
"Fits like a glove" I think to myself as I literally pull my glove onto my hand. I've already used my key to guide the broken zipper of my bike jacket up to my neck. "Someday that's gonna slip off and I'm gonna stab myself in the throat..." but that thought fades, and I realize that my gloves didn't always fit "like a glove". I bought them 6 months and 13,000 miles ago, and on that day they fit fine, but now they truly "fit".
I look at my helmets and grab my favorite. It's not the newest, or the nicest, or the cleanest or the lightest. But like my gloves and my jacket, I've spent a lot of time inside this lid, and today I'll add more miles, memories and momentum.
It all happens from inside this gear. And for me, it happens just about every day.
Phone? Check. Wallet? Check. Keys? Check.
I snatch my tank bag and walk out the door into the champagne light of a late October's late afternoon. Red is a vibrant color no matter the ambient light, and as I walk closer, studying the lines & the angles, the scratches & the grease, the paint & the metal, the modifications & the worn out tires, the plastic & the glass, the seat & the gauges, the handlebars & the fuel tank, I wonder why everyone doesn't do this.
As I place my helmet over the left mirror and climb aboard, I begin to think of my favorite roads, destinations and lunch. I place my tankbag on the fuel tank, power up the XM radio and plug in my helmet.
Rolling foam earplugs between my fingertips I begin to contemplate the best route out of town.
Insert key, start 'er up.
I've never taken my pulse before, during or after a ride. But I'm sure that as I gear up and start my "pre flight", my pulse quickens. As the fluids circulate through the bike and my body, I notice a symmetry between myself and this machine. There's much more than just a "machine" and an "operator" here.
I pull the helmet over my head. I get a whiff of familiarity that anyone else would just call "peeeeww". That's the scent of history. My history inside this musty helmet, looking over the controls and gauges of this, my 15th motorcycle.
After securing my helmet strap, I set the radio to the news channel. As I click the bike into gear and pull off the sidewalk and onto my quiet street I settle into the seat and coast to the stop sign at the end of the block. Politics on the news. That'll do until I get out of town.
Swerving through town, dodging dimwits driving Dodges, going, stopping, going, going....gone. Finally, I hit the expressway and hit the "Favorites" button on the XM until I find something that suits my groove. Techno: that'll do. Higher speeds, higher volume, open spaces, multiple lanes. Ahh, that feels more like freedom.
Cruising along the highway I head south for one particular reason: the Davis St. Exit.
I pace myself and study the motion of the cars around me. Techno beats in my brain and when the lines on the pavement slash past in cadence with the music I know I'm where I want to be. Here comes the exit. I flick my wrist for a shot in the ass and get whipped passed a sedan, signal, and make my move toward the exit ramp. A beautiful steady radius turn that feels like it goes on forever... Smooth pavement with a crease in the center of the lane greets me. As I lean into the right turn, I just barely brush the rear brake for what is probably more of a psychological aid than perceived stability and stay steady on the throttle. As my foot peg just barely kisses the pavement I grab a bit more throttle and power from the apex of that wonderful experience.
It's purely visceral.
For the rest of this cool afternoon this is my interface with the universe. This is what I wake up for. This is what wakes me up. This is art. This is physics. This is joy. This fits me like a glove.
http://i29.photobucket.com/albums/c293/jbachetti/Honda%20VFR/DSCN1068.jpg
"Fits like a glove" I think to myself as I literally pull my glove onto my hand. I've already used my key to guide the broken zipper of my bike jacket up to my neck. "Someday that's gonna slip off and I'm gonna stab myself in the throat..." but that thought fades, and I realize that my gloves didn't always fit "like a glove". I bought them 6 months and 13,000 miles ago, and on that day they fit fine, but now they truly "fit".
I look at my helmets and grab my favorite. It's not the newest, or the nicest, or the cleanest or the lightest. But like my gloves and my jacket, I've spent a lot of time inside this lid, and today I'll add more miles, memories and momentum.
It all happens from inside this gear. And for me, it happens just about every day.
Phone? Check. Wallet? Check. Keys? Check.
I snatch my tank bag and walk out the door into the champagne light of a late October's late afternoon. Red is a vibrant color no matter the ambient light, and as I walk closer, studying the lines & the angles, the scratches & the grease, the paint & the metal, the modifications & the worn out tires, the plastic & the glass, the seat & the gauges, the handlebars & the fuel tank, I wonder why everyone doesn't do this.
As I place my helmet over the left mirror and climb aboard, I begin to think of my favorite roads, destinations and lunch. I place my tankbag on the fuel tank, power up the XM radio and plug in my helmet.
Rolling foam earplugs between my fingertips I begin to contemplate the best route out of town.
Insert key, start 'er up.
I've never taken my pulse before, during or after a ride. But I'm sure that as I gear up and start my "pre flight", my pulse quickens. As the fluids circulate through the bike and my body, I notice a symmetry between myself and this machine. There's much more than just a "machine" and an "operator" here.
I pull the helmet over my head. I get a whiff of familiarity that anyone else would just call "peeeeww". That's the scent of history. My history inside this musty helmet, looking over the controls and gauges of this, my 15th motorcycle.
After securing my helmet strap, I set the radio to the news channel. As I click the bike into gear and pull off the sidewalk and onto my quiet street I settle into the seat and coast to the stop sign at the end of the block. Politics on the news. That'll do until I get out of town.
Swerving through town, dodging dimwits driving Dodges, going, stopping, going, going....gone. Finally, I hit the expressway and hit the "Favorites" button on the XM until I find something that suits my groove. Techno: that'll do. Higher speeds, higher volume, open spaces, multiple lanes. Ahh, that feels more like freedom.
Cruising along the highway I head south for one particular reason: the Davis St. Exit.
I pace myself and study the motion of the cars around me. Techno beats in my brain and when the lines on the pavement slash past in cadence with the music I know I'm where I want to be. Here comes the exit. I flick my wrist for a shot in the ass and get whipped passed a sedan, signal, and make my move toward the exit ramp. A beautiful steady radius turn that feels like it goes on forever... Smooth pavement with a crease in the center of the lane greets me. As I lean into the right turn, I just barely brush the rear brake for what is probably more of a psychological aid than perceived stability and stay steady on the throttle. As my foot peg just barely kisses the pavement I grab a bit more throttle and power from the apex of that wonderful experience.
It's purely visceral.
For the rest of this cool afternoon this is my interface with the universe. This is what I wake up for. This is what wakes me up. This is art. This is physics. This is joy. This fits me like a glove.
http://i29.photobucket.com/albums/c293/jbachetti/Honda%20VFR/DSCN1068.jpg