Defining Perfect Conditions

In the stillness of mid-July's humid evenings, where the very air itself hangs heavy in the breezeless dusk like invisible sticky syrup, I had lifted my helmet's visor while negotiating a gradual left-hander. The steady winds induced at traveling 50 mph offered no gains in cooling, like using a hair dryer as a fan.

I wound down to second gear as I entered into the village limits, greeted by the heavy sweetness of deep fried chicken escaping from a local pub's opened doors. Slowing to the 30-mph speed limit allowed the heat of the sun baked pavement to reveal itself in jagged waves against the bumper of the Toyota stopped at the intersection ahead. I pulled to the curb and parked my bike, eager to remove as much of the stifling gear from my body as possible. I had arrived to the restaurant ahead of my uncle which isn't an uncommon occurrence, and took a seat at the green plastic outdoor table set that resided upon the umbrellaed seasonal patio.

As the sun had finally sank below the village rooftop line, a slight breeze picked up, offering napkins not yet weighed down with silverware a chance to escape in a dance of flutter. I sat back sipping my refreshment in a moment of reflection. Sometimes where you are can't accurately reflect where you've been. In the realm of motorcycling, this is particularly true, as the ride is often more important than the destination. Car enthusiasts often explain that having more than one vehicle is necessary to prevent the drudgery of daily routines and performing mundane tasks to steal away the almost forbidden joy of taking the dream machine out of the garage on a warm Sunday morning.

Realistically, this too could be a legitimate concern to the motorcycle population, except that a lack of cargo space, ideal weather conditions, and annual climate changes force a majority of riders into using their bike as a secondary means of transportation. Perhaps it is Mother Nature's way of forcing riders into displaying patience while preserving the Sunday-only appeal of getting out in the saddle and putting some numbers on the odometer.

If this reasoning holds true, then living in New York is certainly an effective means of staying off the bike for long periods of time in the form of harsh winters. It comes as no surprise, in fact, that by the time Spring does arrive around here in its usual nonchalance of cloudy days and cool temperatures, the roadways are littered with bikes of all shapes and sizes, mounted by riders whose patience has finally worn thin enough to warrant dealing with the wind chill on top of a 40-degree afternoon as a form of entertainment.

With months indoors with nothing but magazines to sustain us, riders around here quickly swear they'll never complain about clear-skied muggy nights again.

A couple at the table next to mine comment that the heat is unbearable, and I nod out of respect, having just journeyed across winding country roads surrounded by rows of well groomed farm crops and fruit and vegetable stands through a sticky 90-degree calm. I'm convinced that perhaps a few degrees cooler would make this the perfect day, at least as far as conditions go. It seems that memories of the earlier, more uncomfortable, and downright freezing rides of the season are quickly forgotten after a few short trips in the summer humidity, and so are the promises made in the long cold winter darkness.

If I were forced to, I suppose I could make a valid campaign in claiming days like this are why I ride, but then too, this would be a fine example of discounting what actually got me here. It's the patience that makes good rides good and great rides great. There is truth behind adages that remind us that the best things come to those who wait, and indeed it is only logical to conclude that rainy days are effective in making us appreciate the sunny ones. A little uncomfortable, perhaps, but these are the nights our winter counterparts fantasize about with lusting anticipation.

"Actually." I said tapping the last ice cube free from the bottom of my cup. "It's quite a perfect night."

Just then my uncle's Road King rambled up to the curb, taking an angled parking spot next to the contrasting style of my R6. Despite layers of clothing completely inappropriate for the temperature, my uncle's smile is evident from across the busy street.

"Beautiful evening," he calls from the curb, setting his helmet on his seat.

My thoughts exactly. 


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