The First Real Ride of Spring
by Clint A. Buhs (RowdyRed94)
Yesterday was the first real ride of the season in Central Minnesota. I’d been around the city twice before in recent weeks on warm afternoons, but this time I went 150 miles and found some good, tight curves. The weather is finally, genuinely warm. Not the fickle, fleeting kind of March warm that disappears with the sun. The road has been heated by the sun, so my tires stick, and the air is warm too, so my muscles stay relaxed and ready. The scent of old leaves thawing slips through my helmet as I ride.
My motorcycle had been in a sullen slumber in the little shed in my backyard since New Year’s Eve day. Ok, I was the sullen one. I no longer own a snowmobile, which had been my winter rush. Three or four years of nowhere near enough snow saw to that, so I sold it. I couldn’t justify having a few thousand dollars worth of playtoy rusting in the garage. I had now lacked any form of good old-fashioned speed fix for over three months. (Dodging sloppy drivers on icy roads doesn’t count.) Yesterday, my cravings were satisfied, at least temporarily.
I live in a land of cornfields and lakes. Around the cornfields, the roads are squared and uninspiring. A sport rider usually likes curves. Around lakes, the curves can be plentiful. But so can cabins and their associated vacationer traffic. Speed in these areas isn’t a good idea. So I ride half an hour to the only curvy road that’s somewhat isolated from urban areas and typically has light traffic.
Truth be told, it’s not really a curvy road. It’s a typical northern road, but the corners are closer together. Instead of riding half a mile and turning at the end of a cornfield, this road seems to have been built after all the local farms were well established. At least that’s my best guess. For something like twenty miles, the corners come frequently. They’re almost all ninety degrees, but they vary in radius, and some are strung together in pairs. It’s pseudo-curvy, a good approximation of the roads I’ve ridden through mountain canyons in the west and southwest.
Here corners are marked with the yellow signs that I interpret as saying, “The posted speed limit is higher, but this is how slow we think you should go”. Sure. Thanks. For cattle trucks, maybe. The signs reading 35 get ignored. I roll through them at my normal back road pace. Having been stung a few times before by law enforcement, and being a generally responsible rider, that’s usually within ten of the posted speed limit. These corners get the bike leaned over some, but nothing serious. Heck, I’d lean that much with my wife on the back.
The ones reading 25 get my attention. If I get to daydreaming, they can be dangerous. I slow to about 50 for those. I shift my weight to the inside of the seat and tilt my upper body toward the mirror. The bike doesn’t have to lean as much then, so the tires grip better. It feels good. The forces generated by the lean angle press me downward into the seat. A motorcycle is always balanced, unlike a car, so there’s no feeling of pressure toward the outside of the turn. It’s all down, through the bike. It’s like flying. I smile behind my helmet.
One of the 25 m.p.h. curves catches me off guard. Riding is a release, and with that sometimes comes contemplation and distraction. I find myself entering the curve without having set up properly. I’m a bit too fast, and I’m sitting bolt-upright in the seat like a prim schoolteacher on a piano bench. Not good for fast riding. Adrenaline tingles in my blood. I lean and push on the inside handlebar. My eyes automatically find that fringe of grass that’s greener than the rest this time of year, having been warmed by the pavement. I don’t want to go there, yet I can’t look away. It’s a survival reaction, but it’s exactly the opposite of what I should be doing—looking through the turn and leaning harder.
Suddenly, the books I’ve read and the training I’ve done kick in. Or maybe it’s the realization that the ditch is probably more painful than the road. I decide that today isn’t my day for a crash, and I make a firm decision to remain in control of my fate. I press harder on the inside handlebar and force my eyes away from the shoulder. The machine leans willingly. It was my limitation, not the bike’s, which almost did me in. At the apex of the turn I feel the edge of my boot and the hard end of the footpeg grind the pavement briefly. It didn’t startle me this time, though. I’ve felt it before, and I’ve thought about it many times. On a bike like mine, if you’re dragging bike parts, you’re getting close to the edge of traction. That’s where the thrill lies, but it can be dangerous.
I mentally scold myself for having lapsed in concentration, and yet I smile. It felt good. It was poor form, but it was fun. I’ll do better next time.
The fifteen mile per hour signs are usually in small towns, where the state highway becomes a local street. The hazard lies in the sand left by the plows after snowstorms. It doesn’t get swept up in these little towns, and there hasn’t yet been a hard rain to clear it. I slow to about 25 and scour the road with my eyes, straining to see the sand before my tires are on it.
At the midpoint of the ride I stop for lunch at a Subway. I always feel a little conspicuous removing my safety gear in public places like that. Everyone watches. My state doesn’t have a helmet law, and this freedom is extrapolated by many riders to the point where they don’t wear much protective gear at all. I’ve been down before. I’ve spent weeks changing bandages on skin that wasn’t properly protected. Now I dress for the risk, as most European riders do… head to toe. It’s like wearing a seatbelt—once you’ve done it for a while, you feel exposed and vulnerable without it. So it takes a minute or two to pull of my gloves, helmet, and jacket at a lunch stop. I always feel that those watching are just waiting to see what the guy under all that stuff actually looks like.
People are sometimes curious. They ask if it’s hot with that jacket on. I tell them I’d rather be hot than bleeding. It makes the point. For non-riders, it’s often something they’ve never really considered before. Today, after I return to the table with my meal, the older gentleman who had pulled in behind me asks whether I was chilly on the bike today. I tell him no, it’s just right. I can wear my gear and not get hot. He asks whether I’ve ridden far. I tell him where I’ve come from, and I mentioned the road. He smiles knowingly. He and his wife sometimes drive it for a change of scenery. He says he can see why I’d like it.
After we eat, he wishes me a safe ride. I say thanks, then begin the process of gearing up again. Even this becomes thrilling, bringing to mind what’s ahead. I’m about to ride the same road back the way I came from. And it’s only the first real ride of the season.
