Boots. Where are my boots? Not with the other boots and not in the bin labeled “boots.” I unearth a bin labeled “parts,” though it doesn’t say what the parts are for. The boots aren’t in there, but I find my collection of rubber grommets, unquestionably one of the largest privately-held grommet collections in the world. Grommets I will never, ever need. Unless I get rid of them. I put the lid back on the bin. And forget what I’m looking for. Boots!
It’s like I’ve never done this before. Before the first ride of the season, every season, I scour the house and the garage searching for the gear necessary to ride a motorcycle.
When I was in my 20s, and knew with surety that crashing was what other people did, I wasn’t so particular about gear. I’d ride in coveralls, overalls, greasy garage jackets, t-shirts, turtlenecks, any old kind of gloves (rubber, welding, gardening) and with whatever shoes were on my feet. But never sandals. Not because of the risk. But because it’s a hideous look, and you never know who you’ll bump into. While you’re wearing coveralls. Covered in grease. At a gas station.
Eventually, I find my boots behind the furnace, filled with drywall dust and three finishing nails. Next, gloves. Fortunately, my gloves are where I left them last fall, in the “toys and games” bin, which has neither toys nor games. Between hockey fights, lacrosse donnybrooks and the (predictable) slow creep of arthritis, my hands are a mess. Blood runs as far as my elbows and then, thinking it’s done its duty, circles back to the pump, leaving my fingers to fend for themselves. Six years ago, while being fitted for a wedding band, the Cartier salesman suggested (in not as gentle a manner as I’d have expected) that a thin band would be best, as it wouldn’t “unnecessarily draw attention” to my hands. I can live with how my hands look, but the real problem is how they’re affected by cold.
Numb hands are uncomfortable for anyone. For a motorcyclist, they can be deadly. On top of deadening the sensation from the controls—particularly the all-important right hand and its complex duties in operating the throttle and the front brake—cold hands have a way of monopolizing your attention.
I rode through the Allegheny Mountains of northwestern Pennsylvania on an October day that was doing its level best to emulate mid-winter. I was 500 miles from home. The weather was worsening (snow was expected overnight), so postponing my ride in the hope for better weather would have meant staying away from home until spring. Half an hour into my ride, the fingers of my right hand had flash-frozen to octopus tentacles. My left hand, which I’d wedged beneath my ass, had some feeling, though it was displeased at being crushed by 180 pounds. And then I had an idea. I was so happy at my cleverness I smiled and fogged my visor. Which meant I had to open my visor. Which made me cry tears of joy.
What if I used my left hand to operate the throttle and front brake? I knew it was possible, as I’d been to a road racing school where instructor Nick Ienatsch had, on a right turn, dragged the fingers of his right hand on the track to indicate the preferred racing line while accelerating out of the corner toward the straightaway with his left hand on the throttle.
It worked. Like a robin in springtime tending her eggs, I poached my left hand beneath my posterior until the right hand seized. Then I swapped positions. At first, I put my hands back to the conventional handlebar positions for turning and front-wheel braking. But in time, I gained the confidence for left-hand-only braking and turning, and clutch-less upshifts meant I had to resort to two-handed riding only for downshifting and stopping.
Because of hand issues, I’m obsessed with gloves. I’ve got them all, from track gloves with great gobs of armored plastic to puffy winter gloves nearly as large as the foam rubber hands you see at sporting events, with index finger permanently raised in a “We’re Number 1” salute.
I consult the weather forecast. A high of 65 degrees; a tricky temperature. At elevation it could dip into the 50s, but if the scattered cloud lifts as predicted, it’ll most certainly hit mid 70s in the valley. That’s a potential range of 20 degrees. I select a pair of Alpinestars gloves with a thin layer of insulation. And, just in case, jam a thinner pair of summer gloves into my jacket pocket.
My jacket. Three years ago, I decided I’d only ride a motorcycle if I was wearing an airbag. To some this may seem the triumph of timidity. I see it this way: motorcycling is dangerous. To combat the risk I don’t ride drunk, high, or, except when it can’t be avoided, during the time of day deer are most active. I’ve known, directly, a half-dozen who’ve died in bike crashes. (I was hired at a motorcycle magazine to take the spot of a man who’d been killed the year before when his Gold Wing test bike struck a steel barrier.) Plus, I know another half-dozen riders who will spend the rest of their lives in wheelchairs. If disability by motorcycle crash is in my future, I don’t want to look back as I fight my way up the ramp into a coffee shop or into my converted minivan and wonder if an airbag suit would have made a difference. Yes, airbag suits are expensive. But what price do you put on your legs, your life?
Airbag suits are also hot, heavy, and a pain in the ass. My Alpinestars kit necessitates logging into a dedicated web portal to switch the airbag from street to track configuration. Except the manufacturer failed to mention it won’t work with Apple products. And I don’t have a PC. And, for those of you who can never remember to charge the battery in your bike, you won’t like this part: now you have to charge your jacket, too.
Skies are clearing and the forest behind my house glows iridescently in spring’s vibrant greens. I’m almost ready to go. I swap my regular jeans for Kevlar-reinforced riding jeans, grab my gloves and my go-to helmet for general street riding (Shoei Neotec), and hit the road. But something’s wrong. The Ducati is making unfamiliar noises, like it’s coming apart. I pull to the side of the road, take my helmet off, and just as I’m about to take the fairing panels off it hits me. I forgot my earplugs. I head back to the house and find the earplugs, eventually, in the glovebox of the Jeep. I look at the clock. It’s 11:45. Nearly lunchtime. While I’m eating it begins to rain. Heavily. This wasn’t in the forecast. I roll the bike back into the shed. My first ride of the season totals 1.7 miles. Someday I’ll get this first ride thing figured out. Maybe.