December, 1998

In Vermont this year, the snow comes early in November, and the riding season shuts down. It’s seldom the cold alone that stops us, what with full fairings, heated grips, insulated gloves, and electric clothing to keep the body warm. It’s always the ice against which we have no defenses since nothing short of big spiked tires keeps you up, and they’re illegal. One weekend it’s in the forties and sunny, and the club is riding for Saturday breakfast. The next weekend there’s a foot of snow on the frozen ground and ice in the highway corners. The guys meet at Lester’s anyway, driving Fords, Chevys, and Jeeps, but breakfast isn’t the same. That’s when the dreaming begins.

Since shoveling out the driveway earlier this morning, I’ve already been out to the garage three times: once to dust the windshield, again to check if the charger’s working, and yet again straighten out the fuzzy gray blanket covering the sleek red plastic, the bulging bags, and the upswept silencer of the K1200. Even sitting still, under wraps, motorcycles, look fast, inspire dreams.

It’s never the same, at least for me, with automobiles--even when I owned the Porsche 914 or now with the ’88 Saab turbo. I don’t go out to the garage to stare at cars. While some cars are fast, few are fantasy fast. While four wheels may corner with confidence, they don’t lean you over at dreamspeed. And while sitting inside a car is nice, sitting astride a motorcycle is something else altogether. It’s also possible that I’m less inspired by four-wheeled vehicles because they are more common, and anyone can drive them. I see hundreds of Japanese five-speeds and thousands of American automatics in the A&P parking lot, but even at high summer I count the motorcycles on one hand.

What follows is especially hard to admit—especially today--but earlier this fall, long before dream season, my windshield was already collecting dust. In perfectly good riding weather—overcast, maybe forty-fifty degrees—I often found myself hopping in the pick-up for short grocery runs or six-mile commutes to the university. In states like Vermont, with helmet laws, and in cool weather, cars are always easier. Everything about riding a motorcycle—except accelerating—takes more time, from selecting jackets and finding boots to buckling helmets, pulling on gloves, and planning storage. Truth is, you hop in the Toyota for a loaf of bread or get to work, and you don’t even think about getting there.

Thinking about getting there. Aye, there’s the real rub, the real reason my new sleek red machine stays too long in the garage. To go anywhere at all on a motorcycle, you need to think, at all times, about getting there. When you drive a four-wheeled vehicle in a thoughtless, witless, or distracted manner, you still survive (millions do it daily). But if you drive your two- wheeled vehicle in a thoughtless, witless, or distracted manner, you don’t live long: you watch for left-turners, lane hoppers, tailgaters, hot-doggers, phone-talkers, pedestrians, stray dogs, pot holes, gravel, and scarified pavement (motorcycles use caution) because they all can hurt you bad. When an exhilarating but demanding ride is an everyday option—as it is May through October--sometimes I simply choose to drive lazy.

But right now, looking once again at my quiet still machine, driving lazy is unthinkable. Never again, I tell myself, will I prefer easy driving when edgy riding is still possible. Deprived of the option of riding, however, I have no choice but to invent my own reality. Last winter my dreams began with K1200 rumors. This winter they begin with K1200 reality. But, in truth, the dreams really don’t change all the much, winter to winter:

After these last seventeen years of living passionately with motorcycles, however, I already know that summer roads don’t equal winter dreams—which is fine with me. Motorcycling, like all passions, fills all the spaces: the riding, the remembering, the anticipating, the dreaming.

The lesson here? That maybe writing is just another way of winter dreaming.