The Motorcyclist in Winter

They say only motorcyclists know why dogs stick their heads out of car windows. Now that the cold and snow of winter have descended upon the Great Lakes, that sensation of the wind buffeting my face and roaring past my ears seems miles away in any direction. All I’m left with is the memory of the throbbing engine shaking my body and spitting out its fat staccato notes to reverberate off whatever’s nearby—concrete medians, cars, trees, glass storefronts.

The bike sits alone in the garage now, narrow black wires leading from the battery and engine to a small black box, which in turn is plugged into an outlet via a 25-foot orange extension cord. A green light on the box indicates the battery is fully charged. A little red light in the shape of a tiny key blinks regularly, like a heartbeat monitor, from the darkness of the speedometer, the only other sign that the bike is still alive. Looking at the bike there in that condition is like watching a lion stare silently out of its cage in a northern zoo; both the bike and the lion are confined and neither is happy about it, but only the lion has a chance to express its displeasure, or possibly change the situation. The bike, and its rider, must wait.

The rider, though, carries memories of better times. This is my first winter as a motorcycle owner and rider. I knew the cold was coming, and with it ice, snow and road salt dust. I not-so-secretly hoped for the odd 40-degree, dry weekend here and there during the winter. It wouldn’t take much, I thought, to justify a quick afternoon ride if the conditions were right: no snow piled up and melting along the streets, no icy patches, no cold rain and no salt dust coating the pavement. So far that combination of factors has proved elusive. Now another round of snow and single-digit temperatures is forecast. It might be March before bike and rider leave the garage together.

I was not prepared for the symptoms of riding withdrawal. They include red eyes from obsessive internet searching during business hours for videos of people riding their motorcycles, itchy legs, reflexive twitching of the right hand and repetitive squeezing of the left hand, exhaustion due to sleep deprivation caused by late-night monitoring of motorcycle chat rooms, hoarseness from screaming at the TV during the weather segment and hypothermia from long hours spent in the unheated garage staring at the bike.

Twice I have sat bolt-upright in the dark silence before dawn, awakened by a nightmare of rolling the bike out and discovering flat spots on the tires because I didn’t move it often enough during the winter. This, even though I’ve moved it several times since my last ride in November.

The motorcycle rider in winter is not a healthy or sane person. The daily disappointment of scanning seven- and 10-day weather forecasts, searching for some glimpse of riding weather in the future, and seeing nothing, takes a toll. As I have become more agitated, some of my senses have become heightened. The sound of snowfall keeps me up at night now. Also, I have found myself lowering my standards. Forty degrees as an acceptable minimum riding temperature slipped to 35, then to 30. Now I think with a long-sleeve Under Armor shirt, a wool sweater, a winter parka, long underwear, two pairs of wool socks, heated gloves, a neck cover and a full-face helmet, I could probably last an hour or so in 25-degree weather. And if I didn’t make it, what the hell? I’d die having scratched the itch one last time. They’d find me on the shoulder of a curvy road somewhere, kickstand down, lying beside the bike, a smile frozen on my blue face.

Ah, bizarre fantasies tonight. What came over me, imagining a thing like that? I would never get off the bike for chrissake.