Up here in the north, spring can be described by any number of clichés. Every spring drags its heels, it’s true. But this spring has given up the ghost, packed it in, called it a day and gone AWOL. Today, the 25th of April, began with a howling windstorm that tossed in driving rain. The temperature has reluctantly climbed to 35 degrees, though my weather app cautions that if you incorporate the wind-chill, it’s an even less pleasant 26 degrees. It dipped below freezing last night. The pond has ice. And the ski hill out the window will be snow-covered deep into May. I’d gleefully swap my (ravaged) kingdom for a few 55-degree days to get work done so that when that sun reappears, and the mercury surges to a tropical 65 degrees, I’ll be ready to ride.
Last fall the old Ducati developed a miscommunication between the starter motor and the motor itself. The sprag clutch was the culprit. Like any surgeon worth their salt, I have my tools and parts neatly arranged on the workbench. All I need is a few extra degrees of temperature and a free Saturday to get it back on the road. The free Saturday I can manage. Temperature is out of my hands.
Poised, as I am, in the starting blocks, I’ve been relegated to pondering my first ride. And it struck me, while soaking in a soothing sea-salt bath, that invigorating roads play but a small part in my riding plans. And here I’ve always thought roads and coffee shops, in that order, were the beginning and end of the factors that determine my route. Not so.
When I leave my driveway, I turn right. Always right. If I go left I must pass an abomination of a house on my street built overtop the bulldozed ghost of what had been an exquisitely-maintained 1940s cottage. On a street with older cottages and modest bungalows nestled amongst mature trees, the monster home with its golf-course-groomed yard is laughably at odds with the surroundings. A Burger King would be less glaring. But turn right and it’s out of my sight.
Three or four miles down the road I have another grave decision to make. If I turn right it’s a challenging six-mile uphill sprint that ends on a plateau that doesn’t go anywhere of interest. Sometimes I race up the hill then unravel back down to the bottom. This has always bothered me. Retracing my route, especially so early in a ride, is unwelcome repetition. Like a duplicated sentence in a story. Like a duplicated sentence in a story.
Fortunately, I’ve been able to replace the route that goes nowhere with a recently paved road up a very steep hill. The road is straight, but approached at speed the dips and crests allow my stomach to sink down to my knees then rise to my throat. Oddly, I enjoy this sensation, yet when it happens in an airplane I’ve been known to death-grip the armrests. But the best part of the climb is ascending into the cool, thin air as I rise. In the summer the break from the heat is a joy. In the spring and the fall the pleasure is inverted—the unwelcome cool at higher elevations is merely a precursor to the welcome warmth when I fall back down into the valley. It’s just like sinking into a bath. Hold the sea salts.
This newly repaved road allows me to bypass the Hillbilly Whitehouse, a towering home that eerily echoes the president’s digs. That is if the DC version of the Whitehouse exchanged its security detail and helicopter landing pad for a mad arrangement of bizarre cars. Like a mid-’80s Cadillac body on top of a four-wheel-drive truck chassis. And a Plymouth Volare with the rack from a buck jammed into its roof. At any one time there are a dozen cars parked in the circular drive, each one as head-scratching as the next.
Next up is a hamlet and a conundrum. And one of the best views in the region. Hills roll down into a village with a 150-year-old sawmill. The smell of cut wood is intoxicatingly glorious. The conundrum comes at the sole intersection in town. Do I turn right and chase high-speed sweepers to the south, or do I turn left and wind along next to a stream on a road with fresh pavement? Each road has its merits. Each its drawbacks. Lately the road to the right has gained favor, despite the road to the left’s new pavement. The reason? A new owner of an old farmhouse has begun stuffing the barn—which sits alongside the road—with interesting stuff. Like a black and gold Lotus Europa, a car so diminutive it makes a Smart Car appear as imposing as an Escalade. He also has a Porsche tractor and a Lamborghini tractor. But no motorcycles. At least none I can see when I roll past at a crawl with my neck stretched-out onto his property. If something should disappear from his barn, they’ll certainly come looking for the guy who’s perpetually checking out the goods.
By now it’s time for coffee. But it’s not that simple. The closest coffee shop has proper espresso and the menu offers an equally proper Cubano sandwich. With pickles. If it doesn’t have pickles, it’s not a Cubano. But when I hit this coffee shop it’s always too early for lunch. The restaurant an hour away has good coffee, too, but a lackluster lunch menu. Last year I hatched and executed a plan to perfection—make that near perfection.
At the next coffee shop, the one with the good coffee and weak sandwiches, I ordered a cortado—espresso “stained” with milk—and sat out back under a tree. I pulled the Cubano out of my pocket and had lunch. Just then three couples on three bikes pulled in and parked next to me. In unison the six of them spotted my Cubano and noisily agreed they were each going to order one. I attempted to clarify, to say that the sandwich came from another restaurant, but I had a mouthful of food and felt more than a little sheepish for eating food from another restaurant in the parking lot of this restaurant. I did the only sensible thing—wolfed down the rest of the Cubano and split before the couples returned.
I won’t know where my first ride of the season will take me until I’m well into it. I’ll stop at intersections, look down the road in either direction, and wait for the pull. That indescribable emotional tug that causes you to choose one direction over the other. And all the while I’ll taste the sweetly sharp bite of the pickle that rests inside the sandwich in my pocket—but this year, to show a little class, I’ll cross the road from the café and eat my sandwich and drink my coffee in the park. By myself. In full view of a cafe full of motorcyclists. Like any other oddball.
