The S2R Outside of Lake Skinner
The sky is bleeding clouds on a dark, dank day as the engine disengages. One quick kick of the kickstand — and it dies completely.
Then all that’s left is the silence. And the ritual.
Letting the clutch out, I lean the bike over, twist the key and slide off and out of the saddle. Seconds later, I’m un-velcroing the gloves, loosening the helmet and unzipping my jacket.
It’s a combination of connected movements that I’ve now done thousands of times, on a whole mess of different machinery, all over the country and the world, without thinking about and yet today, I’m conscious of each and every step.
The order and the process. The A that gets to the B that takes you to C. And so on.
It’s a well-worn practice – a part of the riding experience that happens each and every ride, even on trackdays, and in a strange way there’s almost a comfort to the rhythm. To the execution.
And yet today there is something missing.
Mentally, I start checking and re-checking that internal to-do list that every rider has when they climb off of their bike during a ride.
Taking a breath, I stare out to the East; through the weeds in the fields, above the rolling hills that almost shimmer in the light breeze, and up and over the not-so-distant mountains, which look decidedly muted under such a dark, black, virtueless sky.
The menacing color palette feels haunting. It looks evil and nasty and so damn turbulent.
Yet the ****** weather on the horizon that’s quickly approaching doesn’t even faze me… Instead, my mind seems stuck on what’s been forgotten.
Swinging my head around, I glance westward, expecting to see something brighter, but it’s just a lighter shade of gloomy.
Looking back at the bike, my hands start to fidget just a bit as a thought crosses my mind and I shutter.
This coming Monday will start my 11th week without a smoke.
Unlike previous attempts to quit, this time around has been surprisingly easy with the exception of a few crazed days.
Expect for right now.
In my book, few things in life pair as well as smokes and sportbikes. They are remarkably complimentary if not opposed activities — The long, slow introspective drag of a smoke perfectly counter-balancing the heart-pounding core-human enthusiasm you feel after a jaunt down a decidedly curvy road that you just conquered. For practically the last decade, the combination of these two elements has been the means by which I’ve experienced life.
But not anymore.
Now, I find myself standing next to the bike, looking out at the foul weather that’s coming my way and thinking, it’s time to get back on the road.
Introspection will have to wait. It’s time to ride.
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