TeeCat
One-Mik Wonder
I have. Normally, I tend to eschew any kind of attention - I prefer being in the background - but I also appreciate the occasional payoffs that come from working hard on something over a period of time, so I confess that yesterday afternoon's events actually sent chills of (unabashed) pride up my spine.
I took the '73 out yesterday afternoon, after work, for about an hour. It was a storybook late summer afternoon, and I had just re-gapped my plugs and had not had her out for a couple of weeks due to dodgy weather and other commitments. She can be a bit of a "diva" with first gear at times, but other than that, she was running just famously, which seems to be a welcome trend. We seem to be bonding these days. I was having the kind of little ride that I have been dreaming about since I bought her as a leaky, smelly, non-running paperweight almost exactly four years ago.
I had been first at a light that I'd had a spot of bother getting away from because I had not been firm enough with first gear, but once I pulled away, I brought her up through fourth on the secondary road, and stayed there before downshifting for the next traffic light, her characteristic deceleration grumble issuing from the dual ascot shorties, and an almost feline snarl accompanying each between-gear throttle blip. Rolling to a stop, I put my engineer boots down and waited for the green behind several cars as my bike settled to a lopey, slightly impatient warm idle of about 1300 rpm. At the green, I blipped the throttle and nudged her through the right turn onto the cross-street, and settled into third, as the speed limit is only 30 mph. My bike's clubman bars put me in a moderate forward lean, so on low-speed roads with light traffic, I'll sometimes rest my left hand on my left thigh, which I did as my bike maintained a steady, symmetrical rumble until we decelerated for the next light.
I had noticed that the same 90's Ford Ranger that was behind me at the first and second lights was still present, but as I put my boots down at the third, the little pickup came around me in the left turn lane, and I could have bet on the horn toot as it went by. I could not see the driver, but I have a feeling that my '73 and I had given him or her a few nostalgic moments to archive for occasional future enjoyment.
But the encore began when I coaxed her out onto Rt. 40, two 45 mph strips of two-lane macadam divided by a grassy median, that bisects the business district. It's punctuated by the obligatory traffic lights, but even late in the day, there is room enough between them to roll on the throttle hard enough to get pushed back against the bumstop before you have to gear down again. Before the first light, I could see the two guys - obviously tradesmen who likely appreciated mechanical bits - in a utilitarian Ford F150, pulling out of an adjacent parking lot. There was eye contact, but it wasn't a "Meh... never mind... it ain't a Harley" leer... but more of a "Hey... what's this, then?" sort of visual query. By then, the '73 was grousing impolitely up to the light, and the F150 rolled up on my left and stopped just to my quarter. It stayed in the same relative position as we left the light and I came up through the first four as briskly as close-of-business traffic would allow. I had to keep my eyes on the road, but in my bike's bar-ends, I occasionally glimpsed weathered smiles as I would squeeze her a little hard - I don't have to tell any of you what a fairly healthy medium-displacement vertical twin sounds like as she blusters querulously through shorty ascots - and then roll off a tad, with her fulminating impatiently at the vehicle in front of us. Finally, as I made the next right turn onto my intended cross-street, a beefy right hand - fingers spread in satisfied salutation - came out of the Ford's passenger window as we parted ways.
And there were those chills again. Those vibes. But that particular variety of resonance is only partially the result of the spin of a crank, or the rise and fall of pistons. More than that, it's the product of a goal, informed persistent effort, and the committed patience of generous, like-minded people who want you to succeed as much as you do. Ultimately, none of us really ever ride solo. And our successes are never singularly ours. Wherever you take your bike... wherever she takes you... someone who once taught you something is always sitting pillion. Always.
TC
I took the '73 out yesterday afternoon, after work, for about an hour. It was a storybook late summer afternoon, and I had just re-gapped my plugs and had not had her out for a couple of weeks due to dodgy weather and other commitments. She can be a bit of a "diva" with first gear at times, but other than that, she was running just famously, which seems to be a welcome trend. We seem to be bonding these days. I was having the kind of little ride that I have been dreaming about since I bought her as a leaky, smelly, non-running paperweight almost exactly four years ago.
I had been first at a light that I'd had a spot of bother getting away from because I had not been firm enough with first gear, but once I pulled away, I brought her up through fourth on the secondary road, and stayed there before downshifting for the next traffic light, her characteristic deceleration grumble issuing from the dual ascot shorties, and an almost feline snarl accompanying each between-gear throttle blip. Rolling to a stop, I put my engineer boots down and waited for the green behind several cars as my bike settled to a lopey, slightly impatient warm idle of about 1300 rpm. At the green, I blipped the throttle and nudged her through the right turn onto the cross-street, and settled into third, as the speed limit is only 30 mph. My bike's clubman bars put me in a moderate forward lean, so on low-speed roads with light traffic, I'll sometimes rest my left hand on my left thigh, which I did as my bike maintained a steady, symmetrical rumble until we decelerated for the next light.
I had noticed that the same 90's Ford Ranger that was behind me at the first and second lights was still present, but as I put my boots down at the third, the little pickup came around me in the left turn lane, and I could have bet on the horn toot as it went by. I could not see the driver, but I have a feeling that my '73 and I had given him or her a few nostalgic moments to archive for occasional future enjoyment.
But the encore began when I coaxed her out onto Rt. 40, two 45 mph strips of two-lane macadam divided by a grassy median, that bisects the business district. It's punctuated by the obligatory traffic lights, but even late in the day, there is room enough between them to roll on the throttle hard enough to get pushed back against the bumstop before you have to gear down again. Before the first light, I could see the two guys - obviously tradesmen who likely appreciated mechanical bits - in a utilitarian Ford F150, pulling out of an adjacent parking lot. There was eye contact, but it wasn't a "Meh... never mind... it ain't a Harley" leer... but more of a "Hey... what's this, then?" sort of visual query. By then, the '73 was grousing impolitely up to the light, and the F150 rolled up on my left and stopped just to my quarter. It stayed in the same relative position as we left the light and I came up through the first four as briskly as close-of-business traffic would allow. I had to keep my eyes on the road, but in my bike's bar-ends, I occasionally glimpsed weathered smiles as I would squeeze her a little hard - I don't have to tell any of you what a fairly healthy medium-displacement vertical twin sounds like as she blusters querulously through shorty ascots - and then roll off a tad, with her fulminating impatiently at the vehicle in front of us. Finally, as I made the next right turn onto my intended cross-street, a beefy right hand - fingers spread in satisfied salutation - came out of the Ford's passenger window as we parted ways.
And there were those chills again. Those vibes. But that particular variety of resonance is only partially the result of the spin of a crank, or the rise and fall of pistons. More than that, it's the product of a goal, informed persistent effort, and the committed patience of generous, like-minded people who want you to succeed as much as you do. Ultimately, none of us really ever ride solo. And our successes are never singularly ours. Wherever you take your bike... wherever she takes you... someone who once taught you something is always sitting pillion. Always.
TC
