RockMoto

It’s the middle of winter and I am recently returned from the motorcycle shows in DC and NYC. Ground zero for Snowmageddon 2010 and not far north of it.

A good thing, too, because I - hate - the - effing - cold.

To motorcyclists who continue to ride while the temps are in the 30s and below, I respectfully take my helmet off. Just not the cozy fleece balaclava underneath. And, indeed, there were many intrepid types who actually took their bikes to the convention centers in Washington and Manhattan. Granted, I was told that we were lucky to be going through the traditional "winter thaw" right at that time. But still.

Having been born and raised in California, where sunshine is both a religion and an entitlement, I am a desert rat, happy to bake, roast and sweat. A lot. I think it’s good for ya.

So, back home in SoCal, as news reports came in regarding 50 feet of snow throughout the Mid-Atlantic states, I smiled broadly as my thermostatically controlled garage roof fan switched on. It was too warm inside and it needed to vent. I smiled, too, as I pedaled my bicycle, wearing only a thin jersey and one skimpy base layer beneath. I smiled thinking about an upcoming backroad motorcycle ride and I smiled about the Basic RiderCourse I’ll be coaching next weekend. All made possible by the kind of global warming you can get behind.

The call of motorcycling is hard to ignore, and I understand how my Eastern two-wheeling brothers and sisters decide to just get on with it and ride. Multiple layers. Anti-fog. Electrified this and that. Whatever it takes to get a winter fix.

Some riders even enjoy it, or say so anyway. Well, some strange folks pay good money to huddle around a field of frozen tundra and watch the Green Bay Packers play, too. Some people like ice fishing. Some do that polar bear routine, diving in a lake or wading into the ocean and flopping around like a Titanic survivor. That kind of behavior couldn’t save the doomed ocean liner, but if it floats your personal boat, fine. Be my guest.

I’ve twice crashed because of the cold. Or, rather, because of my failure to adapt to the cold. Once, my not accounting for insufficient tire temperatures (tire warmers hadn’t been invented yet, ahem) and a downhill left-turn put me on the racetrack deck so fast it appeared that gravity’s pull had been turned up to 11 at that particular spot. It broke the GSX-R’s cases and much more. Another time, rising early to beat traffic, my fingers and feet became so numb that I had zero feel for the brakes, the cold tires and the limited traction, and down I went, badly scratching up a previously beautiful Italian machine.
 

So, I was a very mixed bag when duty called late last year and I was required to ride up above 5,000 feet and beyond the seasonal snow line, out in the wilderness of Moab, Utah, all for a magazine shoot. Honda CRF250X? Wonderful, two-wheel off-road magic. Dusting of blinding, pristine snow on iron-rich rock and sand? Lovely, yes, like icing on a red velvet cake. White roost? Hey, never done that before! But…never-ending shivering? Like a hairless Chihuahua? My limbs should never be involuntarily moving in such a way. Nose? Wet and sloppy, like that on a neighbor’s Labrador? Such an appendage - oozing and runny, turned upside down and located directly above one’s mouth - is I think a serious challenge to any notion of "intelligent design."

And much like a clammy stray dog coming in from the cold, I was most happy to be back at the - actual - ranch, where I could back myself up to the fireplace and warm my core to a temperature approximating that of the prime rib being served before me.

I salute you, plugged-in, Aerostich-equipped, die-hard winter riders. Saving money, saving parking spaces, saving fossil fuels, reducing traffic congestion - if not nasal congestion - and doing all the good things that motorcyclists do. All while enjoying it.

Warm wishes. - Ty