Snow Day

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey

I looked out the window, as I am wont to do these days when time is hanging especially heavy on my hands. The sky was cloudy and those big, heavy flakes that characterize the Great Lakes Snow Machine were pouring out of the sky, piling up on the ground and giving familiar objects in the distance the soft, hazy look of a Japanese watercolor. The wind gusted, rattling the shutters and temporarily changing the trajectory of the snow from vertical to horizontal. I turned away from the window and put another log on the fire, trying to ignore the spasm of a restless spirit.

Looking into the flames, hungrily licking the new wood, my mind began to wander. Instead of the dreariness of mid-winter, my mind's eye began to see a blurred white line, tracing a ribbon of sun-splashed asphalt bisecting the cathedral-like splendor of a Pennsylvania forest. I made a sudden, perhaps rash decision. I left the warmth of the living room and headed for the back door, pausing to pull on a pair of snow boots, heavy coat, gloves, and cap. I mumbled to my long-suffering wife that I was going to the garage. She looked at me and smiled slightly. No one knows my moods like this remarkable woman. I walked out the back door, ignoring the wide-eyed questioning looks of our two cats. Committed outdoor denizens that they are, even they were staying indoors today. I trudged through the fresh snowfall across the short space between the house and the garage, entered the building and shook the snow off my coat.

The garage was utterly quiet, and in the silence I could almost hear the raspy whisper of the snowfall through the roof and walls. With a sharp click, the hum of fluorescent lights replaced the silence and bright light dispelled the winter gloom. And there, standing patiently and faithfully was my motorcycle. Ostensibly, my purpose was to crank the engine over, run the bike through the gears, charge the battery, and accomplish those necessary things that keep the essence of life in an otherwise moribund piece of machinery. But on this day, when my mid-winter blues were deepened by the grim weather, I felt a deeper need, one that sprang from deep within me. I opened both garage doors for ventilation and swung my leg over the seat, a movement made awkward by heavy clothes and boots. With a small sense of drama, I pulled the choke and inserted and turned the key. The instrument panel flashed its colorful lights and the garage was further lit by the bike's powerful headlamp. My thumb came forward on the starter switch and the slow, labored sound of a starter left alone too long issued from the bike. It took a couple of tries, but the engine finally caught with a satisfying throaty roar. Breathing a relieved sigh, I leaned back in the seat, enjoying the sensation of a live bike underneath me.

I closed my eyes, and the memories came flooding back. My bike and I have traveled far together, over 70,000 miles. I remembered the cold mornings in Missouri riding the 35 miles to work, gutting out the 25-degree cold, seeking comfort from the promise of a glorious ride home that afternoon. There were the hot summers, days so oppressive that it had been necessary for me to wet down my clothes with cool water before venturing out in the heat and humidity. Those terrific weekend days when the honey-do list was complete and SWMBO released me to the thrill of my favorite roads. I thought of the springtime rides, when I was deep in route planning for hosting the Winelander Ride, how marvelous it was to smell the scent of new flowers and the rich aroma of freshly turned earth; to see the trees budding out, and the wonderful feeling of the sun, warm upon my shoulders.

Then there were the trips.

The marvelous blue of Lake Superior came to my mind's eye, and that day when I pulled off Route 61 just south of the Canadian border at Grand Portage and spent time lounging on the bike and gazing across the lake, simply because I had nowhere to be and all the time in the world to get there. A similar moment in the desert of southwest New Mexico, where the bike and I were completely alone, surrounded by the stark beauty of the southwest, where the only sound I heard was that of the restless desert wind. I thought about the imposing glory of the Colorado Rockies, the twisting paths through the Ozarks, and the cool beauty of the deeply forested Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.

I pushed the choke lever back in and listened as the motor slowed to its familiar steady beat.

My thoughts went back to the 4-year-old boy in Tombstone, Arizona and how big his eyes got when his father lifted his small body onto the saddle of this very big machine. I especially remembered the broad smile when I started the engine and showed him how the work the throttle. I remembered the look of thanks he gave me afterwards and the look of longing in his eyes as his father led him back to their truck. Knowing exactly how he felt, I recalled something I had written one time to a friend, trying to explain the exact nature of the connection I felt with this marvelous piece of technology:

"You may own the machine, but the machine possesses you."

I leaned forward, wrapping my fingers around the handgrips. I looked out through the windshield into the heavy snow falling just outside the big door, but by closing my eyes, the view was replaced by a procession of roads where I had discovered just how intensely joyful life could be. Route A between Loose Creek and Bonnots Mill, Missouri; Route 13 just south of Roswell, New Mexico; Route 125 between Sparta and Protem in the Missouri Ozarks; US54 from Kingman to Liberal, Kansas, where the only high-rises were grain elevators, and the only company were herds of cattle. Highway 72, climbing the mountains from Black Hawk to Estes Park; and the thrill of discovering new adventures while learning the roads in my new home of Pennsylvania. I thought of the friendships that had flowed to me because of this bike. People with warm smiles and big hearts. How wonderful it was to know that just seeing someone else with a motorcycle practically guaranteed the acquisition of another good friend. And especially how those friendships had sustained me through the years.

The relationship between a man and his machine is not just about the moment. It is a storehouse of memories, made sweet by their recollection; it is about the anticipation of the days ahead, the joys that when experienced to their fullest, add to the treasure trove of golden memories to be recalled and relived at any time, the joy of those times rekindled. Reluctantly, I shut off the engine. The sound ebbed away; the lights went dark, bringing the winter gloom back with full force. Somehow, though, it was different now.

I waited for a few more minutes, giving the exhaust time to waft clear of the garage. I then swung off the bike, closed the doors, killed the lights and went back through the snow to the house. Once inside, I pulled off my gear and wandered back to the living room. My wife looked up, smiled, and said, "How was the ride?" "Great!" I replied. I sat down in the chair and looked into the glow of the fireplace. I knew the restlessness would be back, but for a few brief moments in the dark of a winter's eve, the light had shown again.

I was alive once more.