by Mike Vachon
Rochester, NH

It's the dregs of winter. Spring is only a scant few weeks away, but the gloom has settled in around my psyche. I've reached the depths of what I refer to as 'motorcycle withdrawal syndrome'. No amount of accessory shopping or showroom browsing can seem to revive my spirit. Ah, such is the price to pay for being a New England resident, a dweller of the nether reaches of the Northeast. Our riding season begins with the first shoots of green grass and dies off at the approach of the killing frost. An eternal cycle for us cycle lovers! Although the riding season can be up to seven months long, it seems all too short.

Somewhere between March and April, the streets will shed their winter mantle of road salt and loose gravel, and I am beckoned back to the open roads by returning songbirds and renewed greening of the landscape. Until late September or early October, when the sun begins to ride lower on the horizon, I, as a New England biker, can enjoy many a bright clear day of riding in a variety of surroundings. The mountains, the lakes, the seashore, are all within easy reach from my starting point.

Sure, there are the odd days in November, or even in December, when the thermometer makes a short run for the 60 degree mark. There are a small number of riders who scheme for such conditions and are quick to get out on their mounts on those relatively warmer days. I have to admit to doing this, even though it somehow feels unnatural. First, there are the quizzical looks from the operators of those enclosed vehicles. It's like seeing a polar bear in downtown Phoenix! Then there is the landscape itself. The once inviting vistas of the mountains and the welcoming roll of the ocean waves have been transformed into an almost alien appearance. Entire ridges become defoliated and stark looking. The ocean turns darker and the once refreshing sea breeze is now bitingly cold. Something is definitely lacking in the experience. Add to that the necessity of wrapping up in untold layers of warm clothing and the enjoyment factor falls almost as quickly as the thermometer.

During this time, the bike itself is placed into a forced hibernation, a strange state of suspended animation. The bike was built to move, to transport; but, for the duration of winter, it must patiently await the turn of the season. Winter is when I mentally plan all those tasks that seemed so important to keep my ride in top condition. All during the summer, I've carefully noted any motorcycle adjustment or modification (beyond scheduled maintenance) that would take too much time away from the limited riding season, and could wait until the 'downtime'. Of course, I said mentally plan; a step away from actual performance of said tasks. The garage is unheated and also uninviting, as the tools have a tendency to stick to your flesh when they get cold enough! I put off the tasks until March.

So now I sit, trying to revive the fleeting moments of June, July, and August when I was out enjoying the open road. A few snippets float back to me: cresting Lincoln Gap in Vermont; the view of Lake Gorge from Prospect Mountain; that great stretch of winding Rte. 107, north of Barnstead, NH; and I'll never forget Niagara Falls. But the rest of last year's riding season has faded, even though I rolled out almost 17,000 miles [my highest mileage season to date]. The riding recollections, pictures and all, only begin to antagonize me, adding to my yearning to get back out there.

Watching the calendar is also a form of torture; all those days grouped into a bunch of tiny squares. I'm looking at February and more than half of those squares have been accounted for. The rest seem like such a small hurdle, but I know better. In a Herculean effort, I resort to the tactic used by most of us riders shut in by the winter season: plan an extended motorcycle trip for next summer! Fortunately, I'm very experienced in this area. Why, I remember quite vividly some of the trips I planned in previous winters, like that ride to Nova Scotia and a late season run to the Smokey Mountains. The brochures and maps were obtained with ease and that new road mapping software works quite well. Of course I never actually did those rides, so I guess I can use them for this winter's planning purposes. Somehow, recycling of trip plans reduces the effectiveness of this remedy.

Last year, I successfully battled my winter blues by planning a new bike purchase. A leftover Valkyrie Interstate became the object of my affections. The bold black and red color combination was certainly a stunner. My '81 'Wing had obtained the lofty 100,000 mile mark and after faithfully serving me for the past 13 years, I felt it was time to move on. That off-season was consumed with planning finances, seeking out a buyer for my previous ride and learning as much as possible about the Interstate. On March 30th, I took delivery of the new Honda. That winter passed almost without notice. Unfortunately, this is not something I'm willing, or able to do every year! That is truly a case of the cure being worse than the disease. A friend is considering buying a new bike this spring, but a vicarious purchase doesn't seem to fill my personal void.

I make the occasional trip out to the garage, and if it's not too cold [at least above freezing] or the snow is not too deep, I'll pull the Valkyrie out of the building to start it up. It's a small consolation, but it helps refresh my memory of how the bike feels and sounds. Alas, I'm still feeling blue. Having considered all my options, I'm reduced to passing the time in mute suffering. I guess I'll just have to sit by this window and await that first songbird or hint of green!

Mike Vachon
Rochester, NH

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