I woke up on Saturday with the idea of spending the weekend on my bike.  I rolled over, peered through the blinds and saw a beautiful morning outside.  The sky was cloudless and there were a million birds in the yard.  It looked like the Winter was finally over and Spring was here a little early.

I sprung from my bed and ran downstairs like a kid on Christmas.  It's beautiful outside, I thought; beautiful for riding.  I walked into the kitchen to check the thermometer and it read...19° F.  With that, my dream of riding on Saturday lay smashed and broken at my feet.  Disgusted, I sauntered back to my bed.

Sunday started the same way: a beautiful morning and thoughts of riding.  This morning, I went downstairs with a bit less verve.  I expected to be greeted with low temps again.  To my surprise, the thermometer read 41° F.  In other words, riding temps!

In a much brighter mood, I downed my breakfast (Cocoa Krispies) and grabbed my gear.  I was halfway out the door when I realized I didn't brush my teeth, which was very gross.  Okay, teeth brushed, now I can ride.

I wheeled my bike into position, put my helmet liner and helmet on, hit the starter button...and nothing happened.  My Bonneville's battery was stone dead.  Okay, no big deal.  I took the seat off, hooked up the charger and proceeded to wait.  A few minutes later I thumbed the starter button and life happened.

My British twin roared to life, igniting a grin across my face.  I threw on the rest of my gear and headed out on the roads of my native land.

I chose a longer route than I normally do, taking advantage of a beautiful morning and an empty schedule.  I hit some back roads, rode past the Shippingport Atomic Power Station, did a bit of superslab, and then hit some more back roads.  In all, it was a glorious return after a long, cold Winter.

And it wasn't without some excitement; excitement other than running the bike up through the gears, of course.  I was on my favorite back road, totally in the zone.  It was horse and rider as one.  There was no one in front of me and I was just going.  Everything was perfect: accelerating, braking, downshifting, and cornering.  I felt like Barry Sheene, Wes Cooley, Wayne Rainey; any pro rider you can think of.  

I had just dispatched a set of corners and was cresting a small rise when I was met with a 'Road Closed' sign on the other side.  It was all I could do to keep from slamming into the signs and the Mazda Tribute turning from a side street.  I grabbed as much brake as I could, whipped the bike onto the side street and rode on pretending I didn't just cock up.  It was definitely a butt-clenching moment.  

A ways up that side street I came to a stop sign next to a golf course.  To make myself feel better, I thought I'd annoy the golfers.  When the one golfer was set to make his tee shot, I revved the bike and disrupted his concentration.  I did this about three times until I was met with words I can't repeat from the golfers.  I smiled at them and rode away laughing.

After a month or so with no riding and a season of sporadic rides, it was nice to spend a few hours in the saddle.  It was nice to be reminded how much fun it is to ride a bike.  Blasting down a back road in a poor grand prix rider impression is fun but then riding a bike anywhere is fun. 

And annoying those golfers was fun, too.