1-8-09

Back in the saddle again; high speed and chicken wings a go

Six years ago, I bought a Heritage Springer. It’s the only one of Harley’s bikes that looks like the original wartime bikes. I love the old styling of those bikes. The only thing that would make my bike better is if I could find a leather scabbard to strap on the side that would hold a Henry lever action .44 magnum rifle.
I’m digressing already.
Two weeks ago I got a few hours to jump on the homemade saddle that adorns the area between my gas tank and rear fender.
It was a Sunday afternoon. Carolina was playing the Saints and I was waiting for the Dallas / Eagles game to be aired.
My wife and kids were gone for the day and weren’t expected home until about 7 p.m. It was also 70 degrees and sunny.
A perfect day for riding.
The bike hadn’t been started for about two months. This is blasphemy to some people and in some clubs you would be shot and then kicked out right before your patches were confiscated.
Luckily I’m not affiliated with a club and the only patches I wear are sewn into the knees of my jeans.
I opened the garage door, moved a bunch of toys and bicycles that were creating a barricade around the sleeping dragon. I backed the bike out and tried to kick it over.
The green Springer took a minute to start as it almost drained the last bit of life out of the 12 volt battery.
The lights were dimming and the starter was working extra hard to turn over the 88 cubic inch V-Twin engine.
Right before the battery gave out, the flywheel received just enough juice to create combustion that then exited through the exhaust with a cracking roar.
A smile found it’s way to my face as I listened to the rhythm of the pistons exploding the air and fuel mixture inside of the chromed heads.
I strapped on my half helmet, slipped my hands into the fingerless leather gloves and clad my back with a well-worn in black leather jacket that I have had since the eleventh grade.
Straddling the fiberglass and cloth seat and reaching for the grips on the ape hangers, I throttled my way down my dirt driveway.
I was off and free.
All of my worries from the week were slowly being blown away as I motored my way to the awaiting road.
Reaching the edge of N. Williams Road, I creeped out to the double yellow line and brought myself parallel with them.
The engine had been brought to a good temperature so I figured it was safe to twist the throttle back and dump the clutch.
The half-bald rear wheel spun as the bike stayed still. The back end of the bike slid to the right as it started to grab the heated pavement.
If I had a tachometer, I know that it would have been close to red line before I started to move forward.
Second gear was kicked down and quickly behind the third cog in line was engaged. I was moving out and everyone around me knew about it.
Ride it like you stole it !
Jacksonville was my destination. I wanted to take a little ride and then watch the Dallas/Eagles game while eating some quality chicken wings and blue cheese.
I rode for about thirty minutes before I reached Marine Blvd. Traffic was thick with people returning and exchanging Christmas gifts. My stomach was in a hurry to get some greasy bar food.
My bike and I split lanes and worked our way to the front of every red light so that I could be the first off the line.
I decided to roll into Texas Roadhouse. This place has the coldest beer and best wings. Much better than Hooters.
My destination had been found, I made it in time for the game and had a few hours to kill before needing to head back home. However, after an hour and a half, I wanted to get back on the bike and hit the road.
I paid my tab and tipped my green-eyed barmaid. I headed out the door.
The Springer was calling. I had to get back on. As Pee Wee Herman said, “The old highways a call’n.”
This kind of day is why I bought my motorcycle. The freedom of the open road, a wallet chained to my belt with a few dollars in it for a drink and time to myself to wash away any trouble that has perched itself on my shoulders during the past week.
Life is good on the top side of true American iron.
Bryan Pinkey can be reached on the side of the road, probably getting a ticket or at bpinkey@nccox.com.