No Surrender

It came the way it always does, perhaps a bit earlier than usual. Sometimes it creeps up slowly and takes you by surprise. Other times it smacks you right between the eyes. I speak of the dreaded Fall Into Winter Temps.

For some of you, this may not be a lament. I know many folk who revel in the crisp, crackling smells of the outdoors when the leaves turn to orange and red and the 'frost is on the pumpkin' as they say. For you, the winter brings the joy of trips to the ski slopes, travels on the snowmobile or trekking through pristine woods as you shoosh on your cross-country skis. Well, goody-goody for you.

Right around the middle of September, I start feeling the same dread. It starts with the run to the pennant. For all you non-ball and stick people, that's baseball talk. If you've been reading this magazine for any length of time, you'll know that Backroads Central bleeds blue and orange, and we pretty much bled out this year. Right down to the wire, same as last year, but there was no baseball to be seen in the month of October for us. The beginning of the end.

Then the evenings get longer and longer, and the temperatures begin to dip past where it's still comfortable to sleep with the windows open. I walk past the thermostat and give it angry glares while it taunts me to flip the switch. I learned growing up that you should not give in to the cold. Dad always said, "If you're cold, just put on a sweater." Perhaps that's why I despise the Michelin Man so; he simply reminds me of the layers upon layers it took to keep warm. But inevitably, Brian will pose the question, "Is it time yet?" When even the cats are sitting huddled together for warmth, I suppose it is, and on goes the heat.

Similarly, I go kicking and scratching to the closet to pull out my heated gear. Mind you, I truly appreciate the all-over cozy feeling when I turn the knob and the electrics pulse around my body, warming me to the core. It's the principle I detest. No surrender. The thought of leaving Summer behind to face the long, dark nights and, worse, ice and snow, puts me in an annual funk.

When I ride, I like the fluidity of movement, the ability to shift and slide around on the bike when needed. When the needle points to 40°, and I can barely put my hand around the throttle because my gloves are too thick, I throw in the towel. Every year we tell fellow riders about the Crotona Midnight Run put on by the Ramapo Motorcycle Club and every year one of their members will ask if we'll be attending. I hope, after reading this, you'll realize that there is NO WAY IN HELL (said with a smile on my face) I will ever be a part of that run. More power to all of you who perservere, but that ain't my cup of tea.

There are certainly a few things that I look forward to when the days get shorter and the nights longer. Indian Summer, for instance. The return of pumpkin and peppermint ice cream to Dairy Queen (before they close for the winter). I do like sitting around a good bonfire, wrapped in a toasty parka, roasting marshmallows, while my nose turns to an ice cube. And of course there is always the New York Motorcycle Show. Seeing the faces of those sequestered due to the lack of riding time. Planning the rides for next season over a bottle of wine or three (I certainly understand why there is so much drinking done in Alaska or the Scandinavian countries).

That's okay, don't worry about me, I'll be fine. I'll take my Melatonin and search the internet for warm, sunny places to go. I'll go to the barn and sit on my bikes and make sure the Battery Tender is working, just in case that over 50° day in January appears. And I'll mark the days on the calendar until pitchers and catchers return. Then I'll know that I can breathe a sigh of relief, as the days get longer and the return of Spring is around the bend.