The internet weather site reported thirty-three degrees this morning. The bank signs displayed thirty and thirty-one. I really don’t know who to believe or whether the difference matters anyway. Tomorrow being the first day of November it is more appropriate than ever to observe that thirty, thirty-one, or thirty-three; it was colder out there than a witch’s mammary unit.

I had decided to try my unlined leather gauntlets with a separate pair of wool glove liners rather than my hard winter TourMaster gloves. My tingling fingertips just a few miles into the ride attested to the poor quality of that decision, but I stayed with them for the sixty mile duration of the trip to work just to be sure I gave it a fair test.

Coming out of Olathe I overtook another rider, somewhat to my surprise. He was wearing a stocking cap and astride what was either a Harley Sportster or a Marauder. I didn’t turn my head far enough to get a clean look through the winter hat as I passed, but the paint was consistent with a stock color of a Marauder. He raised his hand in greeting and I returned the gesture as he rolled right onto the northbound interstate and I continued west.

I wrestled just a bit with whether I should take the two lanes through farm country or run down the flyway into Lawrence. I just couldn’t seem to decide. The two lane path would allow for a more leisurely pace, possibly an advantage on low temperature mornings. Then too, as the ambient temperature declines, the less traveled roads have more of a tendency to gather dew and frost. That shouldn’t be an issue this morning. They do have a bit more rise and fall in their passage over the countryside and this morning those low lying spots were going to be especially frigid. I determined that I would passively allow the situation at the intersection on the west side of town direct my path.

As I approached the red stoplight I eased the dragon into the right turn bypass lane. I saw the left turn arrow go to green, but I was already committed to my lane. It occurred to me that I would actually be rolling sooner going straight, toward the farmland route, unless, of course, I merged into the double laned left turn traffic crossing to my front rather than waiting for them to clear. I merged easily, if not gently, into the passing flow of vehicles and we were on our way down Kansas highway seven.

I can remember not so long ago when I would find it difficult on a brisk morning to maintain a legitimate cruising speed. This was not one of those mornings. I did not travel unreasonably rapidly, but maintained a pace varying between six and ten miles above the PRV, well maybe with a spike or two into the twenty-five mile difference. During the journey to my workplace I was passed but once on the open road.

The transition from hiway seven to Kansas ten is through a clover leaf. The move from north to west runs over hiway ten and through a two hundred seventy degree loop onto the double westbound lanes usually carrying moderately significant traffic early in the morning. Normally I would pick my spot halfway through the loop, just before the traffic disappears behind a protective dirt mound short of the merge zone, but this morning; thank you, standard time; the sun was sitting on road directly where it meets the horizon. The quantity, density, and velocity of the westbound traffic remained something of a blurry mystery.

A pickup truck ahead of me on the ramp seemed to be opting for a most timid merge strategy and increased his determination to do so when a small blue car dove across his front onto the southbound exit. I cleared my mirror, looked over my left shoulder and quickly obtained a place in the right lane. Slightly to my left rear a white cage was, with my current speed, holding a frozen relationship to my position. The left lane ahead was clear and the pickup ahead of me was finally making his move onto the flyway. I flipped on my left directional indicator again, turned my head left to look at the bumper of the cage, rolled on the throttle, and slipped effortlessly into the left lane. Velvet and I were on our way, an integrated part of the west bound river of steel and humanity flowing out of the greater Kansas City area.

A few miles down the road, just past DeSoto, I met a rider on a red sportbike, most likely my son-in-law, Klint. We greeted one another across the median with outstretched left hands. It was the last two wheeler I would see on the road until I pulled into my parking space some forty miles later in Topeka.

The ride into Lawrence was uneventful. We passed a few cages and were given a few incredulous looks. All in all it was a normal run across a stretch of moderately patrolled divided four lane with a regularly ignored seventy mile per hour PRV. Entering the industrial east side of Lawrence I noticed someone’s black cat with white boots was sleeping in the road. I have a black cat. I wondered whether some little girl would be puzzling as to why her wandering pet did not come home tonight. It is not terribly unusual to see wildlife, or rather wild-death, strewn along Hiway Ten, but domesticated fauna are rare. I’ve noticed coyote, skunk, possum, and raccoon; the occasional deer and birds of prey; but I have never seen a cow or horse in the road. I’ve often marveled at the number of skid marks
leading off the road littering even the very straight stretches of that pavement. I have decided that either Hiway Ten is haunted, or people are taking extreme measures to avoid impacting the meandering lower life forms. I don’t. It just doesn’t seem to me to be a prudent risk. I grieve them when they’re gone and I do regret their untimely passing, but I do not sacrifice for them while they yet live.

I opted to cross Lawrence on twenty-third street and the Clinton Parkway. My crossing was stitched by the sight of an SUV, first ahead of me, then behind me, then ahead and behind again. It appeared silver in the shadows, but white in the sunlight. I don’t care much for SUV’s. It seems when someone attempts to take my life, more often than not, it is the pilot of an SUV. I would like to say that I don’t really even care for people who drive SUV’s, but some of my closest friends just don’t know any better.

Crossing Lawrence I noticed that my fingers were longing for some warmth. Oddly, I was more aware of the pain in my left hand, especially when I was stopped at a traffic light and holding the clutch lever. I placed my left hand beneath me on the saddle for a while, but there was no heat to be gained there. I know that one can take measures, technologically advanced means, of providing relief from cold fingers, and I may do that one day, but I’m not there yet. My winter and rain gear is intended to make the elements bearable, not to make me comfortable. If comfort were my goal I would be riding the back seat of a fine limousine. I know it doesn’t make sense to a lot of people, but I am a sort of purist. Truthfully, riding two wheels doesn’t make sense to a large number of people, but then neither does life itself.

I have noticed a change in myself in recent years. I have found the ability to be physically miserable but spiritually elated. It was not always so. This morning, however, I was not miserable. Uncomfortable in spots would not do harm to the truth, but misery was not really present. Joyous could be accurately applied. Somewhat disconnected from the “real” world may be a possibility. “Not right” as used by some is probably not far off.

The Clinton Parkway has, within the past several months, had added to it a traffic circle. These demonic devices are intended to slow traffic while pretending to be an effective means of managing the flow of vehicles through the intersection of two or more roadways. Every time I pass through this circle I find myself disappointed at the roughness of my passage. It should be a simple maneuver; a break to the right, recover to the left and break again to the right; but it seems I invariable find
myself adjusting my line and roughly pushing the bike into the final curve. This morning was no exception.

The entry onto the west Lawrence bypass is a much kinder piece of asphalt. It exits the Clinton Parkway into a very long shallow S that eventually flows onto the sixty-five mile per hour two lane road that is Hiway Ten around the west side of the town. There was no traffic fore or aft on the receiving roadway and we were able to make full use of the transition pathway.

Rick, the ticket taker at the Turnpike is a gloomy sort of guy. He’s nice enough, but it seems always to be more Monday than Friday for him. As he handed me the ticket he observed, “It’s a very cold ride today.”

“Yes, it is, but it’s dry.”

“I guess it is. Be careful.”

Rick is not a rider, so he believes that my care is the primary determiner of how safe I am. Riders know differently. They know that although care is a factor in safety, a much larger portion is contributed by the actions of cagers around us and occasionally conditions that are completely out of anyone’s control. Riders say, “Be safe,” a wish that encompasses for us much more of the world in which we live and move.

Traffic was moving well on the Turnpike. I moved into and held for several miles the left lane. I thought a bit about the tread on my front tire and how every mile ridden in the left lane is better than the wear on the right side of the crown. My font tire is really used up, but I just haven’t found it convenient yet to deal with it. It is a sad point of life that almost anything one does to provide for future riding experiences interferes with the opportunity for current riding experiences. For this reason I do feel some very small amount of envy for those who dwell in the salt infested, snow plagued north regions. Well, maybe not so much.

I had been running the left lane for quite some time when I noticed a cage closing on me from the rear. I was moving at fifteen miles over the PRV and she was coming on like an F-106 bearing down on a Curtis biplane. I rolled into the right lane to let her pass, but couldn’t help but think of how irresponsible it is for someone to travel at that speed with other traffic in the vicinity. I was righteously appalled.

I pulled into the second from the right ticket gate at Topeka and drew Tina, a ticket taker that I had not met before. She didn’t really have much to say; she just held out her hand from a half closed window.

“It’ll be a minute.” She didn’t smile. I began working on the fingers of my left glove, and eventually got it off so that I could with the glove liner still in place dig the ticket out of the small pocket of my chaps and place it into her outstretched palm.

“Seventy cents.” I held out a dollar coin for her.

“And how are you today?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” She held out the quarter and nickel which I slipped into the pocket from whence the ticket and dollar had come.

I replaced the glove on my left hand and noticed in my mirror that at least three cagers had not been wise enough to choose one of the three other ticket booths. My friend, D.J., smiled and waved from the booth to my right. I waved and eased the dragon away from the window. When we had sufficiently cleared the ticket booths I opened the pipes on the beast and allowed her to resume her natural state.

When I rolled into my parking space across from the workplace mine was one of only three bikes parked on the three corners used for that purpose. Recently there would have been upwards to a dozen and I may not have had the pick of my favorite spot. Today, though even the locals stayed home. Today only the marginally insane or seriously possessed were out in the wind. Interestingly, one of the other two bikes, a Kawasaki KLR, was sporting a tag from Johnson County, as is mine. That means that he rode from at least forty miles, and possibly sixty miles, away.

I took some time sitting on the parked beast and surveyed the world around me. The order of things is very important. First the glasses are removed through the gap left by the opened visor and placed around the tachometer. Then the right glove is removed and placed next to the glasses. Once the right hand is exposed I can unbuckle and remove the helmet which is placed over the right mirror. I don’t get off the bike until the helmet has been removed.

I sat there on the bike for a moment and thought about all those years that I had driven into downtown Kansas City for work, about the traffic and the frustrations of the commute, about how it would take me almost two hours to truly recover from the stress of the drive. It is not so these days. I arrive at work refreshed and oftentimes regretful that the commute is over. I sometimes tell people that I come to work only for the ride; that it is the main reason I still work in Topeka. Life is good and this morning all is well in my little part of this world.

A woman with long ebony hair dressed entirely in pitch apparel strolled past me on the sidewalk. I wonder, I thought, is there a funeral or is she a witch? Oh, yes, that’s right. Tomorrow is November. I’ll bet she’s a witch.

I pulled my computer case out of the left bag and with a glance back at the resting dragon made my way to the street corner to wait obediently for permission to cross. With the morning’s ride behind me and the excitement of a day in the office ahead of me, one question kept bouncing about the hollow spaces of my mind. I wonder, do these chaps make my butt look big?