In central Ohio, when spring arrives and the temperature goes up, the motorcycles come out. Chopper owners take off the tarps, wheel their rigs out of their garages, and let the bikes wind out in the fine spring weather.
Seeing motorcycles is a good sign that it’s going to be a nice day, because most bikers know to check the weather and only ride on days that are certain to be dry. Once you ride a motorcycle in the rain, getting soaked to the bone and splattered by passing cars, you’ll do just about anything to avoid it.
And speaking of motorcyclists, let’s all be sure to keep an eye out for them, give them plenty of room, and let them share the road without incident.
I think that a big part of being happy is learning to overlook life’s little irritants and focus on the good things. Sometimes, though, that is easier said than done.
Last night, when I left work, the thunderous sounds of a motorcycle echoed through the multi-level concrete garage where I park. Some Hell’s Angels wannabee was revving his bike as he slowly rode from deck to deck, and when he left he gave those of us walking to our cars a final ragged blast of deafening engine noise and exhaust fumes. I guess we just needed to lose a few degrees of hearing acuteness to help the Easy Rider compensate for his apparent feelings of manly inadequacy.
On this morning’s walk I marveled at how many drivers switch on their bright lights just as they are passing by, leaving me to stumble into the approaching glare and step into an otherwise avoidable puddle. It’s as if the day would not be complete without seizing the opportunity to blind the bespectacled guy trying to steer his dogs down the path. And while I suppose the drivers might claim to be doing it for safety, it’s not as if we live on the edge of a cliff or on a twisting highway full of switchbacks. It’s a well-traveled road through flat countryside, for crying out loud!
I know that, to achieve a zen-like state of contentment, I need to ignore such annoyances and the irksome behavior of thoughtless fellow inhabitants of the planet, but I’m a long way away from attaining such serenity. Complaining about nuisances is the best I can manage right now — but it does make me feel better.
Kish and I decided to walk to the library this morning, and when we got to Market Street we saw that there was another festival of some kind going on. (Another weekend, another festival.) Today it is the Classic Car, Cycle & Truck show.
If you like chrome — and what red-blooded American doesn’t really? — this is a show to see. All of the parking spots around the library, and on Market Street itself, are filled with tricked-out, candy-colored cars and motorcycles of all kinds. You can listen to some loud rock music as you walk among the rows of lovingly restored, flame-sided, overpowered, hoods-up tributes to the glory years of Detroit and the American auto industry. In today’s bright sunshine the glint of chrome is blinding and a bit intoxicating.
Admission to the event is free, but all proceeds of the various concession stands will benefit Flying Horse Farms, a local camp that has opened this year to help kids with serious illnesses. It’s a good cause. Today’s event runs until 5 p.m.