shinysideup The Extraction
By Ron Davis #111820 AFTER
A LONG,
cold winter on the “Frozen Tundra” here in Wisconsin, we
usually can
expect to be teased by a day or two of unseasonably warm
weather in March. However, I’ve fallen for that false promise of spring before and stubbornly fight the urge to bring the bike out of dry dock before April Fool’s Day. Come to think of it though, holding off proba- bly has less to do with my strength of will and more to do with the effort it takes to get my bike back on the road. You see, I’m one of those guys who actually brings his bike into the house for the off season. Yes, I do have a garage, but it’s a
small one, only one stall, and it’s unheated, so I know I would worry all winter long about the effects of pogo- ing temperatures. As my favorite BMW mechanic once told me, “These bikes don’t like to sit in the cold.” Add- ing to my worries would be the likeli- hood of my bike trading some paint with my snowblower or my wife’s Ford, not to mention my garage’s open door policy when it comes to mice. But I also have more selfish reasons
for bringing the bike in. There’s a spe- cial kind of comfort that comes from being able to sneak a longing look at the bike every time I go down to the basement to stoke our wood burner. After all, a bike left in the garage can get lonely. And, on a sub-zero week- end, being able to fondle and farkle in a cozy space with close proximity to a comfy rocking chair and a “beer fridge” (mandatory in Wisconsin) is hard to beat. So my bike waits on its centerstand mid-November through March, but
12 BMW OWNERS NEWS May 2016
once our road has slipped the bonds of its icy slicks and ruts in April, preparations for The Extraction begin. First, I call up my buddy Ralph for some help. He invariably gives me his usual “You know, I’m a very busy guy” (He’s been retired for four years, and whenever I visit, he seems to be “busy” watching For- mula One and MotoGP races.) Ralph owes me, since some years I’ve also stabled his Bonny in my basement space. Next, I start prepping the runway. The
threshold to our basement is raised about 10 inches, so ramps have to be set up. In addi- tion, the basement door has to be removed, and laundry baskets, miscellaneous drum set parts, bins of Christmas ornaments and my wife’s monstrous elliptical machine have to be repositioned. On the bike, mirrors must be folded in, bar ends slipped off, and luggage racks removed. Once Ralph arrives, inevitably a little
dance of egos has to take place before the actual bull work can begin. Ralph recites his usual collection of wiseacre remarks, know- ing he has me in his power: “Doesn’t your daughter have a big, strong boyfriend?” and “Isn’t that my torque wrench?” and “I see your exercise machine makes a nifty clothes rack.” Then we do a quick review of how this is going to work—Yes, Ralph, once more, you will push, I will ride. A diabolical progression of close-quarter y-turns then gets the bike headed the right way, inter- spersed with various grunts, groans, unin- telligible directions, and Ralph’s hilarious mock exclamations, always interrupted of course by the UPS guy, the propane guy, Jehovah’s Witnesses, or a lost turkey hunter. Getting through the door is the hard
part. My handle bars measure 34 inches, the doorway is 32, so there are considerable leans, twists, frantic commands, and
clenched-teeth interpretations of the terms “left” and “right.” Finally the bike and I coast down the ramp on the other side and break out into the first sunlight the bike has seen in five months. The big finale is seeing if the motor will
actually start. Invariably, the kill switch has gotten nudged, the key hasn’t been turned, or I’ve forgotten the kickstand has to be up, but in most cases, like a melodramatic TV defibrillator scene (Clear!), the bike comes to life. The grip is twisted, the throaty exhaust clears its throat, and it’s suddenly bike season again. But the ritual is not over. Ralph collects
his well-earned payment of a cup of coffee and a morning bun from the local Trout Bum Bakery, and we exchange our latest complaints about other people (They’re the worst!). Eventually Ralph senses I’m eager to go for a ride, gathers his little white dog Jack and cuts his visit short. Once Ralph is gone, taking the bike out
on the road is a tentative, cobweb-clearing affair, full of the familiar, first-ride-of-the- year fumbling. My shifts are tentative, I toddle through the turns, and I realize reviving last year’s skills and confidence will take some miles. However, in April, the prospects for future moto adventures appear ahead, beckoning and limitless, while memories of the bike’s winter incar- ceration fade well behind.
the club
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