black chevrolet

Streams of water dribble from the crack in the roof edge; the silent patter of rain trickles into the gutter and washes out of sight. (Dammit for not waking up at exactly the right time! Why did she have to leave early today?!) I work the cover off the bike, one corner at a time, helmet and sticky gloves in the other hand. (Should have wiped all that excess mink oil off these). The helmet goes on the seat, and I squeakily bend down to unlatch the padlock from the rear wheel and straighten up, vinyl stretching and squeaking everywhere. Cold air washes through the carport, cold air smelling of damp citrus leaves. (I hate wearing all this vinyl. hate it. but it keeps me dry, so I shant' complain). I pick up the helmet and shove it down over my face *flthlppp* snapping the visor closed like an astronaut about to perform a spacewalk. Which, in some removed sense, I am. The wet atmosphere is hostile to core temperature and early morning consciousness.

I glance briefly at the clean motorcycle, soon to become muddy and dirty, and then slide over the seat, squeaking. We'll see how good the new Scorpion S/T is in the wet and nasty. I back over the gutter and the little waterfall hits me in the back of the neck, inducing shivers. Have I never mentioned that I am NOT a fan of riding in the rain. If I were in Oregon I would hate my life, for sure....