MARCH MADNESS. © 2011
MARCH; I HATE MARCH. March sucks. I have many reasons for this astute observation, the first having to do with an old adage; March
comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. Only half true. True, in part, because as January with her icy tentacles gives way to February with her wild mood swings, and the huge mounds of blackened snow begin to dwindle in the warm, tantalizing, lengthening rays of sunlight, bringing hope, anticipation, and...
March. In she comes, like the proverbial Lion. But she rarely, if ever, leaves like a lamb. Most times she leaves more like a tigress, soft, furry, but far from de-clawed.
March, you see, is A Damned Liar.
She teases us, usually while we are busy toiling at the job or at home, stretched far too thin to break free from the yoke of our labors and go for a ride. Some idiot (never me, damn it!) will go riding by, the distant rumble of the motor's thunder will stir and tear at emotions slumbering deep inside you, and then fade away, like the last struggling rays of a sunset being snuffed out by the darkness; leaving a yearning and longing deep within, an itch not scratched.
March has few high points; one being St. Patrick's Day, when I manage to put aside my winter doldrums and enjoy my corned beef and cabbage, boiled red potatoes, soda bread, and of course, Guinness Extra Stout (and perhaps a wee nip o' the Jameson's after dinner
...always after me Lucky Charms! )
St. Pat's also brought the taunting sirens call of near-60s temperatures, with the heavy dirt-smell of thawing earth, the twittering of a few brave bird-souls and the warm caresses of errant breezes playing about your ears as you walk about outdoors; teasing and tempting you to just take off the damn jacket! and come play. And damned if you don't think about it as you work, but by the time work is finished, the sun is a huge electric-orange basketball hanging low on the horizon, the shadows long and tall, and you realize you need the jacket after all.
March is, after all, A Damned Liar.
Two days later came freezing temps, rain, hail and wind
...*****!
March also takes her leave with a bad aura hanging in the air; like the distant, lingering stench of burned rubber or fried electrical wires.
You see, twenty-two years ago, I lost my Dad to March. She caught me napping, off-guard, like a thief in the night. I never got to say Good Bye, never got to tell him how much he meant to me. That I loved him. That he was the greatest influence in my life, and the finest example of one that anyone could ever have.
She blew a hole in my heart big enough to toss a cat through, and left me there to die.
But I survived; the wound healed, but never went away. The scar remains, and every so often, (usually right after the short-lived enjoyment of St. Pat's), she'll make it a point to remind me, ol' March will. Dig at the scar. Poke at the scab. And I find that it can still hurt. The Jameson's seldom lasts past the end of the month
.
Deep in the depths of my garage, the car and motorcycles slumber silently under their covers, nothing but stale air in their empty, drained float bowls, the gasoline in their tanks going slowly flat. Winter is a long time going here in the heartland. We've already met the first of my pre-riding requirements; a heavy downpour two weeks ago, a true frog-strangler that ended up as a hailstorm. This served to wash away most of the White Death laid down by the city and county trucks, but the roads still remain littered with sand and gravel. Especially in the corners. I start looking and paying close attention this time of year. And the weather doesn't cooperate much either; I find myself still scraping frost off the windows of my truck in the early mornings. Yes, I know some people ride as soon as the snow melts, some as soon as the roads are clear, trundled up like so many Eskimos with their heated grips and other newfangled contraptions
. I'm no wuss, but let's face it; to me, riding is not cheap transportation nor a machismo contest. It's an adrenaline surge, a freedom call, a jailbreak from the Winter State Prison. But most of all, it has to be enjoyable. And freezing my *** off, riding on gravel-strewn roads, in high, gusty winds with snow flurries or sudden, icewater deluges just ain't my cup o tea. I suppose I could ride, just to prove a point, but then Van Gogh lopped off an ear to prove a point, which I don't think showed much in the way of smarts either.
And so, I wait. WE wait. Maddeningly slow, we wait, and listen to her damn lies.
As I write this, I am amused by the fact that the plates on my Buell expire at the stroke of midnight tonight,
March 31st...
only a few scant hours from now. And I haven't even fired it up in The Year Of Our Lord 2011 yet.
But tomorrow is April Fool's Day, (appropriately enough!), and snow flurries are in the forecast. Likely I will drive over to the DMV over the upcoming weekend and get my stickers, but the forecast doesn't show anything that I might even remotely consider good riding weather for several weeks. While I hate to leave a good plate un-stickered, I can think of better things to do with half a C-note than stick it to cold steel and cover it up again. I may wait, after all
In a few short hours, March will be behind me, with the whispered promises of April holding far more credence and truth than March could ever wish to. And we will be here waiting, my car, my motorcycles and I.
irate:
