Ol' Man Winter came, yep he did. Like the proverbial thief in the night, he came. One day you're listening to that far-off dragging sound of shambling feet and a battered old suitcase, the next day you pop hurriedly out your front door headed for work and find him sitting there, idiot-grin on his face with his tattered old Samsonite propped open and spread-eagled like a good book you're right smack-dab in the middle of reading; opened up on a cheap, hollow chrome stand, him standing there like a street vendor or snake-oil salesman peddling hideous, tacky neckties of dubious quality and origin on a sidewalk. He busily roots through one of the side pockets with a thoughtful look on his face and pulls out something in his meaty, clenched fist, then slowly opens it. What do we have for YOU today?... the toothless idiot-grin asks you silently, mockingly.
It was snow. And cold. Not a LOT of snow, mind you. Just a dusting; maybe an inch or less. And just enough for the city trucks to dump their load of White Death and Mayhem on every damn thoroughfare in the neighborhood. Not that they needed to; it had mostly blown away of it's own accord a day later, but it's an announcement of sorts; a party invitation to the gala opening of Winter and the final nail in the coffin of my beloved riding season. But even if the trucks had not come with their White Death, my season would be over anyway. Because in that hand the Ol' Man also held out sub-freezing temperatures dipping down into the single-digits at night, for a week or better along with high winds that had everyone scrambling for their long-forgotten gloves, hats and Chap Sticks. So cold that when I open the garage door and peek in on The Duke, the fluorescents take seemingly forever to boot up, emitting that ghostly flickering that illuminates and highlights the tendrils of steam that exit from my nose and mouth. And it's only November! I've nailed a few hapless mice that have wandered in out of the cold looking for a warm winter's bed in the well-used old Victor trap that I set by the garage door; six so far this year. I don't particularly relish parting their furry little gray bodies down the middle, but it's that or deal with the problems again next spring that I dealt with earlier this summer; their calling cards and destruction buried deep inside The Duke; not in MY car, you don't. So, as fast as I can flop their stiff, lifeless bodies into the outside trash can, I reload the trap with bait (bologna, of all things; who knew?) and set it by the garage door again. Better you than me, my fuzzy little brother. Adios!
I listen carefully, quietly, but hear nothing except The Duke's silent breathing; quiet, even, rhythmic. He's gone back to sleep, I think to myself, and with good reason. Not in the Rip Van Winkle way he did last time, but perhaps like the woodland creatures who have hunkered down in hibernation, a time-out, a time for rest and regeneration, a time of sabbath. I look at the pile of parts strewn around The Duke, mostly sitting on the upside-down hood perched atop of the roof of The Duke; I will surprise him in the spring when he awakens from his long winter's slumber with a bunch of cleaned and freshly-painted parts, I think to myself. Sure; this weather makes it that much more difficult to carry it off; the garage is much too uncomfortable to work in, but I can trundle bits and pieces off to work during January's frigid grip, so it won't be a total bust. You had quite the workout this year, old Hoss, I think aloud, gazing at the gleaming, freshly-painted underside and trunk, resplendent in Rust-Oleum Smoke Gray, in the flickering light. And I hadn't started until August was well underway.
The gas tank and filler neck look at me silently, unblinking. They will be the first to get the once-over, the tank with it's deep layer of sludge, rust and filth on the inside (Egads, man!), the layered rust and dirt on the outside, and the almost-totally-clogged pickup screen and fuel transmitter lying on top on a blood-red shop rag. Sure, sure; it would be easy to just get new parts, but money is paramount here and if something can be re-used, repaired, or reconditioned, then it will, by Gar! I will be taking the term "budget rebuild" and stretching it like a piece of warm taffy; something on the order of rebuilding a Musclecar with NO budget, that is, unless a D.B.Cooper-type bails out of an airliner overhead and crashes through my roof with a briefcase stuffed chock-full full of Benjamins; in that case, I'll dig a hole in the back yard after wrenching the briefcase from his lifeless hands, kick him down into the hole and back-fill, and go on a Mopar-Spending Spree. After I fix the hole in the roof, that is. Yeah, OK; and then I woke up, right?
But, winter, when used properly, can also be a time to relax, to plan, to catch up on the home-fixer-uppers a.k.a. 'Honey-Do's' so I won't have to be worried about them nagging at me next summer, when the days grow long and the nights warm and the Mopar juices start flowing once again. And once again, I'll drop Springsteen in the squawk-box and hear Bruce choking the life out of his Fender Esquire as he wraps his mitts around it's neck while The Big Man honks on his sax like it was the Golden Goose and listen to tunes of Metalspeak and motors and all the Stupid **** we used to believe in when we were but punk-kids and lived for what Bruce is shouting about. And once again the garage will hum with that inhuman, unearthly electricity that causes me to lose all track of time and space as I eclipse myself in The Duke and resume the feverish, frantic, all-encompassing drive to Finish What I Damn-Well Started...
