That Time of Year

This is the season every motorcyclist who lives north of the snow line detests. Yes, it's flippin' winter again. Rats.

For at least 5 months of the year, all I can do is wander into the garage and look longingly at my bike. Sitting on it is too much temptation. Gotta avoid that. Just lift the cover, and take a peek at that gorgeous yellow paint. I can check the tires, too. Ooohh - big thrill there.
I just look out the window trying to melt the snow with my mind. It doesn't work. Ever. So I wait.

And once in a while, we will get an especially nice (read: "freakishly abnormal") winter day; one in which I could actually take a spin if I felt so inclined. But of course, even if the roads are clear, I have a short field of snow-covered dirt driveway to traverse before I could get the bike to the road. And you just know that it would end up going down in that 40' danger zone. So I wait.

At some point, I will seriously reconsider my residential locale decision enough to make a change. I grew up in Florida, and I always seem to be making the mistake of listening to weather reports from home. Talk about adding insult to injury.

Who says you can never go home again.