Winter Respite (Revised)

The garage smells lightly of gas, rubber and carbon. 
It's still cold and I can see my breath.

I hit the garage door opener, the door opens asthmatically,
Creaking and grinding. 

In the garage light, I see the object of my desire.

The Nomad sits quietly, almost forlornly,
On one side of the garage, as it has all winter. 
Keying open the left saddlebag, I pull out the tire gauge.
Stooping under the back fender,
I smell tires and the light oil in the rear gearbox.

Pressure in the back is fine.
Pressure's fine up front, too.
The front tire is angled over, 
A bird sleeping with its head under its wing.
Dormant.

I look longingly at the satin black finish of it,
And lean across the gleaming black nacelle
Of the tank and insert the key into the ignition.

The electrical comes on, 
A ghostly light illuminating the chromed bars. 
The sound of the fuel injection system
Priming the engine hisses slightly.  
The gassy thrill of excitement suddenly fills my stomach.

I hold the starter button and the big V-twin roars to life, 
A syncopated thump THUMP thump. 
My hands shake slightly from the cold
Or anticipation.

Walking around the back,
I feel the puff puff puff of the exhaust on my pants legs. 
The smell of exhaust is like perfume after so long.

Pulling my helmet off the shelf, I eye the smoked visor. 
No bugs. Turning it around, I pull it over my head,
Feeling like a knight girding for battle. 
With practiced ease, I fasten the chin strap
And pull it tight under my throat.

The leather gloves are stiff with disuse. 
I pull one on before realizing
I haven't zipped my heavy leather jacket. 
Grabbing the Y pull, I hear the satisfying zip
As the jacket closes around me. 
The other glove slides on
And I look at the rumbling bike. 
It sounds warm, sounds ready.

I throw my right leg over,
Taking in a little sharp breath
As I stretch muscles I haven't used since Fall.

Settling into the seat,
I grab the bars, and check to make sure
The mirrors are aligned properly. 
My breath steams through my open visor.

I pull the bike backwards,
And into the chill of the morning. 
I angle the bike around
And spot the sun coming up over the trees. 

I kick the highway pegs down off the crash bar on the left
And then the right. 
The gear shift clunks down from neutral
Into first as the transmission is engaged.

A little clutch and the bike pulls forward,
Anxious. 
A slight bit of throttle, now.

Goosing a little more power from the engine, 
I feel an exhilarating shiver

As the bike pushes me back into my seat. 
I put the bike into second,
And give the throttle a firmer twist.

The bike gives a throaty roar, 
A beast released from captivity,
And leaps across the pavement. 
I pull my visor down,
Sealing my helmet but for a small strip
At nose level.

I head for the countryside,
The sun glinting pinkly from my mirrors. 
Up ahead, another motorcycle approaches
From the opposite direction.

I throw my left arm out and down,
My first two fingers in an inverted V, a biker salute. 
The other motorcyclist responds with the same sign. 
A brotherhood of the breeze.

The road opens up like a flower,
Each curve a gentle rebellion against gravity
And centrifugal force. 
My mind empties and switches into ride mode. 
Sun, wind and asphalt.
The world narrows to two lanes and I take flight.