Gypsy's Leisure: Cafe Racer

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Cafe Racer

The 650 Ninja's heart thrums like a cafe racer dressed in formal wear. In a city like Louisville, the beat of that heart parallels the pulse of the cafe life. Cruising up Floyd Street and heading for River Road, I catch the glow of an illuminated espresso sign at Floyd's intersection with Market. I can see the neon open sign in the window and decide to stop in for a late night cappuccino before riding home. The Espresso sign hangs over the entryway for Derby City Espresso, a brightly lit shop tailored with leftover furniture, bar stools, local artwork. The barrista whipped up my beverage, and I sauntered out onto the downtown sidewalk to a table by the street to enjoy it. The angled spaces lining the north side of Market Street are perfect for motorcycles, and the table out front under an umbrella and shade tree permits a lustful eye to roam over the machines backed to the curb.

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Overpass Blues

Every garage houses a collection of spare parts. Odds, ends, bits and pieces stashed away and gathering dust. While cleaning beneath the work bench we might liberate from the cobwebs a broken clutch cable, and the shredded wire reminds us of that time in the rain and dark beneath the overpass on Route 138. While puzzling over how to stitch together the frayed ends, we breathe deep the scent of wet asphalt and cooling tar. Perhaps while waiting for the glimmer of a brother's headlight to swim out of the night, we close our eyes and listen to the shush of rain on corn.

Sporty's Last Ride

I wake before dawn on July 3, 2005 and can't force myself back to sleep. While I wait for a fresh pot of coffee to brew, I push my 95 1200 Sportster out of the garage and gear up in the chilly pre-dawn. I kiss my wife goodbye and inform her that I'm riding an early loop around the county before the holiday traffic rolls through. I seal my fresh java into a thermos with the plan to find a quiet, isolated spot on the road somewhere to enjoy it.

I turn east on Rt. 136 which twists its way through a portion of McLean County, KY toward the Ohio County line. The corn waves in the fields, its sweet smell pushed along by the cool breeze. Still early in the season, the stalks have not yet reached their heights that always give me the impression of riding through a corridor. Ahead of me, the orange light creeps over the treetops and the last stars wink out as their velvet backdrop burns away.

I roll onto a farm access road choked with weeds and shut it down. As the Sporty's engine tumbles to standstill, I hear the belching of frogs from beneath the nearby bridge. A tractor, trailing a plume of diesel smoke, lumbers along the far edge of an adjacent field. The scent of tilled earth ebbs as the machine maneuvers behind a stand of trees.

I crack open the thermos and wait for the sun to climb. Had I known what awaits me just a few days away in the middle of a sultry July afternoon, I'd stay by the side of the road just a few moments more. I would sip my coffee slowly and allow its earthy vapors to warm my face. I'd welcome the light spilling over the nearby ridge, cascading over polished chrome. I'd spread my leathers over the drying grass to soak up the first rays of fine summer sun. I'd stand tall, not shut my eyes against the dawn.