Gypsy's Leisure: Locked Out

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Locked Out

The liquid graphite failed to ease the gas cap lock into functioning. I thought, perhaps, that if I removed the lock ring from around the cap and lock mechanism, I'd be able to reach the outside of the lock. Unfortunately, that's not how the cap is constructed. The outer ring functions simply as a stabilizer and alignment device for the actual cap. Due to the fact that the cap is hinged to the lock ring, the lock ring can not be removed by unbolting it from the tank. The teeth engaged through the lock hold the entire assembly in place even when the lock ring's bolts have been removed.

I'm going to seek assistance from some older riders to see what they suggest. And a few prayers to the gods of the open road probably wouldn't hurt either.

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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.