Royal Enfield cured his mid-life crisis

Here's a portrait of a very happy me, with my daughters, in 2001.

 People often ask me about my old Royal Enfield Bullet. One question though, isn't asked as often now as it used to be. 

That question is: "Did you restore it yourself?" 

The answer was always "no, I bought it new. It's an old design, still made in India." 

Probably the reason no one asks anymore if I restored the motorcycle is the fact that I now look as old as it does! 

Sure, they don't necessarily assume I'd bought it new in 1955 (when I was five years old). But they'd be justified in thinking, "Hey, this guy is old enough to have bought it in 1970." 

In 1970, at age 20, I would very much have liked to have had a motorcycle. But a car seemed more practical and, soon, I had a wife and children and buying a motorcycle seemed irresponsible. 

Then, at 50, came my mid-life crisis. I realized that if I didn't get a motorcycle soon, I wouldn't have a motorcycle, ever. I decided to get one. 

Still, I didn't have much hope I would find the motorcycle of my childhood dreams. In 2001  motorcycles popular in the U.S. were big, powerful and flashy.

But I still wanted the sort of motorcycle that had existed in 1955 — or 1945, for that matter. It would be simple, naked and probably slow. These vintage machines were available used, but I was no mechanic.

I had tried to restore vintage cars, and it didn't work out well. I didn't want a motorcycle I would have to restore.

Then I found out about the Royal Enfield Bullet from India. It seemed like a miracle. The motorcycle of my dreams still existed, and there was a dealer right in my home town!

Buying a motorcycle remained a selfish, and, I suppose, irresponsible, action.

But confronting midlife answered that concern: it was now or never. This was my last chance. The only question was how to quiet family concerns.

I don't claim to be an expert at subterfuge. But my campaign of small steps gradually made it happen.

My mid-life crisis is now a quarter-century back in my rearview mirror.

I don't necessarily recommend buying a motorcycle. It's a personal decision, worth serious thought.

I'll just say that, for me, at mid-life, it was the right medicine.

The Royal Enfield shines, but rider is rusty

 Never mind rust on the motorcycle: how fast does a rider get "rusty"? 

We'd been out of town, away from my Royal Enfield, for a month. The weather was perfect for a ride, so I suited up, planning to take the motorcycle to fill the tank. 

After a month away, getting some fresh gas seemed like a good idea. 

But I was rusty. 

No sooner did I kick start the Royal Enfield than I realized I didn't have my gloves. I was all ready to go. The motorcycle was running. I considered riding without gloves, just this once.

But thoughts of what a fall could do to my hands prevailed. Regretfully I switched off the motorcycle and headed inside the house to get the gloves.

They weren't where I normally keep them! I figured I must have left them in the pockets of my other jacket.

No, the gloves weren't there either. Never mind. I'd just use my spare pair.

But those weren't where I thought they'd be either. What the... ?

I realized that I would have taken the original pair into the garage when I went to get the motorcycle. And there they were, "hiding" under the edge of an upside down canoe, where they had fallen.

OK. Gloves on hands, I headed back to the motorcycle.

Mounting up I realized that the rearview mirrors were out of adjustment. They must have moved when I put a dust sheet over the bike before leaving town.

Damn, you know how I hate adjusting those mirrors!

Moving them loosens them and, with the vibrations of the motor the mirrors are soon swinging merrily backwards and forwards as the motorcycle picks up or loses speed.

Still, it had to be done. I took a chance and just barely touched them to make the adjustment.

OK. Finally! Ready to go at last.

Only as I let out the clutch did I remember that I hadn't first checked the tire pressures. I decided to chance riding anyway; it had only been a month since the last check; surely they'd be OK?

The throttle seemed to feel a bit unfamiliar, since I had only just struggled to remove and replace it before leaving town. OK. I guess this is the way it feels now. Get used to it.

At the first intersection my boot heel failed to find the neutral finder lever. You have to rely on muscle memory to locate it, and my muscles had forgotten.

This ride was getting a bit frustrating.

Traffic was heavy, and my dance with the neutral finder, so important in traffic, continued to go badly.

How could I have forgotten how to do this, in only a month!

OK, at last, here is the gas station.

I undid the gas cap and reached for the pump handle. I've added gas a million times, it seems, and never, ever, spilled gas onto the tank.

But, sure enough, this time, a teaspoon of petrol spilled across the tank as I brought the pump handle over the tank.

Damn! That's not good for the paint.

Gassed up and restarted, I headed towards home. No sense prolonging this experience.

Except, thinking about it, practice is actually what I needed.

Sell my Royal Enfield? No, never!

 The man asked me "is it for sale?" 

The answer sprang to my lips: 

"No, never!" 

My own answer surprised me. 

I've never considered my Royal Enfield to be the last thing I would hesitate to sell. I know it's just a machine. 

It's unusual, but not unique. Many thousands like it exist. It was not an expensive investment, like jewelry. 

I've never even given it a name. It's just "the motorcycle."

I like it. I'm emotionally attached to it.

But look: I'm 75. I will be parting with many material goods all too soon. Its turn will come.

So, my answer, in the moment, was a surprise to me. But there was a bit more to this interaction.

I was in the driveway, unpacking the car from a two-night camping trip in the Everglades. A kayak was still on the roof of the car.

The guy pulled up in the fanciest looking cream colored SUV I've ever seen. It literally glowed with lustrous paint and shiny metal, and must have cost a fortune. We live in a "nice" neighborhood, but this vehicle established a degree of economic well being out of character with my old Camry.

I didn't recognize the man, who was dressed in fine sport clothes that expressed a degree of economic well being out of character with my sweaty T-shirt.

"I see you have a motorcycle," he said, smiling, through the rolled down passenger window of his SUV.

This really surprised me. The motorcycle was in the garage, at least 30 feet away, and just a shapeless heap under multiple old sheets I throw across it to keep the dust off. How could he even see it?

"What kind is it?" he asked. I had to repeat "Royal Enfield" twice. He wasn't familiar with Royal Enfields.

"Who makes it?" was the next question. Rather than repeat "Royal Enfield" uselessly, I replied that "they're made in India. It's an old British bike. They never stopped making them in India."

"What does it look like?" was the next question. This was getting a shade odd. He wasn't directly asking to come in and have me show it off, but close.

"It's a naked motorcycle," I said. "This one is old looking. You can see them on the Internet," I said, maybe too warily. But he wasn't put off.

"It's a collector bike?" he asked.

This was getting odder. "Well," I said, with a shrug, "I collected it. It's a 1999. Nothing special."

That's when he asked "is it for sale?"

My answer, "no, never," said emphatically, seemed to end things. He wished me well, and drove off.

I know I behaved badly. I'm normally flattered and friendly when people ask about my Royal Enfield, as they often do when they actually see it. If this guy turns out to be a neighbor I just didn't recognize, I will be embarrassed.

Funny thing is, I have been on the "other side." I wrote recently about spotting a Royal Enfield in the parking garage of the condo where we stay when we visit Washington, DC. I left a note on the door of the apartment corresponding to that parking space, suggesting we get in touch.

I never heard back. Maybe the guy freaked out, same as I did. If so, he would have responded by clutching his Royal Enfield to his heart. Just like I did.

The Royal Enfield in the parking garage

A Royal Enfield Continental GT 650 turned up in my parking garage.

 Royal Enfield motorcycles exist in enormous numbers in India, in fair numbers in Britain, and remain relatively rare in the United States. 

But this is changing. 

A combination of reasonable prices, wide selection of models, very wide selection of colors and trims, vast improvements in features and reliability, and a fair amount of promotion have made them more visible on our streets. 

We're still at the level where friends of my wife will email her a picture of a Royal Enfield they encountered, to share with me. 

In fact we're still at the level that even I swivel my head when a Royal Enfield passes on the street. 

I didn't expect to park in our condo garage just the other day and find a Royal Enfield Continental GT 650 lodged in a nearby space.

I ride an old kick-start-only Royal Enfield Bullet, so I don't get much exposure to gleaming new 650 twins.

It felt odd to have one right under daily observation.

It felt impolite to stare.

It felt as though I should do something in regard to this. Leave a note? "Nice bike!"

Could I inquire at the condominium and find out which of my neighbors shares my interest in Royal Enfields? It's in space number 17, which must correspond to a particular apartment.

What would I do then? Leave a note on the guy's apartment door? "Nice bike. David in 304."

Suppose I arranged to meet the neighbor with the GT? It isn't like we could go for a ride. My bike is at our home in Florida. Even if it was here, with me, I could never keep up with him.

I could invite him down for a beer. Does the owner of a 100 mph 650 twin have anything to say to the owner of a clattering 50 mph single?

What do you say? Should I find out?

A veteran rider says farewell to bikes

 An insightful note from a guy my own age, a veteran motorcyclist, arrived in my email the other day. What is it like to arrive at the moment you have to get off two wheels? The answer, he advises, is not for sissies. 

Here's what he wrote: 

When I look at my drivers license and I see the "M" endorsement on it I have to chuckle knowing that those days are over. 

I had a lot of fun and excitement in 60 years of motorcycling. Starting with the bloated silly-looking Dreamsicle-colored Jawa step-through moped straight through to the Triumph Bonneville and Honda grocery-getter, the journey was a huge part of my life. 

Now, pushing 74 years-old, it is over. My motorcycle insurance doubled when I turned 72, never mind the fact that I never had any claims or accidents in all those years.

I also found out that my m/c insurance would increase every year not only because of my advancing age but also because the motorcycle is more than 20 years old; never minding the fact that it was serviced regularly and in excellent condition.

I am a fall risk; and while I didn't believe it at first, well, that time a few months ago when I fell getting off a bicycle and launched myself face-first into an evergreen bush and wiped off copious amounts of blood made a reluctant believer out of me. 

There were also a few other incidents that caused other issues that I never told anyone else about. 

"This happened to me???!!!" 

My ego almost went into overdrive. Ah yeah, it did, and now I have to face the fact that growing old is not for sissies.

There are others my age that are facing issues far more serious than being relegated to driving a car; Dementia and Alzheimer's have ravaged more than I'd care to count, and diseases related to advancing age in light of poor lifestyle choices made years earlier are also taking their toll.  

So, with that in mind I'll shut my mouth and count my blessings. Dammit — it was fun while it lasted.

Ryan's right but filtering is wrong for me

I can't ride the way this guy rides.

 Everyone loves the motorcycling videos by Ryan of FortNine. They're informative, thought provoking and, best of all, funny. 

His recent video on "filtering" was all three of those. But it left me feeling that filtering, the practice of sneaking through lines of cars stuck in traffic to get ahead, is not for me. 

In the video we see Ryan "F9" delivering his praise of filtering while actually squeezing his motorcycle past cars, trucks and buses stopped in traffic. It's a demonstration that filtering works. 

His justification for passing up automobile drivers who must wait dutifully in line is simple: he's not hurting them. They'll get where they're going just as soon as they would have anyway. 

But he will get where he is going faster. No one loses, but he wins. 

One-plus-one is three in this calculation. 

There's also some evidence that not waiting in line is safer for motorcyclists, who are sometimes hit from behind by inattentive drivers.

I concede it all, but I still won't do it.

For one thing, I am no where near as skilled a rider as Ryan. I quail at the sight of an endless line of exterior rearview mirrors sticking out to grab my handlebars.

Trucks and big SUVs take up a lot of room in their lanes, leaving not very much for me.

And then there is one BIG thing that necessitates my caution. I ride a famously slow-poke old Royal Enfield Bullet. That wouldn't seem to matter, since the automobile traffic at rush hour is essentially going zero miles per hour.

But it does matter.

Because the LAST THING I want to do is make my way to pole position, putting behind me 50 lead-foot drivers eager to pass. 

Experience shows that those guys will do anything to get by me, including cutting into my lane and then slamming on their brakes in front of me at the next light.

Remember, my Bullet is not only slow, it has drum brakes, actuated, on the front, by a bicycle style cable. The danger is that I will ram them from behind.

Some might comment that, so, I ought to get a "real" motorcycle, so I can cut and slice my way through traffic. That will work for many; but it's not why I motorcycle.

See what you think. This his his video:

Will summer sun melt the joy of riding?

 I was "forced" to admit to myself after a ride around town this morning on my old Royal Enfield Bullet that I never have had a bad motorcycle ride.

And I haven't just ridden for fun. I was a commuter, riding in all weather and all hours. I've been cold and wet, and there have been close calls and breakdowns. Once I had to push the motorcycle home.

But I always had a good time that left me feeling mentally cleansed and happy.

Yes, I admit to cheating. I've only ever ridden in South Florida and Southern California, both regions renown for sunny weather.

I feel like a bit of a phony when I read The Gun, magazine of the Royal Enfield Owners Club (UK). There was this note, recently, from Leo Nelson, chapter correspondent in Suffolk:

"If you read the Branch Reports, you will be aware by now that the Norfolk and Suffolk Branches support each other. You may have also formed the impression that I have a fixation about the weather. Well, I am British and apparently that's all we talk about, but in this case, with some justification."

His ride reports continued with:

"Forecast, heavy rain and strong winds all day...

"Forecast, heavy rain, hail, thunder, lightning and strong winds...

"Sure enough, the rain and I arrived at the same time, proving my waterproofs were anything but..."

Ever the optimist, Leo concludes with this:

"So, what's the point of the weather report? The forecast puts people off from getting the bike out, and this impacts attendance. However, if you just take a chance, the weather may not be as bad as the forecast.

"Safe and dry riding, (unlikely if you are heading to a Norfolk or Suffolk Branch meeting)."

Stiff upper lips all around, there in Britain. Admirable.

Yet the fact is that Florida's weather this summer has been unusually hot and humid and it does put me off. There are times when I have thought that a little rain might feel nice.

Instead, I'm back from my ride soaking with sweat, eager to get out of boots and jeans and into shorts and flip-flops.

Am I weakening?

I only decided to go riding this morning because it was partly cloudy, blocking the blasting heat of direct sun.

Now there's a "Heat Advisory" for 11 a.m., only 30 minutes from now, and I'm frankly glad to be back at my computer, in the air conditioning.

How much hotter can it get?

What biker husbands think wives think

 The following is presented with apologies to women everywhere. They aren't really like the "wife" depicted here. 

But, inside the brain of every husband is malware telling him what his wife might be thinking right about now. 

It goes like this: 

Nothing offends a busy wife more than an idle husband. 

Worse, when you ask him to do anything, well... 

Does he even remember to hit the "Start" button on the dishwasher he just finished loading? No, he does not. 

Somehow that's suddenly her job, or something.

He's forever laying about, tending to his absurd hobbies, like mowing the lawn, scraping leaves out of the gutters, or shoveling snow off the driveway.

The most annoying thing is all the time he spends tending to that old motorcycle in the garage.

Of course it's always broken! She told him he should buy a dependable motorcycle, something American made, like a Honda.

He acted like that was just funny for some reason.

Men!

What is that motorcycle for, anyway? Didn't she make clear to him long ago that there was no way she would be caught dead riding on that death trap?

As for his suggestion, once, that she pose next to it in her new swimsuit! Couldn't he see that the motorcycle was entirely the wrong color match for the swimsuit?

And, as for his reply that she could quickly fix that, well! In your dreams, buster, and only in your dreams.

It's no skin off her nose if he wants to get greasy and sweaty "maintaining" that thing.

Just as long as he leaves plenty of room in the garage for her to swing open her car door.

If he doesn't, well, la-de-da, she has to get out of the car, doesn't she? "Accidents" will happen. No one would notice one more dent on that old thing, anyway.

And it's not that she's jealous of that piece of rusty tin. Are you kidding?

Just because he seems to have money for new motorcycle parts, when she has made it perfectly clear that she needs a new coffee table.

Imagine! He says he actually likes that old coffee table! He says it looks "retro."

Like his motorcycle.

Disclaimer: The above fictional account is meant to illustrate suspicions that a husband may have regarding what his wife might be thinking. It is not meant to suggest what wives are in fact thinking. No husband would be acquainted with that. Any resemblance to actual wives or relationships is strictly coincidental.

Remembering when to fill up with gas

 I haven't been riding my old Royal Enfield Bullet much lately. Life always seems to find a way to interfere with good intentions. 

So, Sunday, I decided to ride to church, another thing I don't do often enough. 

Since I don't ride every day now that I'm retired, and no longer commute to work, getting ready for the ride involved all the checks: drain the dry sump, pump up the tire pressure, clean the spark plug, check the valves for compression, and check the gas. 

The gas! How much do I have? 

There's no gas gauge, of course, so I keep track by making a note of the odometer reading at the last fill-up. But where to keep this note so I'd find it? 

Last time filled up I decided to tape the note to my helmet. I'd be sure to see it there. 

Except, this Sunday, I put the helmet on, nice and tight, without reading the note. I suppose I could have reached up and pulled it off to read it, but, truth is, I forgot about it entirely.

The Bullet started on the second kick. Good old Bullet! And so I rode off, my mileage note flapping unnoticed on the top of my helmet.

After not riding for awhile I was surprised how good it felt. Why don't I do this more often?

Church went fine, and so did the ride home. Putting away my helmet I encountered the note. It was still there, just a bit crinkled from the airflow around the helmet.

I straightened it out and taped it back onto the helmet.

What do you think? Will I remember it next time?

He regrets buying back his old Bullet

Read the full story of Paul Jeffries' battle with his Bullet in RideApart.
(Photo by Paul Jeffries)

 "I bought my old bike back 30 years later, and I wish I never had," Paul Jeffries wrote in RideApart last December. The bike was an early Royal Enfield Bullet, and his column was interesting. 

I'm of two minds. 

Was his regret at his recovery of a motorcycle that was once his fondest dream an object lesson for the rest of us? 

Nostalgia puts a high gloss on our happy memories of the past. Can we ever really relive those moments? 

On the other hand, well... who wouldn't like to try to recapture those sunny days we remember? 

Here's his story, briefly: 

"A little over 30 years ago, I owned a beautiful Royal Enfield Bullet. It was my pride and joy, and a real labor of love bike...

"It was also a symbol of my youth and, in a story I’m sure many can relate to, it survived the first child but had to go when the second rolled around...

"That was until one day in 2023 though, when I was looking through eBay and there it was – my bike...

So he bought it back. And that is when the regrets started:

"With each issue that was fixed, another one would pop up...

"The damn thing was cursed – it was like it was holding a grudge against me for getting rid of it all those years ago... "

"Learn from my mistake, and leave those cherished memories of a bike gone by where they belong – in the past."

A truly sad story, and most readers who left comments sided with his feelings. I preferred the one comment that did not:

"You can get that happiness back if you hang in there. It can't stay angry at you forever, and as soon as it's reliable you'll forget the bad times," one man wrote. Is that right?

I essentially "bought" my 1999 Bullet back again by paying a lot for an engine rebuild after 40,000 miles. The mechanic took so long to finish that I bought a Honda I admired to tide me over.

I liked the Honda well enough, but its convenience (electric start for goodness sake!) and reliability couldn't compete with the Bullet's character once they were both back in my garage.

I liked riding the Honda. I WANTED to ride the Bullet. I still have the Bullet. The Honda is gone.

This is going to cost me, I am sure, in time stranded by the side of the road, and eventual repair bills. I am resigned to that.

Why do I enjoy oil changes so much?

 I changed the oil in my 1999 Royal Enfield Bullet. It's not clear to me when was the previous time I changed it. 

The last note I made of an oil change was just about exactly two years ago. That may be accurate. 

Well, I don't ride as much as I used to when I was a commuter. 

Anyway, the amount of oil regularly added to the motorcycle between changes (a lot) probably amounts to a sort of running oil change. 

The oil always gets black immediately on use; probably just the result of an old, unsophisticated motor.

Certainly the drained oil this time was very black. I didn't notice any silvery bits of metal in it but, then, I forgot to look closely. 

I didn't get the bucket properly positioned under the drain when I opened it, so there was a mess on the floor. Fortunately I had the motorcycle parked on cardboard, which soaked up most of the spill.

Then I spilled more oil just getting the multi-part oil filter out. It's not a spin-on. More like an athletic sock stuffed inside a kitchen sink strainer.

It should be returned to its housing soaked in clean oil. Getting it soaked was another mess on the floor.

And then I spilled still more oil emptying the bucket into an old plastic bottle to take to recycling. The funnel I'd chosen to use in this process had too small a spout, so it instantly overflowed. Luckily, again, onto the cardboard.

I went and got a bigger funnel.

The final spill (so far) came while putting clean oil into the oil tank. The oil compartment doesn't hold the full amount of oil specified in the owner's manual, so it overflows.

It's my theory that the oil has to be distributed into the filter and around the motor while running before there's room to get in the full proper amount of oil.

So there remain opportunities to spill yet more oil, in topping up. 

Luckily I make a practice of saving all the big cardboard that comes into the house. I will need it.

As a commuter, before I retired, I did oil changes regularly and I became pretty skilled at it.

Of course my practice then was to change the oil the night before I would ride to work in the morning.

That is the reason I didn't immediately go for a ride after this latest oil change: I don't associate changing the oil with immediately riding.

There is a satisfying feeling to having the job done. Yet more opportunities for satisfaction remain.

The gearbox oil is in a separate reservoir, and could use changing. The primary drive case requires another, separate, oil change.

Then the oily job of lubricating the final drive chain is certainly overdue.

 I feel as though I am saturating more cardboard than I am saving oil to be recycled. All this maintenance may be good for the soul, but not for the garage floor.

Honor all Royal Enfield long riders

 Many Royal Enfield riders, a surprising number of them women, have used their Royal Enfield motorcycles to attempt and carry out challenging journeys across, and even around, the world.

Some are well known, successful and celebrated. No doubt there are many more riders whose trips are unknown, or who were defeated by circumstances before they met their goals.

Many ventured out on their own. Some few benefitted from factory support. All deserve respect.

Some, yes, more than others. As in all things, there are degrees of accomplishment. Degrees of hardship.

Today's blog post is a bit shorter than most. That's because, having written the item once, I deleted it.

Reading it over I decided I was being unfair. I had criticized a comment (on another blog) in which the comment writer raised a figurative "middle finger of disdain" to adventure motorcyclists who journey with special bikes and back-up crews.

He wrote in praise of adventurers who travel solo, or in pairs, on simple motorcycles, with no back-up but their own resources and courage.

Anything else is just hipster wannabe bullshit, the comment asserted. I'm sure he didn't mean to offend; he's exaggerating for effect. But he presumably wouldn't mind if you are offended.

Not that he would stoop to even include my motorcycling, as an ordinary daily commuter, in his criticism.

He's complaining about adventurers who boast of distances traveled in relative comfort on competent machines with help always at hand. Riders who have done far more that me, certainly.

Fine. But why bother to criticize any motorcyclists, especially those who, after all, do make the trips, however well financed?

"It's possible to appreciate the remarkable accomplishments of some motorcyclists without denigrating the activities of ordinary motorcyclists," I wrote, in my first attempt.

Yeah. But so what?

The comment writer is stoked. Enthusiastic about one thing, he attempts to praise it further by running down anything else.

He's speaking for the scars, the mashed fingers, the battered limbs, the heartbreaks, all worn as badges of honor by those who have attempted it all, and done it, on their own.

Courageous, personally costly experiences are worth boasting about. There ought to be some reward for the price paid.

I can't argue with that.

But disdain? No. Credit where credit is due.

Best thing I bought for my Royal Enfield

 I've often written that my 1999 Royal Enfield Bullet "lives in the real world." 

I have never sought to "baby" it. 

As a commuter I rode it night and day, rain and shine, racking up, probably, 50,000 miles (odometer eventually broke). 

I've tried to stay "vintage" to the extent that I feel guilty riding with my cell phone in my pocket. If riders got along without that in 1955, I should be able to do the same (but I don't). 

But there is a limit. And I have finally crossed it.

Just because I ride a retro motorcycle, of vintage design (circa 1954), is no reason I shouldn't face the facts and buy a battery tender.

Everybody seems to recommend them, but I was stubborn and did without.

Still, I'm not a daily commuter anymore, and sitting idle between rides isn't good for a battery. When an otherwise newish battery started showing signs it was getting tired I finally did it.

I bought a NOCO Genius 1A battery charger and maintainer. I have no connection to that brand or to any brand of battery charger, but I do love this thing.

It's cheap and, thank goodness, it's simple.

It's about as idiot-proof as can be. This is important because I just don't "get" electricity. Once we get past putting fresh batteries in a flashlight, I'm usually lost.

Installing a new heat element in the kitchen oven resulted in a flash of lightning inside the oven, six inches from my face at the time. You really DO have to turn off the juice at the breaker, I learned. Lucky the screwdriver had a rubber handle.

Despite the simplicity of the NOCO Genius 1A I DID manage to get things wrong and initially set it for the wrong type of battery. This resulted in the lid blowing off the battery in my Royal Enfield Bullet.

Lesson: read and re-read the instructions until they are understood!

Fortunately no other harm seemed to have been done, and I replaced the lid.

Now I can go on vacation for weeks and come back to find that my Royal Enfield will start.

Or, at least, if it doesn't, it won't be the battery's fault.

Worried about something? Let it ride

 A 2022 Royal Enfield Meteor 350 for sale in New York state advertises this: "Great bike. Great gas mileage." 

So why is he selling?

"Have too much else to find time to ride," the seller writes.

Too much what? I wonder.

Too many other motorcycles?

Too many other toys?

Too many other hobbies?

Too many other interests?

Too many jobs to do?

Too many duties?

Too many worries?

All of the above?

We've all been there. We put off a ride on a nice day because there are things to do around the house, or a good game on TV, or too many things, pleasant or not, that just have to get done first.

Admit it: sometimes you just take time to worry about things. You turn something over and over in your mind, wondering how to fix it. Until it's fixed you don't allow yourself to really enjoy anything.

Something is bugging you.

If something is bugging you it just doesn't seem right to ride. Motorcycling demands your full attention; it has to be top of your mind or it's too dangerous. 

And yet you know that riding clears your brain, giving it the time off to allow joy and possible solutions to work their way to the surface.

Riding restores clarity. It gives you the opportunity to get outside yourself and look inwards.

Things that are really important to you will start to get their footing as soon as you put the little annoyances away by leaving them at the side of the road.

Riding is not a cure-all, of course. If you're not in the mood maybe you are better off on the couch.

But... maybe not.

That thing you were trying to fix? Try forgetting it for a little while while you ride.

Wherever you ride to, you may find yourself nearer a solution when you get back.

Riders: NO, we don't enjoy your music

 I have always referred to this blog as offering "cheerful news about Royal Enfield motorcycles."

But, sometimes, I just have to get something uncheerful off my chest.

I am about to dump on motorcyclists (never on Royal Enfields) who blast loud music through handlebar speakers as they rumble through cities.

It's often just the edge of bearable that these bikes also feature loud exhausts. Nonriders are at least used to loud pipes. Some like them, some don't. Some accept the argument that they're a safety feature and put up with their sound.

Exhaust noise is an element of internal combustion motorcycling. It has to be controlled to some extent, and that extent is partly a matter of taste, partly a matter of law.

If you're in a situation where you feel you need loud music to warn pedestrians that you are coming, well, then, go ahead, dial it up. Use it as you would a siren: if it's called for.

To carelessly and needlessly foist one's own personal taste in music, at high volume, on pedestrians, is just unkind. Inconsiderate. And unnecessary.

Is that the way your mother raised you?

The chances that anyone wants to enjoy a snippet of your favorite tune at the noise level of a leaf blower are zero.

Frankly, and even I hesitate to say this: blasting unwelcome "music" at others is something the driver of an automobile would do. Yes, it's that despicable.

Let me ask you this question: Honestly. Is there ANY OTHER WAY than this to effectively make motorcycles less welcome in the city? I can't think of one. (Maybe riding on the sidewalks?)

To be reasonable, yes, it's only music.

Music is not a jack hammer, an urban sound we accept with a shrug. It is not the back-up beeper of a garbage truck, a noise that is intentionally irritating.

So what's the big deal? Motorcycling is not, to say the least, intrinsically about being polite. It is a legal activity that is pleasing to the rider on many levels and, hopefully, only mildly intolerable to everyone else.

Motorcycling includes being seen and being heard. Even the Distinguished Gentleman's Ride is fundamentally a chance to show off, albeit for a good cause.

On the other hand, listeners know that your sound system comes with a handy volume control. 

Jackhammers do not.

You could easily be considerate, with a poke of your finger. It's the fact that you instead choose to impose that irritates.

You not only impose on our patience, you revel in doing so. If our situation was reversed, and I was instead subjecting you without cause to, say, my childish attempt to learn to play the French horn, you'd be annoyed, I guarantee it.

That's all it is: an uncalled for annoyance.

So why would you do it?

Partly for the pleasure of hearing your favorite music. Rolling along, it sounds to you like your theme song. There are great driving songs.

I realize that earphones are not the answer, and are not even legal in many states (here is a great state-by-state guide by the Motorcycle Legal Foundation).

The only answer is to be considerate. In the city turn off the music, or moderate it if you can still enjoy it at reduced volume.

Know that I do not hate you. I don't even dislike YOU. It's the experience I dislike.

I am not going to suggest that riders who blare music in the city be ticketed for noise pollution. The choice is up to you.

But be reasonable. You have a nice bike, an expensive bike. You're wearing good gear, and  you look like you know how to ride.

Don't turn yourself into a cheap boombox.

Do you risk riding without a phone?

 I returned from my riding my old Royal Enfield Bullet recently, set my helmet down on my desk and noticed my iPhone, plugged in and charging on the desk.

WHAT?!!!

I had been riding without my phone!

What if something had happened?

A wave of dismay crashed onto the beach of my imagination.

I saw myself stranded by the side of the road, no way to call my wife (or an Uber) to come get me. No one just "hails" a cab anymore. There are no pay phones. I can't blame strangers for being suspicious of anyone asking to "borrow" their phone.

What would I do?

Well. What did I used to do, in the days before I carried a communication device in my pocket?

Mind you, that was a very long time ago. My newspaper job meant I was issued a company cell phone almost as soon as they were invented.

But I wasn't totally without resources.

First, I would try to fix the problem myself. That didn't always work, but sometimes just struggling with a problem attracted a Good Samaritan.

More than once, someone with more knowhow than me came to my rescue on their own initiative. These occasions left me with a certain amount of faith in the goodness of people.

In fact, I've been helped so often that I'm left with a definite regret that I haven't done more to help others.

And there's the added self-knowledge that, more than once, the people I chose to help appeared to be lone females. Oh, what a Galahad.

I smile because I "paid" for those instances a time or two. I changed a flat tire for a young woman and worked up a real sweat because the tire iron in her trunk wasn't the correct size for the lug nuts. I finally got them off by holding the oversize wrench at an angle and straining against it.

In the darkness I didn't realize the correct tire iron was also in the trunk until I was done and she handed it to me, explaining that for some reason her boyfriend had put "an extra" in the trunk.

If cell phones had been invented, she would have just called him instead of letting me help.

Real retro riding? Forget about it

 I've written, in this blog, that riding an old Royal Enfield Bullet is fun in part because it tells me what it was like to ride a vintage motorcycle. 

But that's not true. 

This is because "what it was like to ride a vintage motorcycle" included having the skills of a vintage motorcyclist. And I don't have them. 

Oh, I can master the use of the kick start lever, the neutral finder lever, the carburetor enrichment lever, and so forth. All that is not enough. 

The fact is that motorcycle riders of old must have been better riders. They had to be. 

They rode more, in all weather, on a schedule that tolerated no delay getting to work. Roads were worse. Tires were not as good. 

Hills, even mountains, had to be climbed if they were in the way. Streams might lack bridges. A rider might have a map, but he could not have all maps in his pocket (on a phone) as do I.

These are all incidentals and, if I wanted to, I could correct most of them by traveling to a rustic destination and roughing it without my phone (not that I would ever do this).

But that still wouldn't be enough. Here's why:

I live in Florida. Yes, the weather is good (no chance of ice ever) but the big thing is, it's flat! I never encounter more than a gentle hill.

Even more significant is that I never have a mountain on one side of a curve. There literally is no such thing in my experience as a "blind corner."

My corners never get tighter than my sight tells me to expect; my corners never hide an oncoming vehicle crossing the center line -- or even an unseen puddle.

Riders who regularly enjoy canyon carving probably can't realize what a difference this makes. For me, not having a clear sight line out of a corner dished up before I even enter the corner is akin to being suddenly blinded.

A few minutes of riding in the California mountains taught me what a difference blind corners make. Pure, visceral disorientation and fear washed over me.

Another thing: Yes, Florida has trees. It's a swamp. But, since modern roads have to be built up to cross a swamp, the trees are rarely directly alongside the road, as they are in rural areas elsewhere.

To a Florida rider, miles of trees just a shoulder width away feel like an impending appointment with the gallows.

In the U.S., many of these tree-chocked forests are well supplied with deer. I have spoken with a former motorcyclist crippled for life in a collision with a deer.

Vintage-era motorcyclists, even in Florida, experienced these challenging conditions and learned to live with their fears.

Their big secret was that they had to.

I don't. Because even if I didn't live in Florida, I have a comfy, air conditioned automobile with an automatic transmission, navigation screen and cruise control (what mountain?) to use if I want.

I'm not complaining. I am just realizing that riding my obsolete Royal Enfield Bullet is not teaching me what riding was like for a rider in the 1940s. It's obsolete, but nothing else involved in the experience is.

So what am I going to do about this?

Realistically, probably nothing.

Recently our refrigerator broke and my wife and I lived without one until a new fridge (with a blessed automatic ice maker) could be delivered. It wasn't a fun few days, or even educational.

"Our grandparents lived without a refrigerator; why can't we?" I asked my wife.

She wasn't interested in finding the answer to that question. She just wanted to know when the new machine would arrive.

I just wanted a cold beer.

I just want to ride my motorcy-cle

"Your father is really grumpy," my wife advised one of our daughters, over the phone.

"I AM NOT GRUMPY!" I grumped, loud enough for daughter to hear it 1,500 miles away.

"I protest: I am not grumpy," I told my wife, after she hung up.

"I'm sad," I said.

It sounded like whining and, OK, maybe I was whining.

I just wanted "IT" to stop.

"IT" is all the miscellaneous household chores that converge on a lazy husband once every couple of decades.

We had the interior of the house painted. We got a new roof. We got the soffits repaired. (What are "soffits?" my wife asked). We had new hurricane-proof widows and doors installed for the entire house.

Sure, real men with real muscles performed all the actual work. All we had to do was pay for it. All I physically had to do was drag furniture out of the way and cut back the vegetation where needed.

But wait just a minute. The windows and doors were all changed in one day. To prepare for this, ALL the furniture in the house had to be dragged away from EACH AND EVERY door or window.

Think about it. Think about what a double bed and mattress weigh.

It seems like a minor thing, but every window in a house has a "window treatment." Blinds. Shades. Drapes. Curtains. Valances. They all have to come off.

And, afterwards, consider how much dust is left by the process of pounding out every door and window, and then pounding in new ones in their place. Plenty of dust, let me assure you, and workmen, being workmen, don't clean all of it up.

When you're done with that cleaning up, you have to put back all the window treatments.

Now it is time to have the exterior of the house painted. ("What are fascia boards?" my wife asked.)

Once again, plants will need to be cut back, outdoor furniture will need to be pulled away. The RING doorbell I just installed will have to come off, along with the mailbox and porch light, maybe more. 

And eventually it will all have to be put back.

Meanwhile, my Royal Enfield motorcycle sits in the garage, ignored, covered with an old bedsheet to keep the dust off.

I finally got to go for a ride today (just to keep the battery up). Traffic was bad, heat and humidity terrible, rain clouds threatened. None of that mattered. Riding felt great.

It's really clear to me: the best mental-health medicine in the house lives under a sheet in the garage.

Arlo Guthrie was right.

What stops me riding my Royal Enfield?

Blame it on the mulch heap in front of the garage door. 

 I haven't been riding my Royal Enfield motorcycle much this summer. Summers in Florida are hot and humid, and this has been a summer for the record books. 

We're retired, so my wife and I have vacationed out of state: in Iceland (!), the Adirondack  Mountains and Montreal. 

I sure can't complain about those cool trips. We're lucky to have been able to take them. But please don't think I have escaped the heat entirely. 

In the summer, in Florida, everything grows. My neighbor hires a guy with a machete to beat back the growth in his yard. I haven't gone that far yet, but I have considered it. 

We don't have a lawn -- too difficult to keep grass alive (the cinch bugs are voracious). But we have everything else that's green. 

My wife has a bit of a green thumb: where there is bare ground, she sees the need for a plant.

Not all survive, but those that do need trimming and weeding, most of which she does.

I tackle the big projects. Trimming the mango tree was a five-day job.

The two big oaks in the yard are beyond me, so we hired an arborist to do them. I asked him to dump the shredded leaves and branches in the driveway. From there I shoveled the heap off to serve as mulch.

It rains at least a bit every day. Wet mulch is not light in weight, but it feels environmentally friendly so I use what nature dumps on me rather than buy it in bags at Home Depot.

There's good weather coming, of course, but probably on the other side of at least a couple upcoming hurricane scares. It's the price we pay to miss out on snow and ice.

In the meantime there are beautiful sunsets, warm waves at the beach and the sound of rain on the roof to console us.

I hope you are making the best of your summer.

What's your excuse for not riding today?

 Words you see in ads for used motorcycles:

"It's not getting ridden."

"I haven't used it much."

"I just don't ride anymore."

Can you hear the regret? I can.

Because I know the feeling.

Life interferes.

I could go for a ride today.

Or I could do a million other things. Not many of those things would give me the joy and satisfaction of a ride on my Royal Enfield.

But there are chores that "need done." Whether I like it or not.

And there are good deeds I ought to do for other people. My wife has done without a light in her closet for years. It will take me all day to replace that burned out fixture, but doesn't she deserve to be able to see the clothes in her closet?

More than I deserve a motorcycle ride, at least.

Sometimes life plain out intrudes. An elderly member of the family passed on recently. Certainly not an unexpected occurrence, but it packed a punch more powerful than anticipated. Suddenly a new light installed in the closet is the kind of thing you do in hopes that it will brighten life.

And, finally, there is this: the best way to enjoy a motorcycle is to ride it. If you don't ride it you won't enjoy it.

Maintenance suffers because you don't get around to it, don't notice the need for it. Eventually, you do don your helmet and find your motorcycle doesn't want to go for a ride.

In my life, the solution to all this seemed simple: commute by motorcycle. Both the motorcycle and I were happier when we got together 10 times a week (coming and going) to take on the world.

I thought that when I retired I would have even more time to ride. Maybe you will.

But I hadn't developed any riding friendships and I had sworn to myself that I would never carry a passenger. Didn't want to make life decisions for someone else. So I have a solo seat on my Royal Enfield.

If I'm going to ride, I need to decide to ride. And just go. It's up to me.

But, today, I'd better get busy on those chores.