Pushing a Royal Enfield for exercise

 I'm looking at a bright red bruise on the inside of my right kneecap. 

It's just about at the level of the the chrome kickstart lever of my Royal Enfield motorcycle. There is a reason for that. 

I pushed the motorcycle home this afternoon, a little over two miles, sitting on it and propelling it along by waddling ducklike. 

I made pretty good time this way: Google maps said the walk alone would have taken 46 minutes, and here I duck-walked the 400-pound motorcycle the whole way in only an hour more.

The price paid was the bruise on my kneecap, as every so often my right leg would catch the kickstart lever where it curves out to miss the side of the motorcycle. I considered stopping and removing the lever to make my waddling less painful.

There was one good thing about the pain, however. It was forcing me to keep my feet well spread (the foot peg was the main hazard on the left side).

The great danger was that the motorcycle might tip past the point of control and fall. My wide stance prevented that.

Still, it wasn't easy, and I had to stop at a park along the way to get a drink of water from the drinking fountain. Thank goodness that fountain was there.

As usual, along the way, people would ask me how old my Royal Enfield is. I'd give my usual answer:

"Not as old as it looks. 1999. But I AM as old as I look!"

Hardly anyone seemed to take note that the motorcycle motor wasn't running, as I pushed myself along.

"You don't see many like that anymore," one man commented.

"Maybe because they don't run!" I responded.

But, oddly, I still felt complimented even though the Royal Enfield was not functioning. It's a problem with the carburetor, or the throttle cable, I believe.

I'll fix it tomorrow. I've had enough exercise for today.

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.

Saying goodbye to the bikes we loved

No matter our age, we hate to part with vehicles we enjoyed.

 My seven-year-old granddaughter caught us in the act of putting her toddler bicycle in the car trunk, for a trip to a toy donation center. 

"Not that!" the girl exclaimed. "It has memories in it." 

The fact that the tall seven-year-old girl couldn't fit on a toddler bicycle anymore momentarily meant nothing to her. 

She remembered loving that little push-along bike, and didn't want to part with it. 

Of course I instantly related to her distress. She wanted to cling to that two-wheeler the way I cling to my 1999 Royal Enfield Bullet motorcycle. 

I've treasured other vehicles, too, in my life; and had to let them go.

I'm elderly now, but I still mourn the pedal car I learned (at five years of age) to "drive."

I remember my first real bicycle, a heavy Schwinn, that taught me how to lubricate bearings.

I mourn the three 10-speed bicycles that carried me all over town -- and all of which were eventually stolen! (One of them twice.)

Add to these the list of automobiles I have owned. The first was a 1958 MGA 1500 with 114,000 known miles. I couldn't afford to keep that MGA running.

Later cars that I could afford soon defeated me by rusting past respectability. (My generation of auto owners will always bear the scar of seeing our cars melt away after two winters of salted roadways.)

In a fated (stupid) effort to succeed where failure was inevitable, I owned two 1967 Pontiac Tempests and two Chevrolet Vegas. The replacement cars rusted just as fast as the originals, of course.

I loved the style of my 1980 Pontiac Grand Prix, but my children complained that rust holes in the roof meant that when it rained, it rained on them in the back seat.

Wary now of fickle machines, I've only ever owned one other motorcycle besides my Royal Enfield. 

That Honda's plastic fenders never rusted, but its exhaust pipes quickly did. (When I see used Nighthawk 250s advertised I examine the photos closely looking for the rusty pipes that defeated me.)

My granddaughter will learn that material goods ultimately fail us. We outgrow them; they wear out or deteriorate even as we struggle to restore them.

Pleasant memories of things do no harm. I especially enjoy the ones that remind us of pleasant times.

Such as all those times I chased my then-toddler granddaughter down a hill as she coasted on her push bike.

Because, ultimately, it is the people whose memory we really treasure.