Why you're always glad you took the Royal Enfield

I imagined myself seeing the dawn come up as I rode my Royal Enfield.

 Royal Enfield motorcyclists know this: you're always glad you rode the motorcycle instead of taking the car. Always. 

 How can this be? Perhaps this example will explain. 

 "Ack!" my wife said the other day. 

 "I just realized that I have a League meeting tomorrow at the same time as your dental appointment."  

 And we only have one car. 

Perfect: a chance to ride my Royal Enfield motorcycle!

I don't like to go to the dentist. No one does. But what is the motorcycle for, if not to take me places, even unexciting places like a dental chair?

Normally I wouldn't have thought of taking the bike. Traffic is thick around my dentist's office, and there's very little parking there. Easier just to hop in the car, sit in the traffic with the air conditioning running, and find a space in a public lot a couple blocks from the office.

But I've been trying to think of more excuses to ride and here one was. Better yet, this would not just be a matter of riding around in circles burning gas to "keep the battery up." Oh, no. I would have to get to a specific place at a specific time.

Compared to my normal lackadaisical roaming, a trip to a dental appointment is practically a time/distance road rally.

I made my preparations first thing in the morning, readying my 1999 Royal Enfield and setting out the clothes I would wear: tough enough for riding, but nice enough for a dental visit.

Once again I cursed myself for allowing my riding gear to be dispersed all over the house. It should be always ready, the way fire fighters keep their equipment at the fire station. I shouldn't have to go digging in the closet for my boots, fetching my jacket from another closet and tracking down ear plugs in the garage.

Now where did I leave my gloves?

I've been having this recurring daydream, in which friends propose a ride to a distant location, but assume that my Royal Enfield and I will have to skip it as it will require hours of riding on the expressway. An expressway is not a good environment for my 1999 Royal Enfield Bullet, with its maximum sustained cruising speed under the prevailing 75 mph. Way, way under.

I'll show them! (I imagined.)

I'd tie a blanket on the rear fender, throw on my riding gear and charge onto the side roads the night before they planned to leave. I pictured my friends gathering late morning to linger over a heavy breakfast of pancakes, sausage and coffee before starting their ride.

From the saddle of my Royal Enfield I'd already have seen the dawn come up, and be hundreds of miles ahead. My only breakfast would be a hurried cup of coffee at a gas stop.

Wouldn't they be surprised to find me already at the destination, curled up in the blanket next to my Royal Enfield?

Truth be told, the dental hygienist was not all that surprised to find me on time at the office.

"I rode on a motorcycle once," she said. "It was scary."

Justified or not, she made me feel like a dare devil.

Yeah. I'm glad I took the bike.