When the bike goes into hibernation

All summer, there has been time. At least in theory. That road was going to be ridden one weekend. We were going to stop by that lake and make coffee. And there was definitely going to be a night spent sleeping in a shelter.

Then October arrived.

Now there you stand, studying the weather forecast with a level of precision that ought to qualify you for a job at the Swedish Meteorological and Hydrological Institute. Twelve degrees on Saturday. Maybe thirteen if the sun comes out. The rain doesn’t seem to arrive until after three.

There’s probably time for a ride. And so the negotiations begin. With the weather, with the calendar and with that small, sensible voice pointing out that there are, in fact, things that need doing at home. That voice, incidentally, has never understood motorcycles.

Because there is something special about those final rides of the season. Suddenly, you notice things that simply passed you by in July. The light between the trees. The smell of damp woodland. A leaf spinning across the road. The warmth of the sun when you emerge from the shade.

And you are quite happy to linger over your coffee a little longer. There is no great reason to hurry home. After all, all that is waiting there is someone who will eventually have to make a decision about winter storage. And that person happens to be me.

Winter storage. A desperately practical phrase for something that carries rather more emotion than that. It sounds as though you are putting away the garden furniture. Bringing in the cushions, draining the hosepipe and feeling satisfied that the job is done.

But a motorcycle has carried you through an entire summer. To places you had been longing to visit, and to places you did not even know existed. It has stood beside you while the coffee brewed, while sausages cooked over the fire and while a conversation with a stranger was allowed to take exactly as long as it needed.

It has also had the good manners never to ask whether that detour was really necessary. So I think we should say that the bike goes into hibernation instead. That feels far more appropriate. It gets washed and fussed over, brought in under cover and allowed to rest. I am left with a helmet on the shelf and a peculiar tendency to wander out into the garage without any particular reason.

Just to check on it. Perhaps rest a hand on the seat for a moment. It is difficult to explain to someone who sees nothing more than a vehicle.

When the engine has fallen silent after that final ride, I usually stand there for a while. Take off my helmet, pull off my gloves and listen to the little ticks and clicks of a motorcycle cooling down. A moment ago, we were on our way somewhere. Now we are standing here.

That is when summer comes back in fragments.

That lovely road. The laughter at the roadside stop. Coffee in the clearing. Friends around the fire. A completely pointless detour that turned out to be one of the best parts of the entire day. All of it came home with me, even though none of it ever fitted in the luggage. Of course there is a little melancholy. There were more roads left to ride. There always are. And some trips never happened, however confidently you said, “next weekend”.

But as winter draws closer, something else begins to happen. The map comes out. Someone mentions a road, a café or a place where you can pitch a tent. You look through photographs from the summer and realise that the next season has already begun to take shape.

The bike carries on sleeping. I lie awake planning. But it is only October. I haven’t put the gloves away just yet.

They say it’s going to be sunny on Saturday.