Radiohead's Thom Yorke is singing in my head, "I use to fly like Peter Pan... All the children flew when I touched their hands. When you've got to feel it in your bones..." as I wake up from a nap still feeling like shit from whatever creeping crud I have. As I walk into the kitchen and wrap my arms around Scottie's little waist and through waves of her tantalizing red hair I break into my best Thom Yorke impression, singing out loud the verse I'm on. My singing is made worse with the mix of "Barry White meet's 12 year old boy" that the crud has bestowed upon my vocal cords.
She roles her blue eyes and spins around to kiss me in one of those "woman moves" that mystifies me kinda like the "remove bra without taking off shirt" thing her kind can do. I explain to her that it's a song about feeling sick and tired of being sick and tired (an anthem for me, really). "Clearly," I begin to explain to her pursed lips and shaking head, "the new bike is sending me telepathic messages and I must obey." Setting the teapot on the cooktop and pulling a couple tea bags out of the cupboard I provide some interpretation, "Obivously I'm 'Peetah Pahhn' and 'flying' is clearly riding the bike..."
"You're an idiot."
Women... Sheesh. She explains that what I really want to do is catch last nights episode of NUMB3RS off the Tivo with her. Hmm, maybe so and afterall what do I know, right? When the show ends I can't take it anymore! The call is too loud and the compulsion to indulge myslef in the rich velvety 152hp German Chocolate Cake parked in the garage is too much for frail finite humanity to bear any longer. I throw on a sweater, grab my Santiago jacket, pop the top case off the back and bring that beautiful four cylinder to life with a promise that it's only a "short ride, Honey."
Loudoun County has some beautiful country roads. Lime Kiln, off of 15 south of Leesburg is one of them. It twists and turns past Goose Creek and snakes through some old farms and estates whose stone fences line the road in varying stages of antiquity and freshly rebuilt. The light and shadow flicker as I coast through this surreal tunnel of burgandy, gold, and that brilliant firey oranges and yellows of the big leafed maples. Lifting the visor a bit let's in the falling leaves smell and a hint of the cow's over the next rise. There's that crisp light that only is possible at 4:00 on a cool autumn day and the crisp air pulls me out of this dream state to a nice photo opp and I dismount and grab some pics.
The comfort setting on the ESA is great on these old "haven't been paved in 15 years" roads and 4th gear as a wide range of application on these up and down twisty roads of Western Loudoun. I notice that when I shift as fast as I can the tranny doesn't "clunk" but lazy riding and sleepy shifting belays an overly mechanical industrial bang that throws the poetry of the bike away for a brief second. Four times I was shifting into 2nd only to meet unlabored revs and nuetral - but I'm going with operator error (aka., medicine head) for now on that one.
I still can't get over how freaking comfortable this bike is - two hours and I don't feel like I was even on a bike at all. The ride across the country and back in seven days is looking really plausible. I return home after this brief interlude to gain additional evidence to the support that wacky theory of Mr. Einstien's relativity; my "short" two hour ride on my DGM rocket ship was in fact a "long" near-worry inducing voyage for those at planet Home now aged, mysteriously, more than I have.
all relative, ain't it?
Here's a couple shots of Starship Ecstacy: