Make Time

The sun has already risen over the Sacramento Mountains. It’s 7:30 in the morning. High strung and coltish, the 500cc Husqvarna spins freely at a hair-trigger 5900 rpms. I shouldn’t be doing this. I have no time and way too many projects that are more important. Part of the problem is that we’ve moved house three times in the last couple of years. Everything we own is in cardboard boxes or blue plastic tubs. We seem to be homeless more than at home.

Ahead of me lies the north/south flat of the Tularosa Valley. On my right are dark, sun shadowed foothills and each rising mountain range to the east grows lighter in color until the last and final one, Sierra Blanca, cuts an almost imperceptible line across the sky. Or is that actually the sky?

Every time we move into a rental place the damn thing sells out from under us. It’s happened twice by the same annoying real estate agent. It’s like she’s stalking us, waiting to pounce only after we settle in and start to unpack the 1000-count bed sheets and the good dinnerware. When we finally realized that this one particular Devil Agent was devoting all her waking hours to selling any house we moved into we caved and bought a cheap wreck of a place high in the hills overlooking the Tularosa Valley.

When I say wreck of a place I really mean it. The place was a shambles. Our first plan was to burn the joint down but that turned out to be more trouble than fixing it. Our remodel schedule has sped up due to Devil-Agent and it’s been 24-7 for the better part of a month. You wouldn’t think 500 square feet could absorb so much remodeling. I was cussing a blue streak and throwing expensive tools when my wife told me I had to go on a ride. “You’re no good to me like this. Get out.”

The air is crisp and cool through Corona and I swing onto Highway 3 to cut the Vaughn corner. I’m heading towards Santa Fe to see the Motorado vintage bike show. It’s an annual event open to all motorcycle brands and free to the public.

Highway 3 intersects Highway 285, a four-laner, where I turn left and wick the Husky up to 73 mph. Right in the strongest part of the powerband, the slightest throttle movement causes the motorcycle to leap forward. A lightweight, powerful motorcycle ripping down the road: I’d be lying if I said I felt the least bit guilty about leaving my wife with a dripping paint brush in her hand.

Pulling into the parking lot at Motorado is beautiful. Old motorcycles are everywhere. I tippy-toe the Husqvarna under a tree and run my cable lock through my jacket sleeve and helmet chin bar before attaching it to the luggage rack. I wander worry-free, man.

There are Maicos and Montesas, Yamahas and Suzukis. As usual at these shows I see at least one bike I’ve never heard of, a British/Husqvarna mash up called a Sprite GT. A sweet ’75 RD350 rests in the far southwest corner. Very cool. The turn out is good, maybe 75 vintage bikes and the crowd is impressive. I’ve got to ride Godzilla up here next year. Time to go.

Traveling south through Moriarty the temperature rises into the 100’s. Damn it’s hot. Approaching the 300-mile mark my living arrangements and chore list melt away as the Husky’s narrow seat becomes the epicenter of my world. Shifting my butt from side to side, it takes all the will I have to keep riding.

Four hundred miles on a Husqvarna SMR510 is like 2000 miles in Indian Chief years. I’m tired and sore but it hurts so good. You know, there are many good reasons to blow off a ride: it’s all too easy to cop out and fix the faucet or build that pump house. If it’s not chores it’s work or family commitments. If you get too busy you’ll soon forget that you enjoy the simple act of riding a motorcycle. Don’t let that happen. Get out there and make some time before all of yours runs out.