I woke up possessed by the urge to ride, so I gassed up the Wing and headed to the top of Mt. Lemon, only a few miles from my home in NE Tucson, and blessedly, always 25-30° cooler.
The road to the top winds and curves for 26 miles, and today for some reason I had it almost all to myself, up and down. Only a few slowpoke cars, and those pulled over to let me by. I was comfortably swooping through the twisties 20-25 mph over posted speeds, thinking what hot stuff I was, when some chick on a Kawasaki Concours blew past me at 40 over. But that was fine — I was enjoying the ride, and anyway, if you press a Wing too hard you just wind up scraping bottom and frightening yourself.
When I got to the top, I found a place to park on the edge of a sea of sportbikes, had a cup of coffee at an outdoor cafe, and then, reluctantly, headed back down into the heat sink that is home. But not before noting the reading on the cafe’s outdoor thermometer: 77° F.
The kind of morning that reminds you — as if you needed reminding — why you love motorcycles.