Welcome to my Hell
A day full of rain and a night of clear skies brought us into the high 20s last night. The pups got to sleep in the garage on a stack of blankets. The thermostat in my hallway was flipped to "heat".
The choke was pulled way out when I started the bike this morning. It wanted to fight me a bit, but turned over after a second try and squeeled with high RMPs while warming up. I suppose its time for me to change my oil. It has just about 10,000 miles on it since it was last dumped and refreshed. I know the bike doesn't want to run with that thick cold stuff hugging the bottom of the engine.
I was as warm as I could be with long johns under my jeans, a neoprene high-neck shirt and a sweatshirt under my leather jacket. My eyes watered as I putzed through my one horse town with my visor open. The Carbondale State Bank's lighted sign said it was 31 degrees.
This windchill calculator shows that if the temperature is 31 and the winds are blowing at 90mph (well, that was the speed I was moving once on the highway ... I figure the air is still moving past me as though its blowing and I'm standing still), then it feels like 8.8 degrees (F) or -12.9 (C). My fingertips will agree with that assesment.
It's a straight shot from my home to my work. If I tuck down in enough, I can nearly fit my entire helmet behind my windscreen, also known as The Plastic Savior From The Cold. In this position, I can keep the wind from sucking up into my helmet, freezing my lips, my ears, and my snot. I shimmy my left hand down into my bike, between the fairing and the frame, right next to one of the radiators. My right hand just has to take it. My Icon gloves leave little to no protection from the cold - but at least they're flashy.
As I get into town, I start furiously moving my hands. After riding those 16 miles, my fingers refuse to respond in a timely fashion. They take their sweet time and I'm worried about having to let go of the throttle and using the clutch. While barreling down the exit ramp, I slide my right hand off of the clip-on entirely, tuck it behind my right knee and pull the clutch in and out while dropping gears. Once in the turn lane, I am stuck behind a fleet of cars at a red light. Hop off the bike, and stand behind it, each hand behind it's very own exhaust pipe. I wait as long as possible, letting those bad boys warm up. Light turns green, hop back on the bike, and make a mad dash toward my office. The ass-end did what it could to squirrel around in the black ice in the middle of the intersection. Hold on and slide it 'til it grips. Run the rest of the surface streets quickly. Scream into the parking lot. Barely get the kick stand down. Rush into the building without getting my helmet or gloves off.
This is the painful part. Luckily, the bathroom is right next to the entrance. I bust into there and flip on the hot water. Slowly, my hands come out of my gloves. My skin is bright red, my nails are purple, and I mostly just want to cry. Hesitantly, I put my hands into the water as its gradulaly warming up. My eyes close tight, and I can feel my mouth opening in some sort of a silent scream. God it hurts.
I believe I stood like that for about 4-5 minutes only moving to adjust the temperature in hopes of not going to the other extreme - scalding my hands.
Once my body temperature is back on the rise, I peel off my layers, throw on my business casual gear, and lug my stuff to my desk. Everyone in my office thinks I'm a nut job. Not necessarily just because of this, but also because of the many times I've ridden in the rain, the hail, and when we've had tornado warnings. But, what they don't understand is that once my bike is garaged for the winter, I will be dismanteling it (again) for upgrades, more repairs, and a new paint job (yes, another one). That'll be about three months without it, unless I haphazardly throw it together for a night o' fun toward the end of the year. They don't understand that it is the starting point for my slippery slope into a freezing cold depression caused by a winter full of ice, snow, and a lack of my favorite things. With that, I'll ride 'til I can't take it anymore.
The choke was pulled way out when I started the bike this morning. It wanted to fight me a bit, but turned over after a second try and squeeled with high RMPs while warming up. I suppose its time for me to change my oil. It has just about 10,000 miles on it since it was last dumped and refreshed. I know the bike doesn't want to run with that thick cold stuff hugging the bottom of the engine.
I was as warm as I could be with long johns under my jeans, a neoprene high-neck shirt and a sweatshirt under my leather jacket. My eyes watered as I putzed through my one horse town with my visor open. The Carbondale State Bank's lighted sign said it was 31 degrees.
This windchill calculator shows that if the temperature is 31 and the winds are blowing at 90mph (well, that was the speed I was moving once on the highway ... I figure the air is still moving past me as though its blowing and I'm standing still), then it feels like 8.8 degrees (F) or -12.9 (C). My fingertips will agree with that assesment.
It's a straight shot from my home to my work. If I tuck down in enough, I can nearly fit my entire helmet behind my windscreen, also known as The Plastic Savior From The Cold. In this position, I can keep the wind from sucking up into my helmet, freezing my lips, my ears, and my snot. I shimmy my left hand down into my bike, between the fairing and the frame, right next to one of the radiators. My right hand just has to take it. My Icon gloves leave little to no protection from the cold - but at least they're flashy.
As I get into town, I start furiously moving my hands. After riding those 16 miles, my fingers refuse to respond in a timely fashion. They take their sweet time and I'm worried about having to let go of the throttle and using the clutch. While barreling down the exit ramp, I slide my right hand off of the clip-on entirely, tuck it behind my right knee and pull the clutch in and out while dropping gears. Once in the turn lane, I am stuck behind a fleet of cars at a red light. Hop off the bike, and stand behind it, each hand behind it's very own exhaust pipe. I wait as long as possible, letting those bad boys warm up. Light turns green, hop back on the bike, and make a mad dash toward my office. The ass-end did what it could to squirrel around in the black ice in the middle of the intersection. Hold on and slide it 'til it grips. Run the rest of the surface streets quickly. Scream into the parking lot. Barely get the kick stand down. Rush into the building without getting my helmet or gloves off.
This is the painful part. Luckily, the bathroom is right next to the entrance. I bust into there and flip on the hot water. Slowly, my hands come out of my gloves. My skin is bright red, my nails are purple, and I mostly just want to cry. Hesitantly, I put my hands into the water as its gradulaly warming up. My eyes close tight, and I can feel my mouth opening in some sort of a silent scream. God it hurts.
I believe I stood like that for about 4-5 minutes only moving to adjust the temperature in hopes of not going to the other extreme - scalding my hands.
Once my body temperature is back on the rise, I peel off my layers, throw on my business casual gear, and lug my stuff to my desk. Everyone in my office thinks I'm a nut job. Not necessarily just because of this, but also because of the many times I've ridden in the rain, the hail, and when we've had tornado warnings. But, what they don't understand is that once my bike is garaged for the winter, I will be dismanteling it (again) for upgrades, more repairs, and a new paint job (yes, another one). That'll be about three months without it, unless I haphazardly throw it together for a night o' fun toward the end of the year. They don't understand that it is the starting point for my slippery slope into a freezing cold depression caused by a winter full of ice, snow, and a lack of my favorite things. With that, I'll ride 'til I can't take it anymore.