It's a long winter for my silver 1000S. She's parked outside, under a cover. A straight edged hump of grey thick waterproof plastic rises under the dim street lamps, propped up by the folded mirrors. Gradually, the cover descends towards the back of the bike, caressing the top of the tank, before rising again to tightly outline the profile of the rear cowl. When it rains, water collects above the seat; a big, greenish patch of powdery mulch bears witness to the prevalent weather of this island.
The cover is too short, and the rear wheel is left partially exposed. The fat tyre peeks out from under the hem, its blue edges a souvenir of exciting past rides, its grooves holding the promise of more fun in the sun. It's tempting and vaguely immodest, which is why I park my rubbish bin in front of it. A chain threads through the front spoke, tying my baby to the brick wall like a nose-ringed big cow (a gazelle she's not, so I might be unflattering to her, but I am fair).
Patiently she waits for me, under the rain and through freezing fog. Since last October, when I returned the tax disc, life for her has been restricted to the few square feet of the parking lot. What a shame, for someone like her, with long legs and a mighty, generous heart.
When the weekend comes, I lift the plastic over, on one side, hook the battery charger and plug it in, via an extension lead that has to come all the way from the first floor via my room window. As I flick on the switch on the mains plug, the LEDs on the charger flicker rapidly, going from Charge to Maintain in just a few seconds. We spend some time in a bizarre pose; I lean in a pool of warm sunlight against my neighbour's wooden fence, staring at this white power cable that gives her a vital transfusion. I look at her, I savour her features, I run my willing eye over the many details of her body.
About once a month I give her a little treat. I open the lock, take the chain out and roll her a few yards back on the pavement. Then I mount on the seat, straighten the bars, put in the key and turn it two clicks to the right. What a joy to hear the whirring noise of the fuel pump priming the engine. What a sense of anticipation as the dials swing balletic around the clocks before coming back to their starting position. And what dread fills the air as the bars in the temperature gauge turn off one by one, and I pull the clutch in ready to fire her up. Will she do it ? Will she raise from her sleep, and fill the air with the powerful voice of her lungs ? Or will she cough, and sputter her way to a pathetic stop ?
Thumb pressed, I hear the grinding effort of the starter motor, so burdened and slow I can almost count the revolutions one by one. There's a lurch, a minuscule lull, and then, on the cusp of failure, something stirs inside and she comes back to life in all her mechanical crunchiness. Sometimes it takes a few attempts before she finally manages to keep awake and rumble her way through the fast idle. I let her run for a few minutes, now carefully feeding the gas, now letting her catch her breath undisturbed. I give her all the time she needs to warm up properly, letting the fans run a couple of times before I turn the key again and switch her off.
Once exercised, I turn her around and back into the parking space, thus ensuring the tyres are in a different position and won't get flat spots. The chain is locked, the cover gets tucked on the sides, the rubbish bin is replaced to protect her from passers-by. As I walk back into my room, I think that spring will not come one day too soon.
ride safe,