Renewing The Winter Relationship... And Finding The "G" Spot

The garage here is like the guest-star hotel for “Wild Kingdom." At any given time of the year it has hosted mice, snakes, spiders, bees, hornets, and the cat belonging to old hag next door. (The cat would be welcome if it did anything useful in the way of discouraging the other guests; but its primary purpose is to piss in my box of shop rags.) The garage is my inner sanctum. Few things give me greater satisfaction than to than to light up a cigar, pour myself a whiskey, and sit back to admire my motorcycle — against the backdrop of a ten-drawer rolling toolbox. Despite the fact that I detest anything that stings or has fangs, nothing has ever succeeded in running me out of the garage. Yet there comes a time each year when I am driven back into the house.

That time came last night.

The temperature in the garage is 27º (F) with another snowstorm — the fourth since Thanksgiving — just getting under way. While these storms have yet to amount to anything serious in the way of accumulation (between 4 to 8 inches per storm), the reaction of the local municipalities is to spread tons of salt and sand on any exposed blacktop. So even if the sun came out tomorrow — and the temperature rose to 80º (F) for a week — the pavement would still be covered with “motorcycle anti-matter.” The gravel and sand are such that simply putting your foot down guarantees something in the nature of a slide. Dealing with this once or twice on a ride is one thing. But having to face it on every curve and at every stop is something else.

My BMW GS-riding friends, who have ridden north to Hudson’s Bay on gravel roads for a couple of thousand miles in each direction, are laughing at this. Yet I am smart enough to know that I am not in their league. It would not take much for me to drop this 560-pound work of mechanical art owing to a front wheel slide or a misstep with my gimpy legs on a street covered with grit. The K75 that I ride is 16-years-old and doesn’t have a noticeable mark on the paint. The engine is encased in a square metal block under the gas tank (the ugliest motorcycle motor design in the history of mankind) and is jet black. Salt residue on this motor becomes a major pain in the ass, requiring repeated wipe-downs with hot, moist cloths to remove every last lingering trace. (Quite frankly, I expect to get laid in exchange for the hot cloth treatment and that response is not forthcoming in the garage.)

Failure to get the salt off immediately after a winter ride can lead to a permanent fading of the deep black coating on the engine and the forks, or so I suspect. Last year, I let the salt sit on this bike for three weeks, and the cheap chrome coating on the “authority bars” (crash bars from the police version of the K75) was thoroughly pitted. The German motorcycle industry is not big on chrome and they are nowhere near the American standard in this regard. I didn’t give a shit about the chrome “authority bars” as they were destined to be converted to black by the Jet-Hot process, which I highly recommend.

The front fender has a few hairline scratches in the paint (literally finer than human hair) but has not acquired a tinge of rust. This is because the front fender is plastic. I was pissed when I first discovered this, believing that BMW had taken an unpublicized shortcut in the production of this machine. Yet their wisdom in this design decision cannot be second guessed. Not only does the fender not rust, but it retains its shape in the event of a mishap like a garage or a driveway drop.

Between the snowstorms that seem to come every couple of weeks and the crud on the roads (that will not be swept up until April), my riding season came to an end.

I lit my last cigar of the season in the garage last night and tucked the K75 into a winter’s sleep. It’s life-support system, the battery tender, hummed a tuneless melody, while a green LED assured me that battery was “strong” and fully charged. Two ounces of fuel stabilizer specially formulated to combat the ill-effects of ethanol — the renewable fuel source that not only fucks up sensitive, high-performance engines, but also cost more fuel to produce than it saves — will hopefully protect my new fuel pump. I tenderly caressed the billiard table-sized Russell Day-Long Saddle and gently kissed the gas tank (resisting the urge to slip it the tongue).

Re-entering the house was more than just stepping through the door between the garage and utility room. It meant reacquainting myself with the beautiful woman within now that the riding season was over. It meant the resumption of conversations that did not focus on my motorcycle, my biking buddies, or the mysterious developments simmering in Bavaria, the epicenter of the BMW world. It meant feigning interest in all kinds of things until the bulbs burst forth in the garden and the robins returned to the bird feeders. But most of all, it meant just getting in.

The door was locked.

I had not planned to be out in the garage for any length of time and I was in shirt sleeves, without the benefit of a sweater nor a jacket. At 27º (F), it wouldn’t take long for hyperthermia to set in, perhaps 16 hours or so. I tried pounding on the door to no avail. Then I tried yelling and pounding. Neither method produced the desired results, which was to have my darling Leslie/Stiffie open the door. Then I thought I heard the muffled scraping of metal against concrete.

“Was Stiffie out shoveling the snow?” I asked myself. Looking out the garage window, I saw my neighbor, the ancient Mrs. Hackleschmackle (owner of the piss-bag cat), laboriously shoveling her driveway, meticulously picking up each shovelful of heavy, wet snow and throwing it up against our mailbox. “Mrs. Hackleschmackle,” I yelled, banging on the glass. “I’m trapped in the garage.”

She looked about to see the source of the noise, then found me framed in the lighted garage window. The old bitch smiled and flipped me the finger. “Eat shit and die,” I thought, giving her a two finger salute, one from each hand.

In every crisis there reaches a point when the hero decides nothing worse can happen... That is the precise moment when the hammer of fate knocks him cold. I turned to face the door again only to be soaked by freezing cold water shooting out of garden hose that had been concealed in a pile of junk that I had promised to toss out six months earlier. My hypothermia estimate would have to be advanced by 15 hours and 50 minutes. Indeed, I could feel the blood in my extremities congealing into pudding already. With my life passing before my eyes in slow motion, there appeared a vision of loveliness and salvation... It was my K75 framed in the garage lights.

Of course! The K75!

My bike is equipped to handle every aspect of adversity. A long sip of Irish vein defroster — kept in one of my hard, factory-installed BMW trademark sidebags — restored both strength and resolve. Under the seat I found my original BMW factory tool kit, which makes it possible to build a K75 from scratch, or to replace an “O” ring on a space shuttle. With the right tools in hand, I had the security plate off the door to the house in an instant and removed the locking mechanism in twice that. I then placed my eye to the two-inch hole in the door for a fast look. This was a mistake as I was temporarily blinded by a foot and a half of German Shepherd tongue.

Once inside, I found Stiffie/Leslie (my hot squeeze) wrapped in a quilt and firmly planted in a comfy chair, watching the “Girl With The Dragon Tattoo” on NetFlix. (This is one of a current trilogy of films making the rounds in which an unbelievably self-sufficient woman, who starts out looking a bit odd but who is steamingly hot naked, goes about killing men who are pricks. A word to the wise should be sufficient.)

“Didn’t you hear me yelling?” I asked.

“Was that you?”

“I was locked in the garage,” I sputtered.

“Were you?”

“And then I got sprayed by a hose,” I added, somewhat dismayed that my recounting of this bloodcurdling chain of events was not curdling Stiffie’s blood to any degree of satisfaction.

“Did you?”

“I could have died,” I said, emphasizing the word “died” for emphasis.

“But you didn’t” she sighed.

“How would you have explained to the police that I got locked in the garage and sprayed with a hose on one of the colder nights of the year?” I demanded.

“Theoretically, the mice, the snakes, the bees, the spiders, and the cat next door would have eaten you by spring, which is when Dick Bregstein would have missed you, if I had given any thought to it,” replied Leslie.

“And what would you have said to Bregstein? I demanded. Dick Bregstein is one of my closest friends and my riding sidekick for the last 5 years.

“I’d have answered the door in a negligee and handed him a martini.”

She had Bregstein's number all right.

“Wouldn’t you have missed me?” I countered.

She seemed lost in thought for a bit, then replied, “I suppose the absence of a shit mess on the kitchen counters, the unexplained disappearance of your sock collection from the living room, and sudden liberation of the third bay in the garage would have made me feel something.”

“You didn’t lock me out, did you?”

I asked this question at the point in the film where Lisbeth Salander (played by Noomi Repace) was kicking a biker in the balls, prior to shooting him, and Leslie was totally caught up in the spirituality of the moment. She seemed not to hear it. In any successful relationship, however, there are some questions that are best left unanswered and some best left unasked. These include: “You didn’t lock me out, did you,” which is a good trade for, “Did you cop a cheap feel from my sister the time you were helping her out of the pool and her top came off?”

The end of the riding season for many men calls for a dramatic renewal of standard relationship behavior as hundreds of hours of togetherness become available when the bike is on life support. Yet this is where many men stall as the world has moved on during the the last six months or so. It becomes necessary for the male rider to catch up on issues and social developments that have become important in women’s lives since last winter. It will no longer be sufficient to simply say, “That’s incredible... My God!... What did you do then?,” and the ever popular, “I can’t believe that bitch said that,” during periodic intervals in conversation with the woman in your life — in an effort to appear to be listening.

It is necessary to be able to hold up your part of the conversation. Two weeks prior to putting your bike up for the winter, I suggest going into a good bookstore and getting a handful of woman’s magazines that address a variety of topics ranging from home decor and garden planning to more personal issues like sexual enhancement. It is also a good idea to pick out a few of the current bestsellers that women are reading and quoting.

I recently read a woman’s magazine where the lead story focused on how to get your man to hit the “G” spot every time. Short of using the Norden Bombsight or a forked stick to locate the damn thing, there was very little useful information in the article. But I did learn not to come to bed wearing a miner’s helmet while carrying a map and 40 feet of rope. It is also important that you do not rely on information from your riding buddies on topics like these. I once asked the guys how long it took to bring a woman to orgasm. Their collective responses included, “What’s female orgasm?” and “Who gives a shit?”

Above: The Norden Bombsight — standard equipment on B-17s in WWII — is essential in helping the average rider find the "G" spot in the bedroom. Photo from Wilipedia.

A very popular book dealing with a historical perspective of the female psyche is The Red Tent, by Anita Diamant. According to published reports, the book's title refers to the tent in which women of Jacob's tribe must, according to the ancient law, take refuge while menstruating, and in which they find mutual support and encouragement from their mothers, sisters and aunts. Turns out its like a monthly vacation from the assholes they married. (Guys have a similar book. It’s called Politically Correct Cigar Smoking For Social Terrorists.)

During the endlessly depressing weeks of winter it is important to understand what a woman means when she says, “Wouldn’t it be great to have a nicely painted bathroom?” She does not mean “invite five guys over to watch football reruns.” Nor does she mean she wants you to assist in shaving her schnauser. What she means is that she wants you to go down to Home Depot, or Lowes, or the neighborhood hardware store (which these places are determined to put out of business) and get the paint, the brushes, and the other stuff so she can paint the fucking bathroom.

Above — Any guy quoting from this book is going to rack up huge points with a woman who initially thinks he is just a horse's ass on a motorcycle. Bonus points are awarded if you pull up with a dog-eared copy — and a good bottle of wine — in your side bags. (You are still required to quote from the book.) Points are deducted if you simply memorize the text on the back cover and get caught. Photo from the internet.

The winter puts a lot of strain on relationships between bikers and the women they love... Especially if the weather keeps them at home with their wives instead. It becomes really important to focus on the little things. One super-sensitive Harley rider I know couldn’t believe his significant other was taking it as a personal affront that he occasionally forgot to put the toilet seat down.

“I was at my wits end,” admitted Stitches (not his real name), a Sportster rider from Texas, who has removed most of the chrome from his bike. “I never mean to leave the toilet seat up... What the hell, I thought I was doing good just to flush the damn thing. But leaving that toilet seat up would drive her crazy.”

Stitches resolved the problem by pissing in the bathroom sink.

“This way the seat is always down and I use less water for flushing,” he added. Like most smart men, Stitches opted not to share his solution with his 5th wife as it might appear as if he was gloating. (The toilet seat is not a problem in the warmer months as he just drains the lizard outside, in her mother’s vegetable garden.)

There are now 60 days until spring, March 20, 2011.

Author’s note — It is my intention to publish new blog posts every Monday and Thursday from this point on. (Yesterday was a holiday.) Monday’s posts will be longer in length, while Thursdays will be shorter.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2011
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac-Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)