Zen and the Art of Midnight Motorcycling

Tonight I tarried on both of my blogposts.  I made valid points, but I didn't get to the heart of the matter intended.  At Christmastime (in Caroline, and in other places) society is in full combat dress, or at least that is what it feels like to me.  This evening consisted of eating pinto beans, raw tomato and onion, and cornbread which browned and set with the help of Alton Brown.  Heating your cast iron skillet in a 425 degree oven ensures your batter will crust on the bottom when cooking for twenty minutes.  A little sugar helped.  I was glad to help my mother, although she was in a rotten mood.  After watching a little tube I did a thing that could be a metaphor for my holidays.  I have experienced these holidays before in Cowtown.  It took a while for it to become apparent to me that I was experiencing a true Paul moment.  It was not my mother.  It was not the neighborhood, although they were involved.  What I did completely and one hundred percent was me, and the response I had also was one hundred percent me.  I was riding a Honda CRF50 minibike in the darkened rain at ten o'clock at night in an upstanding middle-class neighborhood.  I had no helmet.  I had no protective gear.  Only I had a hoodie that won't stay up, because of the force of the driving wind.  It was surreal.  The hum of the CRF motor was a calming force for me, but also I get a visceral jolt from being rebellious in what is not a rebellious place.  For a brief moment three curious vehicles stalked me, and after I stopped and sat on the side of the road quietly recalcitrantly they drove past.  Residents of this neighborhood I am finding have rampant imaginations, and a fifty year old man in a hoody riding a minibike in the rain is like the Ringling Brother Circus.  It is surprising to me that adolescents today must live lives of such doldrums.  Do they really not know how to have fun anymore?  We used to have sex.  Such an action in the old days would qualify as such.  I enjoyed my ride, but what was challenging was the disparity between a rebellious motorcycle ride and expensive homes draped in decorative Christmas lights.  I have not taken the opportunity to tour the neighborhood in the evening, so who knew families were so into decorating their homes for the holiday season?  I do not feel festive in the least, so for me it's business as usual.  I, as a single adult, will have to jump start my holiday gift-buying, or I will be delinquent.  The metaphor which emerged under a crisp, clear, Carolina moon was that the majority of these people were in their warm homes adorned by Christmas lights with their families doing what I assume are festive things.  (or maybe because school is not quite out, preparing for the next day)  I didn't want to think about it for too long, because it was creepy.  To the sensibility in this neighborhood I could have been the Creeper smelling and stalking adolescents for the feeding.  As a matter of consequence I do not take a minibike rides in the darkened rain every seventeen years.  (or is it more or less?  I can't remember)  What I was doing in reality was not recreating, but trying to get an automatic three speed clutch to behave.  Like all motorcycles usage is the best maintenance.  If a vehicle sits it dies, or it ages drastically.  I am not sure about the clutch on this CRF50, but riding it certainly helps.  It is a gift for neighborhood children, and I wanted to help by working on the machine.  I was successful with the motor.  Once it finds a gear it pops along merrily and content the engine humming like a finely lathed top.  I know the secret rules for carburetor jetting for a few bikes anyway.  The motor ran well enough that it gave me the same satisfaction as my CB-250 and my XR-200.  The vibration of a Honda four stroke is a prized well earned and earnestly should be appreciated as the best caviar.  I was disappointed that further clutch repairs would be necessary, but a strong-running motor is a great foundation for many years of future riding pleasure.  I did my job.