Saturday Service

Saturday Service

Jeff Hughes

As I head down my long gravel driveway in the pre-dawn darkness, with the headlamp lighting my way and the orange glow from the instrument panel of the GS reflecting back into my face shield, it occurs to me that I don’t get out for enough nighttime rides anymore. I used to, back in the day. But anymore it seems that most of my miles seem to happen when the world is well lit. I wonder if maybe I’ve gotten a bit lazy.

This morning is different, for a reason: I’m heading to Bob’s BMW for some minor service work. Saturday service is first-come, first-served at Bob’s and I want to get there early enough so that I don’t end up waiting all day. I’ve learned from hard experience that the longer one hangs around a good motorcycle dealership, the more damaging to your wallet it becomes.

The ride there from my home in Warrenton is 70-odd miles of interstate slog. I-66, the Capital Beltway, and I-95 are hateful routes during the work week, consuming far too many hours of my life. But as I roll through Gainesville and pick up I-66 eastbound, with the first edges of dawn light tinting the horizon, I’m actually glad to be here. There’s no traffic to speak of, the air has a dusky sort of feel to it, and I’m rolling at pace on a fine motorcycle. Not a lot not to like.

Across the American Legion Bridge, a few miles inside the Maryland beltway, there’s a secret: a few miles of twisting slalom. You’d never notice it in a car. And even on a bike it’s only during those rare moments when the road is devoid of traffic and you can push the speed a bit that the character of the road is revealed. But it’s there. Playing to my imagination as I roll the GS through the kinda-sorta-sweepers, I pretend that I’m on some kind of Isle of Man adventure, smiling to myself inside my helmet.

The old magic.

The morning hours at the dealership pass softly. There’s the easy banter with the other riders who likewise are there having stuff done. There’s a lot of walking around and looking at each other’s bikes and talking about this thing or that accessory; of roads and trips and weather; of tires and speed and racetracks - all the minutiae that concern serious riders.

I’m lucky to be one of the first ones in line. While waiting the couple hours for the service technicians to do their thing I wander around, idly talking to the folks who work there – many who have been there for years. It’s funny how the business/customer relationship at a good motorcycle shop is different from almost any other kind of business. Money changes hands, sure, but that seems mostly like just a niggling little detail. Mostly, it seems like we’re co-conspirators in the grandest of schemes, members of some sort of secret society. You can’t help but feel like you’re part of something special.

By late morning they’ve finished working on my bike. Whether it’s just a routine service – like mind today – or whether it’s getting something fixed or having new tires shod or whatever, it’s always a good feeling when you get your bike back. That nagging, worrisome feeling that comes creeping when a mechanical issue emerges is suddenly gone and everything again seems right with the world. Having a motorcycle in good shape – ever ready to run long miles - is important to many of us.

If the trip in this morning was special because of the early hour, the one going home is special because it’s… free. I have a freshly-tuned bike, a half a day in front of me, and the freedom to spend it however I wish. It doesn’t take me long to dismiss the thought of heading back on the interstate – it’ll be the insane mess it normally is. No, I believe I’ll take the long way. Mapping possibilities in my head, I point the GS east and south, down a tortured route that only a motorcyclist would ever conjure.

Three hours later I’m back across the Potomac in Virginia. Having decided to detour down Virginia’s Northern Neck – my route home becoming ever more convoluted – on a sudden impulse I turn down the road towards Colonial Beach. My parents used to take us there when we were little kids, a long, long time ago. I haven’t been back since and now, riding slowly through the little town, I look at things carefully, searching for a connection, a bit of memory, to something I can barely remember. Turning down one of the side streets leading to the water, I park the GS and walk down to the sandy beach. Gazing out across the water, I wonder if the kid I was back then ever imagined that the man he would become would be back here someday here to check up on him.

Continuing down the peninsula towards Montross, the afternoon turns slowly. Having decided that today is not a bad day for impulses, I’ve turned down a lonely, unmarked road and ridden it the few miles back to where it dead-ends at the water’s edge. Standing there gazing back across to the Maryland side far in the distance, listening to the sound of the water and watching the birds wheel in the air and feeling the breeze on my face, I’m struck by how rich this day has been. And I’m reminded, as I so frequently am, of how strangely important a motorcycle can be in taking us to those special places, in imbuing even our most mundane activities with meaning and fun.

As I climb back aboard the BMW, this time to finally point it towards home, it occurs to me that it will be well into evening by the time I get back. Almost dark. Thinking back to when I left home this morning, a thought begins to form.

Maybe I’ll ride for a bit longer, yet.