Fall is the finest and most fleeting of seasons for riding and Sunday, the last day of September, was a glorious preview of charms to come. So at the slightest provocation (my wife promised me one of her great homemade pies if I’d ride to her favorite orchard and bring home a peck of apples), the Speed Triple and I set off on an autumn errand.
A slight detour took me through an old covered bridge on a little country lane called Frampton Road, but the sycamore leaves were barely starting to change. Those trees show their beauty in their bark more than their fall foliage, anyway.
Despite being 15 years and 91,000 miles old, the Speed Triple remains, in some ways, the most fun of my three motorcycles. Wear and tear is evident. It is neither as incredibly competent as my Daytona 675 nor as practical as my Versys, but it feels the way I feel: never the most athletic of the bunch, but able to put in a decent showing; and not as athletic as it used to be, but still in the game, at least. It stays in semi-retirement most of the time now, but a ride like today is pretty much a perfect mission for its particular abilities. Still sharp enough in the handling department to make the curves of the state two-lanes enjoyable, but not so high-strung that it gets out of shape if I decide to detour down a crumbly county road just to see what the trees look like by the creek that’s spanned by an old covered bridge.
Branstool Orchards is our favorite, located near where we used to live. I’ve made so many trips between our current home and our old home that it’s harder and harder to indulge in one of my favorite (when I have the time) tactics, which is to intentionally get myself lost by turning down unknown roads, then get myself unlost by dead reckoning. No GPS, no maps. Just navigating by the sun and riding in a general direction until I find familiar landmarks and get back on track. After dozens and dozens of trips, I’ve used up almost all possible routes, but I still managed to put together a new combination and arrive at the orchard market, which was bustling with people buying cider, freshly picked apples and pumpkins.
Every living creature has to enjoy a day like this.
It was a perfect day for riding, sunny and temperatures in the high 60s, when wearing all the gear feels normal, not like a necessary safety measure, and when the insulated vest in my leather jacket makes this thin-blooded former resident of the tropics feel appropriately cozy (unlike the guy I saw on a Harley wearing shorts).
Freshly picked apples, ready for a pie.
And I came home with half a peck each of Jonagold and Melrose apples, which I set in the last shaft of sunlight for a still life as evening faded early.
One more memory to sustain me through an inevitably too-long winter.
