Sprung.

You can interpret the title of this post as a reference to spring (as in having sprung), or to the immortal Springsteen lyric (as from cages out on highway 9). The season is probably the safer bet; I'm still a few tanks of gas away from being worthy of the Jersey bard's poetry.

In any case, winter is gone at last, and there is news to share.

My standoff with the steep dirt road from our house to the nearest pavement continues. Currently, the problem is actually mud, not loose gravel. I've been bombing around the dirt roads around our house a little, just to get back into the groove. The Suzuki is proving easygoing and companionable, and I even seem to be mastering the clutchless shift on the old bird, but discretion remains the better part of valor where steep grade + greasy mud + a sharp curve are concerned. In other words, I still haven't made it to pavement. Conditions seem to be pointing to an opportunity to try tomorrow morning, so we'll see how that goes. But this getting silly. I'm going to need another place to park this thing, or the nerve to cast common sense aside and go for it, praying I don't end up tangled up in barbed wire in the ditch at the bottom.

In the meantime, staggering around in a fog of wounded male pride, I did the only sensible thing. I bought another bike.

A bit of explanation: We spend part of our time in the city for work, and we have an apartment there. When I first got it in my head to get a motorcycle, I swore I'd never ride in the city. Too many jerks, I thought, and too little situational awareness. It would be dangerous. But a couple of weeks ago, out for a walk, I started to notice the sheer number of motorized two-wheeled vehicles on the road. Hipsters on Vespas. Grim looking heavy people on e-bikes. Newly licensed kids on Ninjas. Grey-bearded hedge fund managers on Harleys. I can't possibly, I thought, be the stupidest person ever to survive riding a motorcycle in the big city. And besides, I was a cyclist there for years and years. A motorbike can't be more dangerous than that, right? There's more noise, more protective clothing, less speed differential, lights, a horn... hell, it ought to be safer than falling off a bar stool.

Right about then, I saw an ad for discounts on non-current CBR250Rs. I know, I know, I'm not a sport bike guy, and the CBR at least looks like a sport bike. But $3700 plus the dealer's vig for a brand new, fuel injected bike with ABS? At a certain point, even with motorcycles, vanity has to take the pillion. It's exactly like the one at the top of this post. I pick it up on Tuesday. My trial by fire will be the 15km ride back to the apartment on choppy suburban four-lane.

All that remained was to get a parking spot. The super at our building said, yes, there were underground spots available for rent. But I did know that these things get stolen down there all the time, right? Right. Sigh...