Whaddya Do In Winter?

WHADDYA DO IN WINTER?

HOW-TO

GEORGE WEATHERS

I DON'T REALLY know why I first decided to do it. You know how it is when you ride a bike somewhere that everybody else reaches by car, and when you get there they sort of look enviously at you a little bit at first? Then they regain control, smile a superior smile, and give you some opening gambit like, "Whaddya do with that thing inna wintertime?"

Just once I wanted to say, "I ride it."

Ride a bike all winter? Yeah, but man, at 45 F my knees turn blue. If we're dealing for effect, how sharp can it look when you come tooling in, stop the bike, get off, and you can't walk because your knees are frozen up? Oh sure, I'd seen people ride all winterfrosty-bearded kids, who can't afford a car, riding their Hondas or ham-cheeked foundry workers on rigid frame Hawgs whose nerve ends were bent over like nails years ago on the highway between Milwaukee and home. But middle-class, white-collar English teachers? Me?

I rushed right down to my local Army store and bought a $25 snowsuit. I checked the prices on fairings (thanks anyway). I rummaged around on the floors of all the closets, resurrecting overshoes, boots, parts of rainsuits, left gloves, anything I owned that kept cold out. I checked the price of a Barbour Suit (thanks anyway). "Of course, you can always drive if it gets too bad," my wife counseled. I told several of my students what I was planning, just in case I was tempted. It was Oct. 5.

Now it doesn't make sense to vow to ride just any motorcycle to work all winter, not unless you can afford an awning several miles long. The school where I taught was in Derby, Kan., a suburb about 10 miles from my house in Wichita. In between were some residential streets, a couple of shopping centers, and one of the world's most violent freeway Grand Prix circuits. On a motorcycle, it was like being the rabbit at the dog track during a power failure. On a motorcycle in snow...

There was an armor-plated Nazi BMW sidehack, ex-North Africa, down at the local BMW dealer's. He wouldn't sell though; I'd have to make do with my Zundapp. It's a 1956 KS-601-not officially armor-plated, but very Teutonic, which is pretty much the same thing. Except for telescopic forks, maroon paint, and chrome tank panels, the later 601s closely resemble BMWs. The Germans call the 601 the Green Elephant, and use it as family transportation. Mine is set up that way, complete with 28-horse low-compression engine, and black, grapefruit-segment-nose Steib sidecar.

The sidecar proved very necessary, mainly because without it, I would never have been able to cart around the mountain of garments I thought, feared, or suspected I'd wear, probably all at once, before the ordeal was ended. The sidecar also came in handy on slick streets, for keeping the bike from falling over on its side (and mine). It was Oct. 22.

The temperature was 45 F. I used to listen to the morning news, and if it were above 45, I'd ride the Norton. Below that, I'd drive. You know how it is on a cool morning. You walk out and the air against your cheeks suggests that you're going to regret this. It takes five kicks instead of two to start. The first couple of blocks really pain, but after you get into traffic you don't have time to shiver, and then, when you think about it again, you discover you aren't cold after all. The normal thrill of the air and the bike take over until you arrive at your destination, at which time a stiff set of fingers brings back the fact that the whole scene was a bit chilly.

With me it's my knees. I can ignore stiff fingers, convince myself the enjoyment was worth it. But when I can't walk without having that both-legs-are-asleep wobble. The first giant step of my tribulation came, then, one sunny morning-42 F. The knees are cold, warm the knees. I tried an extra pair of large, shiny grey corduroys, worn over my slacks. Luckily, I had an office at the high school with my own closet, where I could store such recommissioned rummage during the day. I arrived without incident, walked a straight path getting to the building, and hung up my secret weapon smugly.

In autumn, 42 F in the morning often precedes 73 F in the afternoon. Jackets can be left unzipped a bit; leather motorcycle jackets are great for the numerous ways you can arrange ventilation through them. Gloves can be stuffed in a pocket.

With the Zundapp, there was plenty of room for both briefcase and whatever extra clothing I'd shed since morning. Later I abandoned the corduroys, as I worked out the system in my psychological battle with winter. I could ride comfortable in weather colder than 45 F. Why not 35 F?

Also in October came the rains. If you are setting out on an all-day ride and it's raining, there is no great trick to staying warm and dry if you've got a decent, $4 oilskin rainsuit; and plastic-treated gauntlets can be had very cheaply.

The battle plan for rain became standardized. First came my cycle jacket tor warmth, followed by a pants-and-shirt rainsuit for dryth. Common four-buckle overshoes covered shoes, socks, and pants cuffs, folded inside, not crammed. My hands hid inside plastic-coated welding gauntlets. A fullcoverage Bell satisfied Kansas law. I finally settled on a Bell competition faceshield for it.

Under the helmet, I wore a knit skier's cap with a built-in hole to peer through. That little item was really great! My eyes were about all it DIDN'T keep warm. I looked something like a negative of the Lone Ranger peering out through that elastic-rimmed hole. Even in real cold weather, life inside that cap was plush. A windshield on the bike kept everything quite dry, if a bit muggy.

Came November. It got colder, but that was about all that distinguished November. Below 45 F, the corduroys became passe. I was trying my snowsuit instead, now the afternoons were cooler. I don't know about a guy in a business office, but at the high school, that caused quite a thing. The snowsuit was a Navy model, olive drab and big enough inside to entertain guests. If I'd turned it inside-out, I could have done a passable King Kong. Most of the kids were bred to quietly respect any idiocy among the faculty, at least while actually in the presence of it.

Aside from the theatrics, the snowsuit was no trouble. I usually slipped off my loafers before trying to get out of it, but it went on and came off with a minimum of pantslegwadded-up-just-below-the-knee action. It even turned out to be comfortable at temperatures in the 50s, as long as I could stay moving on the bike.

Just as my knees called uncle at 45, so my ankles did at 35 F. At this temperature, socks weren't protection any longer. My ankles still worked when I arrived; they just ached like I'd waded ice water all the way. I'd been saving a nice pair of sheepskin-lined Wellington boots for such a problem, but one day of trying to teach in 'em was enough. I tried packing my loafers in my briefcase, but they came out shaped something like dry leaves. Carrying them in the hack meant fumbling with the tonneau in the crowded parking lot. I've got a low too-much-Mickey-Mouse point and wearing the Wellingtons exceeded it. I tried the four-buckle overshoes instead. They were plenty warm and a lot less trouble. I stowed the Wellingtons in the sidecar for the day when the overshoes WEREN'T warm enough but, as it happened, that day never came.

I had figured I'd wake up one morning to find a fluffy cover of snow all over everything and more falling. Then over breakfast I'd have to force myself to make the decision to ride. The car would be there in front of the house, beckoning. My wife would have logic entirely on her side. As it happened, the morning ride was dry and uneventful. Then it snowed all day after I arrived at school. I watched it piling up on the Zundapp seat every time I passed the parking lot. That sure eased the choice.

The costume I'd used in the morning seemed up to the job. Below 25 F, I'd taken to wearing my rainsuit over the snowsuit. It cut the wind penetration, warmed cold spots down my spine and against my upper arms, and got me past another milestone in good shape. I did a lot of experimenting with my sidecar wardrobe, and somewhere along about 30 F I had recently adopted Air Force mitten gauntlets too. I couldn't think of anything different that should be done just because it was snowing. Cautiously, I set out for my first ride on a sidecar rig in snow.

It was a complete blast! The rig was stable, with more control and traction than our VW, though not as much as our Jeep. Ruts affected it less than they did a car. Even without a sidecar brake, getting stopped was no sweat.

The snow also put a stop to the riding activities of My Friend On The Honda. Early in the fall, I'd see perhaps 10 motorcycles on my way to school each morning. Some would wave, others wouldn't. Gradually they dropped out, one by one-all but one. He rode a 450, had a full fairing, owned a Barbour Suit. I saw him watching a race I rode one Sunday in November and talked to him. He lived in Derby and worked as a mechanic for the Wichita Honda shop-set his bike up himself. The snow got him though; slick roads are too risky without a sidecar.

The snow also got most of the Derby Senior High Unofficial Motorcycle Club. On a sunny day, the school parking lot would have maybe 30 motorcycles, nearly all 175 cc or smaller. Rain would normally reduce that number to three or so. But word gets around when a teacher goes insane. There wasn't much action the first couple of nasty days, except I'd have 20 boys stop me in the hall between classes and casually ask, "You ride today?" Then it began to build.

High school kids are funny in some ways. They tend to think that if someone finished ahead of you in a race, it's because he has more guts. Simple. Same way with a motorcycle in winter. If I was riding on colder days than they were, it was because I had more guts. Nearly anything can be stated in terms of courage if you work at it.

One thing I'd better establish; I don't have more guts. I decided at the beginning of my experiment that if it ever got to where my teeth were chattering, I was going to quit. The cold I fought came in small patches. I'd solve a cold neck one way, a cold back another.

Derby is a unified high school, which means some kids traveled nearly as far as I did to get there. They'd start out on a 25 F morning, armed with a leather jacket, gloves, and a helmet. Twenty minutes later they'd arrive, frost on their eyelashes, purple cheeks.

"Why don't you rig a windshield if you're going to ride in this weather?" I'd ask.

"They look so cruddy. I'm okay," he'd say, brushing an icicle from his nose. Staggering off, his frozen ankles worked at odds with rubber knees.

Christmas vacation gave me a chance to, as my wife put it, "stop proving things and use a car." It was weird. I froze.

Talk about your teeth-chattering, miserable miles. I hadn't realized how much more satisfactory it was to carry your foul weather insulation wrapped tightly around your very own 98.6 F heater. I know how many nasty words have been uttered about VW and Jeep heaters, but ours work pretty well. The big problems were the universal ones: by the time the engine warms up, you've arrived; if you're in and out of the car, you never get comfortable; the heater either puts out too much or not enough. The conclusion was inescapable. Cars and heaters are a purely second-rate way to battle cold.

Right after Christmas, for instance, we had a couple of weeks when it didn't get above 15 or 20 F, and several times I left for school in below-zero temperatures. Temperatures like that don't tax a car's heater so much, but they tax just about every other system it's got. My heater wasn't taxed either. Below 10 F, I wore a wool scarf to help seal the fur collar of my snowsuit. The day I rode in -7 F cold, I had the feeling that at -10 F, I might have to add a bit of strength somewhere. There was no chance to find out where because that was the coldest day I made the trip. During the really cold (for Kansas) weather, I shifted from white dress shirts to flannels and corduroys too. This was as much because of the unpredictable school heating system as the motorcycle rides, but the warmth undoubtedly helped.

For the really lousy weather the Zundapp had several important advantages over its four-wheeled parking lot stablemates. Cold weather starting was one. Sitting out in that below-zero stuff all day brought out the worst in many of the cars. The faithful old Zundapp never failed. Flooding the carburetors didn't foul things up like an automatic choke can. The starter always spent the day in a warm schoolroom with me, firmly attached to my hip. One or two kicks and there it would sit, placidly chuff-chuffing while the snow around the spark plugs melted.

One -12 F Sunday morning, the Zundapp was the only usable vehicle around our house that would start. It had sat out all night like the Jeep and the VW, so the comparison is valid. As I said earlier, it doesn't make sense to vow to ride just ANY motorcycle all winter. There's something to be said for 600-cc engine that's only called on for 28 horsepower or so.

In late February, a classic mid-western ice storm hit Kansas. Streets, trees, windshields, everything was covered with an incrediblyslick orange peel of ice. Of all conditions for driving, this type of ice storm has my vote as the worst. Visibility in a car is nil; no defroster can do more than keep part of the windshield clear, while all the other windows ice over. You can put your car over a curb at 10 mph, get out to survey the damage, then break your neck trying to stand up.

The worse the weather, the better the Zundapp showed up. A motorcycle and sidecar just has to be the best vehicle generally available for getting around on such a daycontrol sensitivity, plus light weight, plus couple of other plusses.

My windshield iced up immediately, of course, but on a bike, you don't look through the windshield, you look over it. The wind currents coming over the windshield kept my faceshield perfectly clear. In all my experience of fighting storms like that one, never before had I truly been able to see-clearly. It was beautiful.

Getting ready, I had felt the same foreboding I felt each time I set out on my rig to face one of my traditional winter terrors; when I got to school I was elated at what a scenic, easy trip it had been. I was personally covered with ice. It had collected on my mittens and on my overshoes. There were thick encrustations on my lower legs, and a hefty crown on my helmet top where that anblast over the windshield had deposited it. I wasn't at all cold or uncomfortable. I felt fine. But everyone who saw me acted as though I should be kept awake and given hot tea till the circulation returned to my extremities.

There's really no doubt about it. Cold, ice, snow or whatever winter can offer, a motorcycle and sidecar is the successful winter vehicle.

I set out with a sidecar full of scroungedtogether insulation and a head full of determinations, fears, past memories, scattered experiences-much more of a conglomeration than the sidecar ever held. I set out because I'm peculiar and curious-to be able to say I'd done it or to find out what it was like or something, but not because I had no other means of travel. It was a kick.

What will I do this winter? I don't know yet. The sidecar full of insulation worked out fine. That knit cap I liked so much wasn't quite perfect. It kept my ears warm, even protected my cheeks, but there was one cold spot I never really insulated to my satisfaction. It's my mind that's hardest to keep warm.