It is hard not to gush about the Sprint ST. It has power everywhere. The only thing keeping me from cruising at triple-digit speed is the fact that our vehicle insurance is still suffering from Peter's speeding ticket when he first acquired the VFR. In the time it takes me to inhale, and with about as much effort, this well-named, well-behaved bike can be flying.

A couple of weeks ago when I was about to test ride the bike, Rick (Mr. Customer Service) came over with every fiber of his being radiating concern. He warned me that the front brake was *very* sensitive and suggested that I did *not* want to grab a handful. That warning has saved me from sailing over the handlebars twice already.

The bike's seat has been customized by Sid's Upholstery. Unlike the BMW CS, I can't flat-foot the bike with the new seat, but I can get the front half of my Lady Star Daytona boots on the ground, and that's good enough. I visited the dealership today to swap the tank bag for a tail bag. The Triumph standard issue tank bag was so tall that I couldn't steer the bike. Any tank bag I put on this bike will no thicker than a map sleeve.

While I was there, I watched a woman getting ready to test ride a clone of my CS. Her body betrayed her tension - a posture I remember so well. I spoke to one of her riding companions; she had just outgrown a Honda Rebel 250cc. While I was dying to go talk with her to provide encouragement, I stayed away. Her riding companions would provide all the support she would need, and, either she and the bike would resonate with each other or they wouldn't. I will go back in a few days and find out if she bought the bike.

Last night I went to the kitchen for a cup of tea and ended up in the garage in bare feet on the cold cement floor polishing the ST's tank with my nightgown.

Monday was the first salvo of what is supposed to be a week's worth of heavy rain. Cars were hydroplaning on the Dumbarton bridge, so I'll assume our bikes were floating on water vapor, too. I didn't notice, I was trying to see the road through the wall of rain. The best I could do was position myself relative to Peter's tail light and the tail lights of the cars to my right and just ride.

The reason for putting ourselves out in the deluge was to test the Gerbing heated gloves and socks I received as holiday gifts. Before I start nit-picking, let me say that the Gerbing heated jacket, gloves, and socks do the job just fine. It is the rest of my gear that needs adjustment.

My boots are just a bit large, so with the heated socks and a liner, they fit fine. I wish that were true of my jacket and gloves, which fit like a second skin. The wires from the heated jacket and gloves manage to find the worst places to dig in, right on the bone. The wires from the socks managed to find the space on the inside of my knee, right next to the tank. And of course, the wires are all about a foot too long for someone of my height.

I guess this means a new jacket and gloves. Gear is so specialized. What is perfect for dry, cool to warm weather will be completely too much when the temperature is in the nineties. As soon as it gets wet and cold, the story changes. When I started riding, I assumed I'd have to make room in the garage. What I didn't realize is I would need another three feet of closet space.

Over the holiday weekend, I read Karen Larsen's book, "Breaking the Limit: One Woman's Motorcycle Journey Through North America". She rode her Harley Davidson 1300 Sportster from New Jersey to Alaska, and back. I recommend it. The ending (last few pages) is weak, but the rest of the book kept my attention - I brought home technical reading and never got to it. Her description of the gravel and mud surfaces she rode has inspired me to get serious about learning to ride a dirt bike. I didn't want to put the book down, and it wasn't hard to just read through dinner to finish the book Sunday night. I knew if I didn't, I wouldn't be focused on work the next day.

I turned 48 on Monday. The best present that Peter gave me was unintended. We were riding our usual route north on 880 to Berkeley. He kept checking his mirrors to see if I was signaling that I wanted to turn off. I didn't give him the signal so we rode past the 980 turnoff to Highway 24 which is the route I use to avoid traffic, and, the dreaded Highway 80 overpass in Emeryville (Jan 29, 2003 entry). I figured it was time to try the overpass again, this time with Peter riding point. If I could overcome my fear of the height, I could save myself ten minutes on the commute. Riding that overpass was not as bad as I remembered. I think that in 2003, part of the fear equation was being a new rider on a relatively new bike. On the Sprint, the only concern I had was the height. The next experiment is to ride the overpass on my own. Could we all remove our self-imposed barriers if we would accept a little help from a friend?

* * *

If talk of menopause makes you squirm, skip the next few paragraphs.

I started riding as a side effect of the onset of perimenopause. Talk about wild rides, and not one that I would call fun. It's demoralizing to discover we are just bags of skin and hormones. I'm quite comfortable with a wholesale indictment of western medicine's "treatment" for perimenopause. It's a normal part of life, not a disease.

The best medicine I found for myself was learning to ride; the sustained dose of naturally released beta-endorphins was far more effective as a palliative than the synthetic hormones that wreaked havoc on my changing system. When I took the pills back to my doctor after 48 hours, and described to her what felt to me like a psychotic break, she said, "Oh, you'll get used it." What little research I had done on hormone replacement therapy predisposed me against it, and now I was sure.

Later that same year, after a few months of hemorrhaging for more than ten days, I went in for hormone level tests. When the results came back, I was told my FSH levels were within a normal range. What she didn't tell me is that FSH levels are a poor indicator for estrogen production because in the course of an hour, the levels can fluctuate by an order of magnitude. Not only was the test a poor selection, I took away a distinct impression that the doctor considered my perceptions not worth serious consideration because I was in my forties, younger than normal for the onset of perimenopause.

That's when I bought a couple of alternative therapy books and started working my way through the various herbal combinations. I'd get lucky sometimes; the symptoms would decrease in intensity for a few months. Perimenopause is a process, so I was constantly adjusting the herbal combinations to address the changing symptoms. Somehow, it felt better to be my own guinea pig than be someone else's guinea pig.

I seem to be over the hardest part of this change-of-life phase, but everytime I think my periods are finally over, I am surprised anew. I was hoping this phase would be short, like, a year or two. I'm now starting year five, and may have five more to go. The positive aspect of a slow shutdown is that my bone density won't suffer as much ill effect, and, there's nothing better than a good hormone-induced cleaning snit for getting rid of clutter and keeping your bike spotless.

The next book on my list is Crones Don't Whine. A crone is a woman who is at least 50 years old. Two years to go. I can tell you my father was right - life begins 40, then again at 50, and so on, as long as you are enjoying your life. Have you ever seen a motorcycle parked in front of psychiatrist's office?

* * *

Wishing you all good cheer for the New Years holiday. Stay warm, ride safe.