Then, I noticed the changing of seasons not by the usual indicators; foliage embossing or withering, animals coming or disappearing for months at a time, and rising and falling energy bills, but by women.  

In the Summer, there were the mini-skirts, or the figure-showing white Capri’s, where when the sun hits at the right angle, an observant viewer could catch a shade, or an outline, of panties.  Titillating, for sure, because I could tell when the wearer wanted to keep their private lines hidden through the use of matching or lacking underwear.  Catching a hint of her secret was like stumbling on someone’s hidden trove; thrilling and shaming, with just the right amount of erotic joy.

In the Fall were the waist-huggers, the long legged denim with flares, boot-cut, Uggs.  Maybe naked toes in flip-flops, trying to grab the last bit of heat before being hidden until the spring.  Winter came with scarves, floppy, long, colorful; and dancing hats with various furry adornments, both real and fake.

Every Winter, I rode until the first frost crept across the pavement.  Then, I disconnected the battery, dropped fuel stabilizer in the tank, and turned off the lights on one of few things that gave me joy.

In the Spring, I brought my bike out of hibernation, right about the time the heavy jackets opened up to reveal cleavage again, like flowers feeling the sun’s warmth on their petals.  Like most motorcycles, the VFR kept its battery beneath the seat.  Getting the seat off was a bit like unhooking bra-straps.  A few jiggles there and a deft hand exposed exactly what I wanted to handle.  Occasionally, I needed a bit of lube and sweet-talking to make sure everything came off smoothly.  Once in its nakedness, I could touch a few things and make its engine rumble.

Every man I’ve talked to remembers his first, and he rides her occasionally in his head.  And, she’s no different from the day they first discovered one of the best parts of being human; gangly, awkward, with strange smells, movements, sensations, and sound.  The bike growled as it made its way through the fuel-stabilized mess and I pressed my legs tightly against the fuel tank.  I couldn’t hear the small sounds that foretold shit happening, but I could usually sense variations in the engine vibrations.  Then, the sharp clunks of first gear engaging, and a few twists just to send the revs up.  Some times, a man needs to pump harder for the sheer pleasure of it, and then, there’s go.

Some times, there was a girl on the side of the road, and I saw her looking all coy-like, shy-there, and hey there’s that smile that says pull over.  So, I did and what do you know, I had another helmet banging off the rear end so, why doesn’t she and that smile of hers take a ride with me somewhere north, possibly where the road curves through the barren corn-fields and the first shoots of Spring makes its way through the thawing soil?  So, we headed north, and possibly a bit to the west, past the old, truck stop strip club where the mothers with green teeth gyrated to hair-metal, and all the farmers looked for other ways to plow and plant or occasionally find hard fronds rather than soft ones.  With a little smirk on my face, I’d plant the throttle down just to feel her grasp me harder, with her legs, her arms, and the pillows buttressing my back.

And when we reached the edge of Spring, and I could tell because the jackets that had slowly shorn fresh cleavage to the Sun had finally been shelled, revealing the Woman in the near Summer; hints of freckles against pale skin and maybe a bit too much perfume, we disembarked to listen to the Cows bleat possibly their second or maybe fourth stomach’s contents.  Rather, she listened and I did my best to try.

Deafness is like being thrown into a room of water.  All the senses are available except for one and no matter how hard one tries, there’s nothing but the water in the ears.  Some times, though, I imagined myself swimming to the shores and getting close enough that I could feel the ground beneath my feet, or at least the knob of the door shutting all the water in the room, but then I’d realize that those glimmers of sound were nothing more than possible memories, or my brain imagining what sound was or could be.

When the Sun fell out of the sky, we returned to Normal, in a literal and figurative sense.  If I got lucky, I could unwrap my legs from the bike and wrap them around her.  If I wasn’t, there was always a bottle of something or other in my refrigerator that gave me a different kind of wow-ness.

I still tell time by Woman, only now, I’ve married my favorite clothes model.  In the Summer, there’s the white Capri’s with the hidden secrets.  In the Fall, there’s the denim flow.  In the Winter, there’s the scarves, and in the Spring, there’s the first peek of cleavage.  I stopped riding when my son was born (except for in my dreams.  No rider ever truly stops), but occasionally, when the will is right, I rev my car engine just because occasionally, a man need to pump faster for the pleasure of it.  And, hey, there she is in front of the house, hey munchkin, how about we go pick her up and maybe see if we can hear through the ocean again?