Finding places to ride your motorcycle to where there are few people can prove to be challenging on Long Island. But the further east you go, the more elbow room you have. One of my favorite places to head to for both a clear mind and to grab a bite to eat is the Orient Country Store on the north fork.
When my wheels dip right onto Village Lane, it is almost as if I am someplace else. The ever-present hustle and bustle, the traffic, the McMansions of western Long Island are nothing but a memory. Thing on the east end feel… normal.
This morning, I hopped on the Enfield and headed out to this familiar spot to grab a coffee and some breakfast. It is such a treat to be able to sit on their front porch and watch people trickle in and out of the quaint store.
While sitting inside waiting for my breakfast sandwich, I eavesdropped on the other patrons in the store. Solely based on what I overheard from some other ladies who were in the store, I immediately felt like I am a weirdo who doesn’t “fit” with her peers. Granted, I am basing this impression on a mere snippet of conversation. That is no more fair for me to judge them based on that than it would be for them to do the reverse based on some arbitrary thing they saw me do or say.
One thing I DO know though, is that there are far too many young women who speak like monotone robots these days. What the hell is that all about?
“oh my god, karen, I am like, totally obsessed with your shoes.” vs. “Oh, My GOD, KAREN! I am like, TOTALLY OBSESSED with your SHOES!” See the difference? No? I’m probably just getting old.
I have decided that some of my favorite people that I meet while out riding around are dogs. They’re just the coolest 🙂
When you’re out alone on the either the Enfield or the Ural, questions or conversations are to be expected when you stop. People are curious and I get that. When Kenny and I go out together on the both of them, it apparently blows peoples minds to the degree that they lose their grasp on reality.
People with even the most rudimentary knowledge of motorcycles are the most “interesting” exchanges.
Sunday at the gas station.
Wooooooow. Wooow those are so cool.
::points and the Royal Enfield Kenny is filling up.::
What year is that?
It’s new. It’s a ’12.
Wow, yea. So cool. It’s new. I know a replica when I see one.
It’s not a replica.
What is it a copy of a Triumph?
It’s a Royal Enfield. They’ve been around a long time.
So is it a BSA, then?
No, it’s a Royal Enfield.
I though I was going to get away clean on this one since gas station friend was so wrapped up in Kenny. I suppose it’s hard to hide when you’re messing around with a giant orange Ural.
Now it was my turn.
Wow, look at this thing. This is wild. What is it?
It’s a Ural.
A Ural. It’s from Russia.
Ural. Right. Nice. What’s it like going around turns?
It’s not really like riding a motorcycle, it’s steering is more… direct.
Right, yea. I need to get something like this for my wife. She can’t handle a motorcycle.
Off to have coffee with my dudes in town.
I never thought I’d end up as one of those ‘old guys sipping coffee on a bench’ but I’m thiiiiiiiiis close 😀
Someone on Instagram said I look like the Stig. I’ll take it!
While on a jaunt aboard the Royal Enfield, I stopped off to get a better look at some graffiti that I’ve been ‘meaning to stop at’ for at least a year.
Just think about all of the things that the person who painted that on the wall could have come up with – and this… this was it. Isn’t it ridiculously wonderful? 😀
The chief enemy of creativity is ‘good’ sense.
On Sunday I popped in to town to meet friends for coffee. It was a beautiful afternoon so there were lots of riders around enjoying the sunshine. I pulled in to the parking lot, backed in to a spot and got off the bike.
Another motorcyclist of about 70 shuffled over as I begin unstrapping my helmet and taking it off.
“Nice. Zat da real cuhluh?”
::blink:blink:: “Yep, it’s the real color.”
“How many hawspowuh?”
“Not sure, maybe 30?”
“Uh hundrit fitty?”
“No, thirty. Thirty. Three zero. It’s a 500 single.”
“Yeah, dats whut I was askin’, a 500, huh? Nice.”
It’s me, isn’t it? I’m a dingbat magnet.