In Detroit, back in the fifties, we rode motorcycles in the cold. I can remember in high school riding my Cushman motor scooter all year, riding to school, peddling newspapers in the ice and snow, sliding all over the streets, my fingers and ears totally numb. And years later on a cold January night, picking up that cherry Triumph TR6 – a big powerful motorcycle at the time – that I just bought from Vic, and riding it gingerly, careful to avoid patches of ice still scattered on the street. I rode it straight home, into the garage where Eddy was waiting, and we just stood there in the dark, smoking cigarettes, admiring the fine detail of the bike, listening to the hot engine crackle in the cold winter night. Cold Riding
In Detroit, back in the fifties, we rode motorcycles in the cold. I can remember in high school riding my Cushman motor scooter all year, riding to school, peddling newspapers in the ice and snow, sliding all over the streets, my fingers and ears totally numb. And years later on a cold January night, picking up that cherry Triumph TR6 – a big powerful motorcycle at the time – that I just bought from Vic, and riding it gingerly, careful to avoid patches of ice still scattered on the street. I rode it straight home, into the garage where Eddy was waiting, and we just stood there in the dark, smoking cigarettes, admiring the fine detail of the bike, listening to the hot engine crackle in the cold winter night. 
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