It's March in New Hampshire. My yard remains snowcovered, but I see hints of change. A small flock of Robbins swooped through my backyard the other day. They found some bare ground beneath my southern-facing hedges sunny and welcoming.
Yesterday's temperatures peaked in the 40's. The snow melted from my southern-facing roof.
Other signs of Spring abound. Boston hosted its annual New England Boat Show in late February. New England's mariners were delighted.
My thoughts, of course, are turning to riding. I've been pouring through motorcycle magazines and websites, anticipation heightening to near frenzy.
Yesterday I suddenly announced to my wife, "I need to visit my bike shop." "That's silly," she quite rightly replied, "aren't they closing in 20 minutes?"
Damn! I detest such reality when I'm swooning in fantasy.
"I'll go next Saturday, earlier in the day," I thought to myself.
So instead of heading out to a house of motorcycle worship, I took a late afternoon nap. I dreamed of riding the scenic roads of New Hampshire's White Mountains. Spring is coming. Not even a guaranty of more snow in March will dissuade me from dreaming.
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