By Tony Mangia
After almost 40 years of living in New York City, I permanently — and stubbornly — moved out of Manhattan to Florida. One of the reasons I made the switch from concrete sidewalks to sandy beaches — besides the fortuity to work out of what was my second home — was the weather and opportunity to ride my motorcycle almost any time I wanted. It’s been three years since I traded that one-bedroom apartment under the shadow of the Empire State building for a three-bedroom house with a pool, boat dock and garage on the Gulf Coast of the Sunshine State.
Oh yeah, did I mention I now have a garage?
I never knew having my own personal space to park my 1976 Harley-Davidson Super Glide would yield so many benefits after years of parking it on the 32nd Street sidewalk (technically illegal, but I was young, broke and the city was the Wild West back then) outside my building before being able to afford storing it in various indoor garages around the neighborhood.
Finally, for the next couple of decades I knew my garage-parked bike would be relatively safe (I did have my car stolen right out of a Sixth Avenue parking garage once), a little expensive ($250 a month), but wouldn’t have to worry about parking tickets, tow trucks or that ubiquitous homeless guy who occasionally “decorated” it with trinkets he culled from the garbage. The problems with the garage were that the bike was usually stashed in a dank corner swaddled under a perpetually dirty motorcycle cover (You wouldn’t believe how much exhaust soot the cars make and that the parking attendants must breath in) and it was jammed behind a couple of cars (I had to tip the attendant to move them while I unlocked the half dozen or so locks I secured it with). The act of retrieving my motorcycle became a task that actually made getting the bike out on the street a tiresome and sometimes time-consuming chore. It was easier to jump on the subway or grab a cab. Leisurely putts became a rarity.
The luxury of having my own garage now goes past just parking the bike. It means I can work on that leaky AMF (One rebuilt engine and two paint jobs later) in comfortable surroundings, leave parts scattered where they fall — all with with the convenience of an array of tools at my side. It is sure a big difference from when I would slip my bike between two parked cars on the street, kick some garbage out of the way and hope it didn’t rain before I finished changing the oil or whatnot.
But a Manhattan parking garage did provide my Harley with secure storage over the winter months.
From November until March, I would occasionally stop in the garage, reach under the gunk-coated cover and start the old warhorse for a quick battery charge thinking about a joyous warm day when I could take it out for the ceremonial first ride of spring. Honestly, I mostly neglected the bike during the winter storage more than I should have. Out of sight, out of mind.
In Florida I have the luxury of being able to ride the bike almost any day I want. It’s sitting right there at my house. I’ve become spoiled by the warm weather and easy access to my bike 365 days a year. And in shorts and a tank top no less! No more soiled cover, no more airborne grime, no more drained batteries, no more waiting for the temperature to rise above 55-degrees (My personal comfort level) and no more 250 bucks for a three-foot by six-foot corner space every month. Florida is Nirvana for motorcyclists — and cheaper too.
Now after three years in southwest Florida, I came to the conclusion that I have been been taking my motorcycle for granted and find myself reminiscing about that first day of spring ride ritual.
Looking back, after six months being cooped up during a New York City winter, the snow and cold, that first spin on your scooter every spring was like the last day of school and Christmas rolled onto two wheels. The act of gearing up — my 30 year-old leather jacket that has who knows how many miles and the scuffed patches from a few spills to prove it — and hoping that you have enough juice in the battery, the jets didn’t clog and the fuel didn’t evaporate (gas stations are rare birds in Manhattan) are now distant flashbacks.
The anxiety of those annual first city starts still linger though. Every year, while stepping around that puddle of oil under the bike before wiping off the accumulated dust and filth, there came the pressing of the start button followed by its first wheezing cough through the air filter, the popping burps from the exhausts and the prayers you don’t have to hump it up the parking lot ramp, then down to push-start it. Funny how those nuisances are fond remembrances now.
Back on those first days, with any luck, the points and timing were okay, the gas was potent, tire pressure okay and there was enough oil left in it to take her out for that first annual spin.
The sensation of riding my motorcycle into bright sunlight outside the darkened garage exit was a glorious feeling. Cruising down Fifth Avenue, the 1200cc vibrating underneath, a slight wind in your face with Mother Nature somehow finding a way to send a chill down your neck. The smell of Sabrett’s hot dog carts filled your other senses. The staleness of winter being exorcised from your bike through temporary plumes of black exhaust and an occasional sputter. At the same time, your own pent-up soul being cleansed with a healthy blush on your cheeks and a smile on your face.
For me, it was always over to the FDR to rev this baby out of her doldrums. Cruising along the East River, dodging potholes and taxis was dangerous, but also a delightful, welcome adventure. Then it was up to 96th Street and over to Park Avenue southward for my favorite secret shortcut through a tunnel slicing through the Pan Am Building (What real New Yorkers still call the renamed MetLife Building) and around Grand Central Station on an elevated roadway looking down at Vanderbilt Place before tooling up 42nd Street. It was a thrill gliding past Times Square over to the West Side Highway up to the the George Washington Bridge into Jersey for a fresh tank of gas for that thirsty beast.
In the coming weeks, it would be a wash, an oil change and tune up done on the crowded street. The leather jacket would go back in the closet and, considering the weather, more rides out of the city.
Today in Florida, like almost any day, I opened my garage door, hopped on the seat and rode that motorcycle to the local store for some groceries — hassle-free. No stuck padlocks, no ashy covers and no attendant with his hand out.
In exchange, there are no more first rides of spring anymore.
Like that incurable drip of oil from my motorcycle and the eternal pool it leaves on my garage floor, the recollections of those anticipated first rides in New York City have stayed with me — even with the city inconveniences.
