The temps hit 70+ degrees on the ol’ Fahrenheit scale in central Illinois, and as I chauffeured the Wife & kids around for lunch and grocery shopping, it hit me this may be the last day of nice weather to get Lenore ready for her winter hibernation.
Oil change, after dark, no stand. That's how I roll.
Unfortunately I neglected to account for the earlier sunset, so by the time we got home and I got to work, the sun decided to abandon me. Even better, the last guy to replace the oil filter put it on too tight, and after my failed attempts to use a new strap wrench to remove the filter, I resorted to hammering a screwdriver through the filter and using the screwdriver handle for leverage.
Hey, it worked.
2.25 quarts of 10W30 later and Lenore purred like a kitten. I put on a pair of goggles and took her for a quick spin around town, reminded her we’d still be together in the Spring. She told me she’d heard that song before. She reminded me I’d promised to take her on a road trip this year, that she’d get to see some sights in the great Midwestern wilderness.
“Hey, baby, I have a wife and kids,” said I. “A wife who works now.”
“Likely excuse. You ride me around town, take your pictures, then lock me up again. You don’t love me.”
“Hey, don’t talk like that, baby. You know you’re my girl. And the minivan, she means nothing to me. Now hold still while I check out your undercarriage.”
I pulled her in and shut her off before things got weird. I best take one of those promised road trips next year so she doesn’t turn spiteful.
No leaks around the filter or drain plug make Mike a happy rider. I had a hard time seeing the coolant level, so I’ll have to do that tomorrow in daylight. Then she goes on the battery minder until we get some unseasonably warm weather again or the cold gives up the ghost at the end of Winter. Next Spring she gets a new chain and sprockets.
I make do working on the ground in the driveway, but I keep thinking a hydraulic lift would be more convenient and allow me to do other bits of maintenance on the bike myself. I hit Amazon to get an idea of pricing, and I discovered this slice of interesting marketing:
Change your oil, baby?
In the ’50s, TV told us women vacuumed their homes in nice dresses and pearl necklaces. Today’s liberated women have moved on, preferring to do motorcycle maintenance in fuck-me pumps and Daisy Dukes. Ten more years and it will be brain surgery in bondage gear.
Hooray for progress!
Don’t get me wrong, I understand the concept of putting a woman in an ad. I have a penis, and it tends to make a lot of decisions for me. If the ad were for the bike, I wouldn’t give it a second thought.
But it’s a hydraulic jack. What can possibly be sexy about a hydraulic jack? (Oh, right. Thanks, Rule 34.) Even worse, they’ve covered up a significant portion of the very item I may be interested in purchasing. If I hadn’t found it in a search for a specific product, I’d have assumed they were trying to sell me the bike.
Lenore’s about done for the season. If I’m lucky there will be a day or two I can sneak out with her this week, but after that, it’s all preparation for the cold white stuff to bury us.
I need to move somewhere warm.
About Mike Oliveri
Mike Oliveri is a writer, martial artist, cigar aficionado, motorcyclist, and family man, but not necessarily in that order. He is currently hard at work on the werewolf noir series The Pack for Evileye Books.