My office’s last three-day weekend was rained out, completely. Three free days, ruined by a soggy sky. I filed my complaint to no one, but someone must have listened. We got another long weekend for Presidents Day, this time without the wet stuff. With an entire Monday to waste, a couple coworkers and I boarded our sport bikes and headed north for the phenomenal roads and sights of Marin and Sonoma counties.

As a daily rider-commuter and wannabe Lewis-and-Clark, it’s rare that I hop aboard the mighty 250 with less than a backpack strapped to my vessel. A ten-year-old Jansport served me well enough through my first year of motorcycling, but my Seattle adventure underscored serious weaknesses in my choice of bag. I needed a new backpack, more suitable for motorcycle touring.

I’ve a bit of a love-hate relationship with sleep; I love to stay in bed, but I hate that sleep is such a waste of time. Leonardo da Vinci devised a torturous sleep pattern to avoid the wastefulness of unconscious nights, whereby he slept in ten minute bursts for a total of just two hours per day. Obviously, that’s insane and ill-conceived, but I’ve always had a lot of respect for people that can sleep less and wake up early and active. Usually it’s old people with such talents.

In October, I started wrangling together a group of coworkers for Sunday morning rides every week. We’ve had some fantastic days, but I get the feeling that, at least until after football season, it’s going to be harder and harder to motivate the pack to wake up at dawn for a casual back road tear to breakfast and coffee.

For many riders, a Ninja 250 is the bottom rung of a sport bike ladder, a necessary first step in pursuit of high horsepower race replicas. I can’t begin to recount the myriad times I’ve been asked about getting a bigger bike, generally with the suggestion, express or implied, that I’m ready for a 600cc super sport. With over 17,000 miles behind the bars of my mighty 250, I’ve no apprehensions about moving up. But I’d rather branch out.

In the dubious pursuit of progress, I’ve abandoned a flawless summer and hunkered down for the chillier half of the year ahead. It is officially autumn, evidenced by retreating fog and dipping temperatures. There’s no season that spells doom for motorcycling in the Bay Area, but certain months call for more clothing.