The way dropped toast lands in Dorchester is always buttered-side down. Luckily the floors are spotless, spic-and-span. We were at the Sugar Bowl this morning at 857 Dot Ave. You know the place, across from the New Store On The Block, though how new that store is, I don't know. I was enjoying a slug of java and a scone, watching the foot traffic outside the curved, plate glass window. It was Sunday. Parishioners were filing toward the Blessed Mother Theresa of Calcutta Church for mass. We felt we should be following, but other obligations intruded. I checked my watch and looked at my companion. She was finishing up a blueberry muffin. She said, "Is it time?"
Donning our helmets we rocketed out of Dorchester on the Littlest Ninja this side of the Charles River, one stoplight at a time. She hugged me tightly down Columbia Road and then down American Legion Highway. The engine screamed in fifth gear. We navigated through Roslindale to Center Street, heading into West Roxbury. Today's mission: to get from the West Roxbury line, where Boston abuts Dedham, to the Charlestown Bridge with as few turns as possible. Sunday morning seemed the best time to accomplish this endeavor.
We pulled a tight U-turn at the Dedham border and headed north. Center Street was no problem, a reasonably straight shot with no traffic and no interference. We hit the Jamaicaway, then the Riverway, then Fenway. Things started to get dicey. We figured Boylston Street was the best bet and it was for awhile. After the Common, our plans all went to hell as we turned and swung around and back again in Chinatown.
Determined not to take the Surface Road, we wove through downtown. It was magnificent to wend through the canyons of old buildings mixed with new with no congestion. Sunday is the day to take a motorcycle through downtown Boston. Though a temperature of fifty degrees is nothing to crow about, it's nothing to complain about either, especially when both parties are wearing polypropylene long johns and wind-proof jackets.
After speeding in circles through back alleys and along one-way lanes, we sighted the Charlestown bridge. Would we cross it? No. We didn't want to go too far afield. Charlestown's delights would wait another day. We headed to Charles Street, found enough room to park the bike and wandered Beacon Hill with our day's second cups of coffee in our hands. Charles Street is picturesque, but it's no Dot Ave.
Dropping our empty cups into the trash barrel in front of Seven-Eleven, we mounted the Little Ninja again for the sweetest ride of all: the ride back to Dorchester. Hurtling through Newmarket, we felt a pull on the front tire that matched the push of the rear. The bike, like its passengers, knew it was headed home and couldn't wait to get there.