First tracks, last ride from Bus Huxley on Vimeo.

A neighbor found last spring on Craigslist this slightly derelict 1973 Kawasaki 175. It was bedecked with a rusty veneer and burdened with a sputtering cough. A prescription of elbow grease and carburetor tinkering brought the spunky two-stroke back from the brink of oblivion. Ensued a fine summer and fall of barreling down the dirt roads of Peacham, Vermont, the buzzy engine trailing a thin fog of smoke. All grins on the way to and from the swimming hole.

Traditionally, winter’s arrival marks the end of motorcycle season for a couple of logical reasons. Cold is colder on a bike, which does nothing to shield the wind from cutting into you; as hypothermia sets in, you lose the ability to manipulate your extremities — and therefore the break lever and throttle. Snow and other forms of frozen water are slippery, and on slipperty surfaces two wheels are far harder to control than four; maintaining balance requires traction between the small patch of rubber on the tires and the ground, and once the ground is compromised with ice, it’s rational to put the old steed into hibernation for the winter.

Rational, however, isn’t always fun. It’s a bright and cold 10 degrees, and 16 inches of fresh, light, powdery snow insulate the lawn — perfect conditions for boundary exploration. The small, high-revving engine of this bike runs hot and loves the cold. I think, “I just may extend the riding season by a day.” The only way to undertake something like this is to jump in head first and tear out across the lawn, legs out and throttle twisted open wide, caution to the wind. It’s not every day that holds the promise is of a soft landing.