I got up early this morning and flicked on the porch light. Nope, nary a flake thus far, although I expect that’ll change pretty soon. According to the weatherman, snow will be starting around sunrise with blizzard conditions expected by noon.

With most of southern Maine closed by the storm, the workload in my home office will most likely drop off to the point where I can finally justify, rationalize and otherwise B.S. myself into addressing a particularly long overdue agenda item, e.g., planning my next summer motorcycle road trip!

Though it hardly seems possible, this year marks the 40th anniversary of my first ever multi-state, two-week motorcycle adventure. Having noted the grains of sand slipping ever more swiftly through the hourglass, I’m contemplating a reprise of that epic journey this summer.

The snowplow’s rumble on the street outside fades to a low hum as I drift into happy reverie. Imagining warm breezes wafting through what’s left of my hair, I cruise across New Hampshire, down into Pennsylvania, through rural Maryland to Washington, D.C. then on to the low green hills of Front Royal, Va. One breathtaking vista follows another as I once more trace the sinewy asphalt spine of the Blue Ridge Parkway all the way to the western tip of North Carolina.

How fun is that? Well, to be honest, that’s not exactly a rhetorical question in this context. You see, aside from revisiting the fun of bygone days, I’m seriously hoping I’ll encounter fewer terrifying near death experiences this time around. Oh, have I not mentioned my terrifying near death experiences? I suppose I do tend to leave that part out. But, now that I’ve introduced the topic, I might as well explain what really happened 40 years ago on that first epic motorcycle adventure.

I was already hooked on motorcycling by age 23, when I purchased a used ’69 Suzuki T500 Titan from a cute, motorcycle-savvy waitress I’d met at a Portland bar where my band occasionally performed. She’d lavished such excellent care on the bike that all it took was a paintbrush and a pint of black enamel to correct its singular glaring flaw, a cheery purple and white factory paint job: very groovy for any young “biker chick” of the era; totally uncool for a macho road warrior wannabe like me.

I figured the black, 500cc, blue-smoke-belching two-stroke machine (under hard acceleration it sounded exactly like a couple of dueling chainsaws) was plenty enough bike for me, which turned out to be true, although just barely, as I would discover over the course of a 14-day, 3,500-plus mile ride.

Oh yeah, about those near death experiences. The first one arrived at dawn on day two. With morning temps hovering in the mid 30s, the three sweaters under my leather jacket did nothing to blunt the sub-zero wind chill. Hypothermia quickly turned my brain to sludge and anesthetized my reflexes. How I managed to navigate the next several miles of mountain switchbacks without careening over a cliff remains a complete mystery.

Two days later my rear tire exploded amid a sea of dense, high-speed, bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Woodrow Wilson Bridge near Washington, D.C. Tragedy was averted only by the miraculous intervention of a burly construction worker and his white Ford pickup. Suddenly infused with superhuman strength (apparently quite common in such situations) we blithely tossed 600 lbs. of motorcycle and gear into the battered F150 and hightailed it outta there.

Days later, still recovering from N.D.E. #2, but sporting a fresh rear tire, I was cruising the Blue Ridge Parkway when a blast of wind nearly blew me off the tarmac. Within moments I was fighting to remain upright while simultaneously dodging tree limbs the size of hockey sticks: a scene so eerily reminiscent of “The Wizard of Oz” that I half expected Margaret Hamilton to fly past on a broomstick!

Exiting the parkway, I made a beeline for a glowing “vacancy” sign, parking just moments before a bolt of lightening struck nearby and the whole world went dark. Soaked to the skin I stumbling into the motel office and swapped some waterlogged bills for a room key.

I awakened to discover that I’d arrived amid the worst tornado ever to hit ... wait for it ... Blowing Rock, North Carolina. Blowing Rock? That’s right. Frankly, sometimes I find the writing in this play just a bit too obvious.

Back in Maine the blizzard arrived on schedule and I’m smiling at my decision to ride through Blowing Rock one more time if only to see what the place looks like when the rocks aren’t actually blowing directly at me! I’ll let you know how that turns out.