You never know how things will affect you until they happen-birth, death, divorce, college, jobs, whatever. I didn't go into motorcycle ownership with any other reason than it looked cool and I knew I had to have one. That was thirteen years ago and I went from a trashed out Honda to a ruthless budget bobber sportster, just like the David Allen Coe song. I had no idea the mental and emotional places I'd go, or even the physical locations, but I am starting to understand why I felt such a need for that first bike.
This bike I have now, purchased after my college roommate convinced me I could afford the payments, has been all over the united States, both in the truck and under its own power. I transformed it slowly into the meanest, roughest, nastiest bike that none of my friends will ride. It used to be fairly comfortable. In stock trim I once rode from Payson to McPherson in a day and it only took two days to recover. Last labor day we rode two hundred miles and I was sore for a week.
It taught me, with the help of a shop manual, that I could tackle and accomplish tasks I thought out of my reach. It taught me how to pack a proper tool bag. I learned hitch hiking is still a viable means of transportation.
I'm currently driving an hour one way to work. It's a great way to decompress on the way home and an even better way to start out. Last summer when my truck was broken I learned to not fear thunderstorms but that fenders might be helpful regardless of how uncool they are. I remember other rides too though-to the airport with a loose headlight shining on the tire at 80 mph for an hour after I got the call about grandpa, riding at night with tears flying off behind me. I remember taking our helmets off at the Florida state line, just because we could, and how damn hot it was. Then, a week later, riding Trail Ridge Road at 10,000 feet and being pretty chilly! A high speed burn from eager Arizona to the new Mexico state line just to see what it looked like. A hundred miles with twelve bottles of beer in a backpack. The ride with dad that started out just ten minutes up the road for a root beer at the fruit stand and ended six hours later after we'd visited Michigan.
It's a real conversation starter too, mostly inquiries about it's age and if I built it. My favorite conversations are the nods from older bikers, or the guys that do a double take, then wave. They notice the time, love and effort. The stories Sportster Bob told me about Austin in the 70s and how they'd tear around on bloody Mary Sundays, or how I pulled into Stubby's yard to check out his chop and we ended up drinking whiskey from some old fifth he dug out, Sunday morning, first names only, war stories about bar fights and sharing women. I stopped once over north of Del Norte to look at a guys bike and we talked for three hours, about ABATE, helmet laws, and of course his righteous survivor chop.
I got into bikes because I thought they were manly, tough, American. I had no idea the whole world that was opened up for me. I pussed out and didn't ride to the Denver premier of Choppertown, thought it was too cold. Zach and Scott showed me I wasn't alone in this world. Now, in Indianapolis, whenever I buy or sell some random part, I met these kinda strange, hairy, wild eyed guys just like me that have the same urge to build, construct, stand back and smile quietly, and then go terrorize the squares. I don't have any catch phrase to close on, just that it's going to be a long damn time till springtime comes around again.
