5 Reasons to Hate Motorcycles

I have heard rumors that not everyone likes motorcycles as much as me. I have, in fact, had people ominously warn me that some people hate motorcyclists. I've been trying to figure this out, and I think I've got it. So, here goes.

1. The nail that sticks out gets hammered down. Can you believe these people out there, riding around on their motorcycles, having a good time while sensible people stay safe and cozy in their S.U.V.s? How dare they? What's up with those clothes? How many cows did you have to kill for all that leather? Why can't you be like the rest of us?

2. Jealousy. Don't you wish you could be as cool as that motorcyclist? Look at the mechanical incarnation of pure awesomeness he or she is riding. Now look at that wheeled brick you're rolling around in. Why does everyone else get to have all the fun?

3. They're so hard to see. God forbid you pay attention to something besides your phone and your hair when you're driving. Using your turn signals is hard enough, but now you have to turn your head and just look at where you're going? Screw that.

4. They're dangerous. Look at that asshole. He's probably increasing your insurance premiums. Doesn't he think of anyone besides himself? What happens when he crashes and he can't feed his kids anymore? Won't someone think of the children?

5. Naked, yellow fear. Ultimately, hate comes back to fear. Who knows what you're so afraid of. Pain? Rejection? Failure? Success? Maybe living the life you want instead of the one you feel stuck with? Yeah, I can see through your hatred. You're justifying your fear instead of overcoming it.

Fear is natural. It's a good thing when it keeps you from getting killed by an angry mastodon. On the other hand, fear is toxic when it keeps you from really living your life. It's toxic when you can't identify it and keep it in check. It's toxic when you start imposing your fear on others. It's toxic when it turns to hate.

That First Taste

One taste. One taste and you'll know whether or not motorcycles are really for you. The first time you swing a leg over the seat, grab the bars and feel the motor thrumming underneath you, the first time you realize how loud any motorcycle is compared to the stifling cocoon inside any car produced more recently than 1967. The first time you feel the clutch catch and the bike moves and you'd better damn well hang on because it'll be just as happy to leave without you.

One taste is enough to know if motorcycles are really for you. You'll know if you really want to keep hanging on, and make the machine do your bidding. Motorcycles are not tame, like cars, those sleepy dogs that will gladly wait for you to get your act together and protect you whether you deserve it or not. Motorcycles will not forgive stupidity. A motorcycle will be happy to pitch you off and leak petroleum products all over you if you don't have the grit to hang on until you reach whatever destination awaits you. A motorcycle will, at some point, bite you.

One taste will let you know if you're really cut out to ride.

There are those, I think, who fall in love with the idea of motorcycles. They've got one in their garage, probably on a battery tender, life support for a machine destined to moulder away unloved, hidden, and caged because its owner didn't pay attention to that first taste.

But for some of us, that first taste touched something hidden. Something buried far away in the depths of our minds. Something locked up by so-called rationality, and the shrill warnings of authority figures we should have ignored in the first place. And when we felt that energy surge from the motor, through the handlebars, up our arms, arcing across the resistance of common sense and into our spirits, something primal broke free. It shook loose and took hold, told us that this motorcycle was the key to a freedom that cannot truly be explained, cannot be packaged, cannot be sold as much as the lizards in the marketing machine wish it could be. Because this is the freedom to set aside fear, to see risk, danger, death staring right at us, and to stare right back into that darkness and ask, "What have you got?"

And you can't leave the key to that freedom rotting in your musty garage. One taste is all you need to know if motorcycles are really your thing.

If that first taste is not good to you, listen to yourself. Find something else you groove to. Your own brand of freedom is out there, somewhere. Find it. Love it. And leave the motorcycles to those of us who can handle them, who want to handle them, who need to handle them.

And for those of you who had that first taste, and discovered you like it, if it left you craving more - I am sorry. Your family will think you've lost your mind. Friends and acquaintances will try to show you the error of your ways. People are going to worry about you. They're going to tell you about their friends or family who were bent into new and unexpected shapes by demon motorcycles. Some will be hostile. So you'll make new friends. Friends who understand. Friends who also found that first taste irresistible.

And you will lose some of them. Motorcycles do not forgive stupidity, or inattention, or a lack of control. And it does not matter who was stupid, inattentive or out of control. The squishiest person involved is the one who gets hurt.

It's a risk we're aware of, and I won't lie and tell you we don't fear death, or injury. But would you rather fear pain and death, or fear life?

Motorcycles are not for everyone. That first taste will let you know if motorcycles are really for you.

Motorcycle-Enforced Minimalism

In my recent musings on the subject of motorcycle luggage, I think I mentioned my main annoyance with the various options available is the hassle of carrying stuff around. Having my hands full with a helmet, gloves and a bag of some sort drives me nuts. As such, I've got a very minimal list of things I bring with me, and every single one of those items has been closely examined. Each item has to prove its utility, or it's getting left in the garage.

My motorcycling habit forces me to consider what is essential, and what is superfluous. I think it's great.

Back in those dark days before I owned a motorcycle, I made do with the Rat Buick. It was a great car - you know, for a car - and it had an absolutely enormous trunk. You know those mob movies where they've got three bodies and a 55 gallon drum of lye in the trunk? That's how big the trunk of the Buick was.

It rapidly became my rolling storage solution. That might have been a good thing if all my trunk space were filled with items of utility. But, really, it was a bunch of stuff I meant to bring to Goodwill and various trash I'd been too lazy to throw away.

I don't have anything I've been too lazy to get rid of with me when I ride the Triumph.

I'm planning to do some motorcycle camping this summer, with at least one extended trip to Colorado, as well as some backpacking (hopefully)*. As such, I've been researching what is needed and what is extra weight, and the best way to haul the gear I need around on the Triumph. What I've discovered is that what one needs, and what one wants is the difference between 30 pounds of gear and 50 pounds.

The thought of schlepping an extra twenty pounds around is enough to make me consider every item and its proper stowage twice. I'd rather carry the stuff I know I need, and maybe one or two luxury (sanity) items than a bunch of crap I think I might want. And riding to work every day will make items with no purpose immediately apparent.

*I know a couple of you are backpackers. Do any of you use your motorcycle to go backpacking? If so, how do you manage your pack on the bike?

Meeting a Road Warrior.

Last summer, it was my pleasure to meet a fellow motorcycle enthusiast for coffee. This might seem like no big deal if you live in a more temperate climate. The Sonoran desert, however, is far from temperate in July and August. On an outrageously hot day - easily 114 degrees in the shade - I met this biker from Los Angeles at a coffee shop to swap stories.

On this particular day, I was not riding. Frankly, 114 degrees is too hot to go out riding for fun in the afternoon. When it's that hot out, the heat coming from the motor works together with the sun and the heat reflecting off the road and cars to punish anyone foolish enough to venture out without air conditioning. I've done my time riding in that kind of heat, and I'd just as soon avoid it when I'm able.

The biker I was meeting had ridden all night from Los Angeles. His bike is a newer Harley-Davidson Sportster, ratted out and modified until it looked like a much older Sportster. It was flat black, with a bamboo luggage rack he had built himself, and a Pabst Blue Ribbon bottle cap epoxied on the top of the upper triple tree. As for the rider himself, he was dressed head to toe in black.

He told me he'd been having some motor troubles and almost hadn't made the trip. The bike had been making some strange noises, and he'd pulled the motor all apart trying to find the cause. He never did, but when he put it back together, it was making a different noise. A mechanic buddy of his told him he worried too much, and to get back to riding.

The morning of the trip, he'd stood looking at his machine, trying to decide whether or not to risk a six hour ride, including a couple hours through Death Valley, in the middle of the summer.

"So," he said, "I asked myself - what would Beowulf do?"

He took a swig of coffee, and continued.

"And I decided what Beowulf would do is go and kill himself some Grendel. So here I am."

You kind of have to admire that.

Fast Motorcycles Will Save Your Soul

I can't think of another activity quite as good for one's overall mental and spiritual health as regular motorcycle rides.

Maybe it's the inherent risk. Maybe it's the need to be aware and living in the moment. Maybe it's the thrill of being a part of the scene instead of watching it through a window.

Maybe it's just fun. Fun is underrated in our society. Everybody claims to be looking for it, or is attempting to sell it, but no one seems to be having any. We go to work every day at jobs that, on the whole, suck. Then we go home and stress out about whatever it is we're stressed about. Our jobs. Taxes. Bills. Death. We feel guilty about taking our vacation time, to the point that a ridiculous number of people allow their employers to call and demand their time while on vacation! And that's if they take a vacation in the first place. I know a bunch of my co-workers have so much vacation time saved up that they lose it at the end of the year. What's that about?

Fun is important. It's widely accepted that laughter is good for us. That's because laughing is fun. If you can't bring yourself to have fun, it is a sign that something is very wrong. Fun is food for your spirit. I'm not advocating an irresponsible, hedonistic lifestyle*, just a regular time out from drudgery to do something fun.

And a fast motorcycle** is fun.

I know a lot of you folks are ice-bound right now. If you're not inclined to install spikes on your tires and get out riding, I can respect that. You're welcome to haul your bike down here, by the way. I know some great roads. I won't even tease you about trailering your bike.

Anyway, if you're grounded for the time being, I hope you've got something fun going on. Because life is too important to waste it without a little fun.


*I am, however, firmly in favor of responsible hedonism.
**Slow motorcycles are also fun.

Heavy Metal Makes the World a Better Place

Last night my fearsome crew and I loaded into our dragonboat and set sail for metal.

It has always been my opinion that metal is best when it comes with a wink. There was a long period of time where metal got kinda, well, serious. And it was good music but, to paraphrase David Lee Roth, eventually it's got to be Miller Time.

And in honor of Miller Time, we went to see Korpiklaani - beer-loving folk metal from Finland.

If that doesn't sound like fun to you, I probably don't want to know you.

Anyhow, we were in for a real treat, because playing with Korpiklaani were a host of other, equally awesome bands. Like Swashbuckle. Did you know there is such a thing as Pirate Metal? Because I didn't. If you did know, and didn't tell me, might I suggest you keep that to yourself?

Check it:

And then, it got better! Because TYR came on. And if there's one thing I like more than Pirate Metal, it's Viking metal. Which leads me into a brief tangent: when Irondad came to Phoenix, he mentioned that when he'd described me as a Viking, he'd meant it with the utmost respect. And I wondered to myself, is there any other way I could have taken it?

Where was I? Oh, right, TYR. TYR is AWESOME:

Moving on, Korpiklaani finally went on around 10:30, and they were absolutely awesome! I wanted to give all of those crazy Finns a big Viking hug, and the rest of the crowd seemed to feel the same way.

This was possibly the coolest concert I've been to in Phoenix, just because the level of positive energy was so high all night. Even the pit was good-natured - the one fight that broke out was broken up lickety-split and everyone got along again. The guys fighting didn't even get thrown out!

So, Korpiklaani:

After all that awesome metal, we staggered back to the dragonboat, bloodied, bruised and ready for their next visit!

Today, I am one sore Viking. Good thing for vacation time.

Motorcycles Make the World a Better Place

I believe every time I swing a leg over the seat of my motorcycle, I'm making the world a better place.

Yes, really.

Mahatma Gandhi said "Be the change you want to see in the world." I'm not so bold as to compare myself to Gandhi, but I'll take what I can from his wisdom and apply it to my own life. And maybe, if I'm bold enough to do that, other people will too.

You know what I was to see in the world? People unafraid to go for what they want, unafraid to take a calculated risk, people unafraid to have fun. Fun is a social good.

I like to think, and maybe I'm crazy, that I've inspired one or two people to dust off the bikes they've got in the garage and get them out on the road. I know I've helped a couple people taking those first steps to being an awesome biker and even motorcycle commuters. I like to talk to folks when I'm out riding or walking around in my gear, and I hope they walk away glad they talked to me.

I like waving to kids. Have you seen their eyes light up when they see a motorcycle? It's because they haven't been burdened with thoughts of "being realistic" or "being safe." They just know a good time when they see one. A few of those kids might grow up to be bikers. Or, they might at least do their best not to run us down in their SUVs.

And what's up with the obsession with safety, anyhow? I'm tired of people telling me to be safe. Safety this, safety that. Look, I've got a helmet on my noggin, I'm wearing protective gear, and I've been trained to ride this thing. I don't ride like an idiot. I'm as safe as I can be, and I don't want to be any safer. Safety is an illusion. Total safety is a padded room you lock yourself in. You'll be just as dead if you get killed in a car, but you won't have had nearly as much fun along the way.

So maybe some people think I'm nuts riding in the extremes of Phoenix weather. Some people might think I'm nuts riding to work every day. A few people probably think I'm nuts for having a motorcycle. And there are some who just think I'm nuts.

But there are hopefully always going to be a few out there who see me and get inspired to do what they've always wanted to do.

And that makes the world a better place, I think.