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When we were very
young, almost all of us had our first encounter with a simple
machine that rode on two wheels. The bicycle is most always a
wide-eyed gift, as it gives us our very first taste of vehicle
ownership, and it also transports us to places that walking took
way too long.
I have such vivid memories from my childhood of riding my bike
all over the city where I lived. You knew where all the hated
inclines were that required that stand-up pedaling and grunting
to reach the top. Ah, but the other side often held a reward
that made it all worthwhile, the downhill coast. Maybe this was
your first taste of adrenaline as you hear the tires whine
against the pavement. The breeze that tussles your hair, or
blows your hat away, and the incredible sensation of speed.
Almost always faster that you could ever generate by way of the
pedals, the downhill rush delivered a fun factor that was only
made better when you clipped a playing card into the spokes.
Then the steady purr of the flapping card gave the illusion of
the big boy toy you dreamed your bike could be; a motorcycle.
These are probably the kind of dreams that create the essence of
the gearhead. Many years will pass between storming the
neighborhoods on your trusty bicycle and learning to drive a
car. During this formative period, the gearhead child has a
tendency to gravitate towards most any motorized apparatus.
Riding lawnmowers, mini bikes, go-karts or just bumper cars at
the amusement park; the young gearhead continues to seek out
that sensation of downhill speed, without all the pedaling.
Getting your driver's license is always a banner day, and a true
right of passage for anyone filled with automotive interests.
With some, those desires wane as they get older, but for those
of us who measure our blood in viscosity weights, the passion
can spread to almost anything powered to move. Dragsters, round
track cars, canyon carving sports cars, snowmobiles, tractor
pullers and aircraft just to name a few. Out of all of those
choices, there is one that rises to the surface more than any
other, and that is the two-wheeled wonder of the motorcycle.
Motorcycles carry a mystique that is hard to describe. They
reach back to our childhood and tickle our memories of leaning
when we turn on a bicycle, and they take the open air rush of
riding to a whole new level. With the spring season almost upon
us, many people will see others riding motorcycles and then find
themselves wandering into cycle dealers (without even knowing
how to ride) and oogle a bike as if it were some kind of time
machine.
I still remember my first few experiences with two-wheeled
power, and while some of them ended with me on the ground with
bumps and scrapes, others were compelling in a strange kind of
way. I would liken my first motorcycle ride out on the real
streets as one of intense fear. I felt absolutely naked, being
so close to cars moving at those speeds with nothing around you.
It was an otherworldly experience, and my brain was overloaded
with images of being smashed beyond recognition. Yet it had many
of the same qualities of an amusement park ride. The kind where
you get off of and breathe the sigh of relief that you are still
alive, and then a scant few minutes later, some bizarre notion
make you want to go back and try it again.
The motorcycle used to be the mark of the rebel, and while many
today still want to project that image, the truth is that it can
be viewed more as a status symbol. Not necessarily one of wealth
(although the price of a Harley these days hints at that issue)
but more like being part of a different crowd.
The motorcycle does beckon to us with many promises of freedom
that hearken back to days of old. Be it the image of the rebel,
or the modern version of the frontier cowboy on his trusty
steed, the "iron horse" paints dreams of the wide open spaces
and an experience of motion unlike any other kind of travel. All
of that said, many have found the harsh reality is one of heart
pounding proportions.
It can be amazing how much larger a mini-van looks when it cuts
in front of you, and you find yourself staring at broadside
sheetmetal that looks roughly equivalent to the size of a house.
There is the pure interaction with nature, as anyone who has
ever taken out a fair sized bug with their face shield can tell
you. Hopefully you opted for the full face shield, since this
experience with just a pair of sunglasses gets elevated to whole
new level. We wont even discuss the variant of bird droppings at
high speed.
The most memorable, and most likely to occur of these outdoor
wonders is "Old Man Weather" himself. The first time I got
caught in a rain shower while riding (and I do mean shower, not
a torrential monsoon) I was astounded at how simple rain drops
could pelt you with such force. While the experience of taking
out a bug can be like your schoolyard playmate tagging you
between the eyes with a rock, raindrops were more like being
peppered with flying gravel. This doesn't even cover the whole
sensation of being soaked to the bone, as if you just fell in
the back yard pool, without a change of clothes.
Even without precipitation, the change in temperature is a
challenge all to itself. I can vividly recall riding to work on
a lovely fall afternoon, and then leaving work at midnight to
find that the night air feels very much like the arctic north.
Having to peel your own fingers off of hand grips and thinking
if you could just set fire to them, if only for a second or two,
they would thaw and feel so much better.
Now that I have crested over the half-century mark in age, I
have seen a phenomenal number of both men and women that buy a
motorcycle as that "last chance to really live" or the legendary
mid-life crisis. In all honesty, sometimes I think it comes down
to being the last good excuse to buy yourself a leather jacket.
I must admit that I still go through this bout with insanity
every spring. These days I simply go look around and marvel at
the escalating prices of these machines. I can remember when
cars didn't cost that much. The other telling of my age is how
often I look at trikes as opposed to motorcycles, and the new
Can-Am Spyder RT touring machine is a real looker. I suppose it
makes sense to come full circle. We rode trikes as toddlers
before we ever graduated to two wheels, so maybe I'm getting
back to my childhood about as far as I dare go.
I've been accused of being silly and childish before due to my
automotive interests, so I suppose this little offshoot of two
(or three) wheeled fantasy comes as a standard side effect. I
don't have a leather jacket yet, but I think I have compensated
with racing jackets and crew shirts that are emblazoned with all
manner of patches and logos.
Spring is the season of rebirth and renewal, and nowhere is that
more evident than with the gearhead, no matter how many wheels
it takes for your individual pleasure.
Let's motor,
Timmy
www.tobthebat.wordpress.com
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