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Wild Motorcycle Tales

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Touched By A Hell’s Angel

Things settled down after they called me stupid, a fitting name, although not my most coveted term of endearment. They had to say it just to show they cared, and once they got their two cents in, they put more restraint in their comments: "Well, there goes the family name," relatives said, "circling the drain." "Yeah and I’d say it’s already flushed down the toilet." "Oh, God, what next... tattoos?"

No, to put it mildly, my family was not delighted when I purchased, at age 50, my first motorcycle, a 2003 Harley-Davidson Dyna Wide Glide complete with Anniversary Gold Key Package, Accessory Studded Seat, and Vance & Hines Custom Long-Shot Neighbor-Waker Pipes.

My cultural deterioration started summer a year ago when, at Joanie’s class reunion, I struck up a conversation with a gent sitting by his lonesome in the corner of the banquet room. "You look like you’re inherited," I said. He gave me a quizzical look. "I mean, you look like the spouse of someone who’s enjoying their class reunion. Lemme guess: aside of your significant other you don’t know a soul here and you’re tired of listening to the funny old stories, none of which you were a part of, or find any humor in whatsoever."

I had guessed right. Bill and I struck up an instant friendship, talked the rest of the evening, and agreed to get Sonja and Joanie together. "But not next month," he said, "cuzz as of next week I’m gone for 30 days. Goin’ to Sturgis, SD, for the biggest motorcycle rally in history. A million bikes. Then I’m touring the whole country. 7,000 miles on my Harley-Davidson Road King. Don’t wanna fuss with razors or haircuts so I’m shaving my head the day prior to departure. Whatever grows, grows. Wanna come?"

What!? Did this guy take me for some kind of low-life idiot!!!? Of course, I wanted to come! But there was a slight hitch. I didn’t have a motorcycle. Nor did I have a motorcycle license. Nor had I been on a two-wheeled vehicle since I was fifteen, and that was the human-powered type. The truth is I’d wanted to ride a motorcycle ever since I had a brain, even if it wasn’t the finest version of one.

But my family loathed the idea. Could I blame them? Statistics say you’re about nineteen times as likely to do the bucket on a motorcycle as opposed to in a car. They say that staying safe on a two-wheeler requires triple the focus. I agree with that assessment. But then again, the motorcycle is a triple vehicle.

A motorcycle is 100% bicycle, 100% convertible and 100% fun. Nothing provides such freedom, exhilaration and camaraderie with the outdoors as a motorcycle. It’s an in-your-face connection between the world and your senses. It’s the bark of your exhaust, the windy rush, the carve of a curve and the perfume of nature. You plow the horizon, unfiltered by the sterilized, automatic, window-tinted, air-bagged, climate-adjusting, traction-controlled, sound-deadened cage we call automobile. You can bet-chur-bippy I wanted to ride! Without ever admitting it outwardly, I had secretly wanted to ride for fifty years. But would I ever do so?

Keeping it to myself (because #1: I knew it would delay the "you’re stupid, you’ll kill yourself" comments, and #2: I might chicken out anyway), I took the first step: getting a learner’s permit. I studied and passed the written exam then spent the next month like a pesky neighbor kid, borrowing motorcycles from very nervous friends.

30 days later I passed my road test on a rented mini scooter that I could practically carry under my arm. License in hand, I headed to the dealer to check out 700 pound machines. My visit was an opening experience. It opened my eyes and my wallet. A five-day 30-hour safety course, called Rider’s Edge, was available. Yet determined to make a fool of (or as others described it, "kill") myself, I signed up.

A few weeks later that fall I found myself in a classroom with several other similarly stupid individuals. We spent half our time indoors, learning the physics. The other half we did outdoors on bikes, applying the principles in the field. The instructors didn’t sugar coat it: they described all the risks, broadcasting them in morbid living color via video. Then they taught us some ways to reduce the risks. Surprising info.

For example, we practiced "countersteering." You see, when you want a motorcycle to turn right, you turn the handlebars left: weird, but a principle of Newtonian physics that really occurs (untrained bikers do it, but don’t consciously realize it). We covered emergency braking. Motorcycles are different from bicycles: long story short, the cruiser’s back brake takes your life; the front brake saves it. Enlightening stuff.

I walked away from that experience with three thoughts: 1) I learned a whole lot, 2) Motorcycling is scary, and 3) I want to do it anyway. By spring I’d done my research, gone shopping and made my purchase. You might say it has changed my life!

I am now a confirmed chromaholic, adding new parts on a strict seven day schedule. I’m a member of the Retreads (over-40 club), the local H.O.G. (Harley Owner’s Group) and a top active participant with the Motorcycles.About.Com forum on the Internet. I have four helmets, two pairs of chaps, five riding jackets, a leather vest, half a dozen dew-rags and a plethora of accessories spilling over the shelves in the shed.

Joanie says that when I suit up to go out on my rides I look like someone she’s not sure she wants to be associated with. Well, we might look "bad," but my riding buddies are a retired state trooper, a school teacher, an insurance salesman, a civil engineer and a certified public accountant. Not exactly Pagans, would you say?

What’s with the Hell’s Angels and the Pagans, you ask? Best I can tell is the old gangs have mellowed a bit. Yeah, there are some hard cases, but my limited experience has been: don’t bother them - they don’t bother you. Substance abuse has lost popularity, too. The profiles have changed a lot. Attitudes don’t align with looks anymore. Education and safety training have become cool. And being a good brother (or sister) to your fellow rider is the code of the road. In fact, go to a motorcycle rally today and look past the attire: you’ll meet the greatest, nicest, most regular folks you can imagine. Throughout my training and subsequent travels I’ve encountered nothing but pure help and moral support from fellow riders. Made some first-rate friends, too. Motorcycling is a kinship unlike any I’ve ever been involved with, and I’m thoroughly enjoying it.

Times change. Things change. Why then, shouldn’t you and I? Is there something you always wanted to do but held back? A different direction? A new style, a new way, a new idea? Could it be you’ve been an adult so long it’s time you became a kid again? Or maybe you’ve spent your life acting like a big baby and you’re considering the scary concept of growing up. Maybe it’s that secret thing you always wanted but feared wouldn’t line up with others’ expectations. What is it you wish for, just before you blow out those birthday candles? You had better do it. Or go to your grave regretting you never tried. My friend, the world re-writes itself every day. What’s the big crime if you or I veer onto a fresh new road? Now is a great time to start. Will some accuse you of being stupid? Of course! But once you’ve done as many stupid things as I have, you get used to it. -- R. Denny Blew

P.S. So far I’ve managed to keep the rubber side down and my family is grateful I didn’t get that skinhead tattoo. But, the other day I saw this really groovy belly-button ring and...

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