Wild Motorcycle Tales - Touched By A Hell's Angel

Wild Motorcycle Tales

Here's a great story from R. Denny Blew. Got your own story? Send it to me.

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.

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