[tennjed]

I was born just before the period of time when Japanese motorcycles began to rule the American motorcycle market- in fact, to such an extent that Harley-Davidson was almost ruined. My mother was one of those who was adamant that I would not be allowed to jeopardize my life by riding, as long as she had anything to say about it, a motorcycle. The result: I became obsessed with motorcycles……Especially Harley-Davidson motorcycles. Seeing a big, majestic HD on the road, or on the kickstand, was an event. You didn’t see them every day. Each one seemed unique; almost a personal statement about the owner, even if he ( women on motorcycles was almost unheard of in those days) wasn’t with the bike. The Japanese machines, while still exciting in concept, were everywhere; nothing special; each one pretty much like all of the others in utility and perfection…..Every new model presenting gradual, predictable improvements; spec sheets testifying to mind-boggling performance-for those few who could handle it. The HDs, when they briefly appeared, seemed magical; warranting full attention. Never boring.

Nowadays, when I go to a race, like the Springfield Mile, or some other event where motorcycles are gathered, it is exactly the opposite. I am drawn to the rare, vintage Japanese machines…. Time travelers; each resplendent in its imperfection; worth a closer examination; bringing back memories as flawed as the bikes themselves. The numerous newer HDs? Shining; monotonous; some louder than others, but pretty much all the same.

My experience with motorcycle celebrity:

Years ago, at the Springfield Mile- it might have been HD's 100th anniversary year- Willie G. Davidson appeared and sat in a seat right in front of me. He was impossible to miss, his white hair springing out from under his signature beret. Seen from behind, it was kind of like seeing an aged Bozo The Clown in a beret. He stuck out like a sore thumb. The HD faithful saw him immediately: “Hey!” they must have thought “There he is, The Legend himself.” In short order, the brave among them began to move toward The Legend. After brief interview and nod of approval with/from The Legend’s attendant- a mountain of a man with “Trash” tattooed on his arm- several were allowed to kneel next to The Legend, whisper some heart-felt devotional to HD, and request an autograph. The first ten or so met with success and moved away with faces shining and treasured autograph clutched in hand or emblazoned forever on a prized HD T-shirt. But then The Legend indicated he tired of the attention: a glance at the attendant, a subtle fidget in his seat. The next supplicant was met with a stern look and the extended palm of the hand belonging to mighty arm bearing the “Trash” tattoo. The Legend was tired of the burden of celebrity and wanted to enjoy the race. The faithful got the message; The Legend was left in peace.

It was at that moment that I realized just how painful the burden of civility can be. With every particle of my being, I wanted to lean forward and whisper into The Legend’s ear: “ I just want you to know that there is at least one soul in this place that thinks HD sucks.” It would have been a lie; but it would have been fun… I thought he needed to hear it. But my daughter was seated next to me, and I didn’t want to create a scene. She hated it when I created a scene. I resisted the urge, regretting it ever since.

My responsibility as a parent brought back memories of my Mother’s attitude toward motorcycles; I gave them up. Now, the girls are grown and I am getting the itch. I think a vintage Guzzi will just about hit the spot.

[csa]

I love motorcycles; having owned a total of 20, in the 70's and 80's. From my first one; a Hodaka 90 dirt bike, I was hooked completely! I did own a new Harley; but on the way to Seattle, with only 900 miles on it, the engine blew!!! I left there on a new Honda Gold Wing, and never looked back. To this day, when I meet a cyclist on the road, or see one parked, my heart speeds up with excitement! Only those that have rode, know the feeling.

[lightbox]

ooooh... motorcycles

I took the MSF course a few years back (those tight figure 8's are tough!), passed, and got my license. I was thiiiiiiiis close to getting a bike, but I was looking to get married around the time and my wife and parents ganged up against me getting one. I was already a bit afraid of the possibility of having an accident, and they just solidified it. Guess I'll be waiting a couple more decades.

So now every time I look at my driver's license and see that little "M" designation staring back at me, my heart sinks a little.

[PePe]

There sure are bikes that have defined an era.
To me one of these legends has always been in a class of its own.

Now at this age I am fortunate enough to make some of these youth dreams come true...

---

Last edited by PePe; 05-11-2015 at 01:36 AM.

[csa]

driver's license and see that little "M" designation

I've kept my motorcycle endorsement on my driver's license............one never knows...............

[lightbox]

one never knows...............

true!

[mohb]

Motorbikes are best suited for the young, who think they are immortal.

[csa]

Motorbikes are best suited for the young, who think they are immortal.

I disagree; if you think you are immortal while riding, you are not alert and riding defensively. That's when accidents happen. Older individuals that have figured out they are not immortal, are the more safe (sensible) riders.

[MD Optofonik]

I hope you don't mind. Given a relevant topic I'll sometimes use various forums to practice short essay writing. Since the topic is about motorbikes, something I have some experience with, I thought I'd practice a bit. It's also a photography forum so... wait for it.

I've been riding street for over 35 years. I didn't own a car for most of those and, as a result, have racked up close to half a million miles in the saddle. I started riding in the summer of my Junior year of High School. Yeah, I got to be that guy in high school and, yeah, it was very cool. Part of the reason it was so cool is I don't feel the need to be "cool" these days. I was able to mature as a rider over several decades and can appreciate "The Ride" without all the baggage that riders who are new to motorcycling, young and old, seem obliged to carry. Young guns can sometimes pull-off the "cool" thing but it rarely, if ever, is becoming of a fully grown middle aged man. Like everyone else I've seen way too many bad, "Live to Ride, Ride to Live", tats too many times in my life. Thing is, after 35 years, I understand the sentiment. I'll never understand a bad tattoo, though.

I've ridden my share of motorbikes of various make, model, and origin of manufacture; ten in total if I'm including a Scooter I tried out for a couple of years in Florida. Every single one of those motorbikes had their merits, quirks, annoyances, and pleasures. Every single one was a joy to ride. Some were of smaller displacement than others but I was never one to judge a motorbike based on its displacement; that scooter got me from Orlando FL, to Muscle Shoals, AL on the interstate one summer in fine order. The ride is all that matters. Over the years, in between motorbikes, I would buy a cheap car until I decided on the next two wheeled beauty. The car would go soon after I found her; I just didn't like cars very much. Still don't. Only in the past few years commuting in California have I felt obliged to buy a new car. I drive it when I must.

After high school the scope of my riding expanded, of course. During my twenties I explored and road tripped as much as one can in Florida. It wasn't until I moved to Atlanta, out of the confines of the Florida peninsula, that the possibilities as a motorcyclist opened up and presented themselves to me. Within six years I had ridden the Southeast extensively and up the east coast, through The Blue Ridge Parkway and Skyline Drive up to Baltimore. In April of 1998 I rode from Atlanta to Chicago to see "The Art of The Motorcycle" at the Field Museum before the exhibit left the States for Berlin. Riding back home through the Smoky Mountains, soon finding myself between two 18 wheelers, in a cold early spring storm, I wasn't sure if I would make it down the mountain alive; it was a narrow mountain road with no place for respite and the only way to go was forward through the freezing rain and the spray of the big rig's wheels in front of me. I've ridden across the United States three times and never felt less than excited. The third time across I didn't go back.

The first thing I did when I moved to California was buy a new motorbike. Eleven years later I still have it. After 46,000 miles I thought I should replace it but after I got the new one I couldn't get rid of the older one; too many good memories of riding Southern and Central California around San Diego, Palm Springs, Big Bear, Santa Barbara, Morro Bay, Big Sure, and San Fransisco among others. That old motorbike loved my regular getaway, the Angeles Crest, too. The new one was soon broken in, however, and ready for an inaugural road trip. I packed my camping gear, strapped it to the passenger seat and sissy bar then spent four weeks riding the upper circumference and northern interior of California. I rode out of Los Angeles into Big Sur to The Lost Coast and Eureka, then across Northern California over to Yreka, winding my way around and through the Trinity Alps, Shasta, and Lasson, over Donner Pass and down to Mono Lake, then further south I found my way back to Los Angeles via the Mojave Desert. Like many, I had moved to California from elsewhere. In 1997 I had been in the state for about four years but it wasn't until that ride that I became a Californian. I fell in love with my new home over that four weeks.

As many joyful moments as there have been throughout my life on two wheels there have been moments of doubt and tragedy. I have hit the deck three times and lost two motorbikes as a result. I have been blessed to have walked away intact. Others have not been so lucky. I've had to grapple with the idea of giving up riding after regularly witnessing fellow riders, severely injured, being airlifted to hospitals. After having held the hand of a brother motorcyclist as he departed for the eternal ride, to join another lying still and lifeless on the pavement several feet away, I wondered about the cost some of us pay. Sadder still, the accident was between the two of them, a head on collision. I get back in the saddle, though, because living life without risk is not living. We all know that. Motorcycling has given me such joy throughout my entire adult life that to quit would be the anathema of what I would consider my life well lived.

Several years ago I awoke in a cheap motel in Baker, CA before sunrise so that I might have Death Valley to myself for several hours without seeing another soul. After awhile I realized that I was, in fact, the only soul on the road. I took my helmet off, something I've only done a couple of times in 35 years, and strapped it to my sissy bar. For the next two hours I rode at a leisurely pace just enjoying one of the best rides in recent memory. Finally, as was bound to happen, a car with a family of tourists passed me. In the back seat a kid turned and took my picture. I pulled over shortly and donned my helmet; the road was no longer mine alone.

It wasn't until later, after I had set up camp, built a fire, and availed myself of a cold beverage, that I gave that moment when my picture was taken a thought. I considered what I must have looked like, riding one of Harley Davidson's oldest models this time, the Sportser, with tent and sleeping bag packed, feet kicked up on the highway pegs, no helmet, wrap-around shades, and hair flying in the wind (I was way overdue for a haircut). I got a big grin on my face as it dawned on me that the picture would become a part of their memory. A memory of their trip though one of America's iconic landscapes of which I had become a part. I considered how, after 35 years of riding motorbikes, I was okay with admitting, even being a bit proud of the fact, that the road I had been traveling for so long made me, and others like me, an indelible part of America's iconic landscape.

[p38arover]

I'm 67 and still riding. My current bike is a Yamaha XJR1300 naked muscle bike.



I bought my first bike, a Vespa 125 scooter, when I was 12. I had to pick a lot of strawberries at an adjacent farm to earn the money.

I'm certainly no H-D fan, to me they, like the Victory and Indian, are ugly. Many are too noisy, over-chromed, and over-tasseled. Fortunately, I don't see a lot of them here as they only come out on fine weekends and I try to avoid driving and riding on weekends.

[mohb]

I disagree; if you think you are immortal while riding, you are not alert and riding defensively. That's when accidents happen. Older individuals that have figured out they are not immortal, are the more safe (sensible) riders.

My motorbiking days were neither safe nor sensible but were exciting, riding a bike 'on the edge' may not be everyone's cup of tea but it gets the adrenaline going.
I gave up biking in my early thirties when I had children and took up mountain climbing as a 'safer' option

[csa]

and took up mountain climbing as a 'safer' option

Sky diving next?

With my fear of heights, that's one thing I'd never be tempted with!

[p38arover]

Sky diving next?

With my fear of heights, that's one thing I'd never be tempted with!

I did the training at high school in my Senior year as our chemistry teacher was also the Chief Instructor at a Queensland parachute club. I never got to jump as one had to be 17 and I was 16 in year 12.

Now I can't do it as I've been warned not to skydive nor bungee jump after having had three retinal detachments.

[reeftool]

I've been riding since I was 14. I'm now 64. When I was a kid, the Harley Sportster was the baddest machine on the streets and I wanted one although it was always out of reach.Now, as I now enter my retirement years, I'm riding one. I've had quite a few bikes through the years and I've spent the last couple of years finding homes for my collection. A 74 CB500 and a 77 CB550F went to a local kid who is learning to be a mechanic and wanted a project. Just today, I parted with a 77 GL1000 Gold Wing and an 82 Suzuki GS450 that belonged to my son in law so my garage currently has just my Harley.

My current ride, a 2012 Sportster Superlow. I went down about a week after this shot. The bike spent the winter at the Harley dealer and is restored as good as new although I have a few things to do yet.

[MD Optofonik]

I've been riding since I was 14. I'm now 64. When I was a kid, the Harley Sportster was the baddest machine on the streets and I wanted one although it was always out of reach.Now, as I now enter my retirement years, I'm riding one. I've had quite a few bikes through the years and I've spent the last couple of years finding homes for my collection. A 74 CB500 and a 77 CB550F went to a local kid who is learning to be a mechanic and wanted a project. Just today, I parted with a 77 GL1000 Gold Wing and an 82 Suzuki GS450 that belonged to my son in law so my garage currently has just my Harley.

My current ride, a 2012 Sportster Superlow. I went down about a week after this shot. The bike spent the winter at the Harley dealer and is restored as good as new although I have a few things to do yet.

Glad you're okay and the Sporty is back in action. I hope to reach my 50th anniversary someday, quite an achievement. I had two of those GS450 Suzukis, faired and unfaired, one after the other. Loved them. Was your son in law's the one with the quarter fairing or naked?