|
Attitude
by Gary Charpentier |
 |
A
funny thing happened to me the other day. I was just riding
along, minding my own business, when a fellow motorcyclist
(he would call himself "biker") rode past me and just kind
of sneered. He looked at me like I was a particularly
disgusting species of insect. I had never met the man before
in my life, and had done nothing to provoke this kind of
behavior, but then it dawned on me: Of course! I must be
riding the wrong motorcycle! Throughout my
riding career, I have resisted this urge to merge. I was
riding Harleys before they were a fashion statement, back
when they were simply the only motorcycles with that big
V-twin rumble and all that chrome. Well, there were a very
few Guzzis and Ducati's around, but I wasn't as
sophisticated back then, and didn't quite comprehend Italian
motorbikes. I sold my Sportster shortly after I saw the
first RUB's, (Rich Urban Bikers) begin to appear in Southern
California in the late 80s. Gee thanks, Malcolm Forbes. What
had been a really decent all-around motorcycle was now an
over-priced symbol of executive boldness and panache, a
regular Capitalist Tool on which the privileged would preen
and pose to show everybody how deep-down Bad they were. I
was sickened by the whole scene, and my other hard-core
riding buddies were caught flat-footed as well. Suddenly the
price of parts went through the roof, and were hard to come
by for those older, obsolete models. Then too, the bias of
the Big Twin boys against the Sportsters became intolerable.
I busted a few heads in defense of my little piglet before I
decided that it just wasn't worth it anymore. I sold my
bike, moved back to Minnesota, and bought myself a nice
little Japanese standard, which I soon converted into a
righteous cafe racer. I would ride to places like Neuman's
Bar in North St. Paul, park right next to the biggest,
shiniest hog, swagger right on in and belly up to the bar.
The reactions this caused were priceless! All puffed up,
full of themselves, these badass "bikers" would mutter about
that "Jap crap" daring to take up space near their precious
Milwaukee Iron. Mumble grumble, bitch and moan, all the
while giving me the ol' hairy eye ball. I would just smile
and turn back to the bar. Nobody ever called me out, as I
was still wearing a suit of muscles tailored by a decade in
the Marine Corps. But oh, how I wanted them to... Quite a few years
have passed since then, and I have grown out of the need to
prove myself that way. I bought my Ducati and learned what
serious sport riding was all about. I also learned what real
courage it takes to ride a modern sportbike to anywhere near
it's ultimate performance potential. Courage, that is, with
a certain ignorance of the possible consequences. Nothing I
had ever done on any other motorcycle prepared me for the
experience of the racetrack. Here I could ride as fast as I
dared! Just twist that grip and hang on, processing the
visual, aural, and tactile input faster than I had ever
imagined. Roadracing really sends your mind into overdrive!
All the while, underlying the immediate calculations of
speed, traction, brake markers, and lean angles was the
unnerving awareness that one mistake could send you sliding
and tumbling along the ground at vicious, dismembering
velocity! Crash in the wrong place and you end up a big
leather sack full of broken bones and torn flesh! I would
think any normal guy would gladly face a barroom brawl with
a bunch of Hell's Hooligans™ before daring to hold the
throttle wide open through Turns one and two at Brainerd.
But then, roadracers are not normal guys, (or gals). The
attitude, however, remains the same: "If you don't ride like
me, think like me, and look like me, you are not worthy!".
What a shame. So yes, I was
really disgusted with my treatment by those who would call
themselves "bikers". But then one of those situations
developed that gives balance to the entire picture. I ran
out of gas the other day. After only 55 miles of around-town
riding the tank on my Honda NX went inexplicably dry. I had
left the petcock on reserve after my last fill-up, and all
my riding had been in fourth gear or lower, so my mileage
suffered accordingly. There was no warning sputter, no
surging or bucking, the thing simply quit. So I coasted down
an off-ramp and took stock of the situation. No way around
it, I faced about a mile of pushing this old mule to the
nearest gas station, on a bum leg recovering from recent
knee surgery. Oh joy! However, about a block into my ordeal,
an old Chevy Malibu pulled up with a young lady behind the
wheel. Her name was Beth, and she owned an `87
Harley-Davidson. Could she lend me a hand? Well, certainly!
We found a nearby parking lot to stash the bike, and she
drove me to the gas station where I got a small plastic gas
can and filled it up. All the while, her lunch from Taco
Bell was growing cold on the front seat between us. But
without hesitation, she took time out from her busy day to
help another rider in need, even though I wasn't riding one
of the Holy Hogs. She was a biker in the true tradition,
with a real sense of honor, and for that Beth, I salute
you! Today I ride with
everybody. I ride what I like, or what I can afford, and to
hell with anybody who judges me for that reason alone. Last
year I rode my Ducati on the Flood Run, with a group of
Harley riders, and had a ball! These folks know and
appreciate me for who I am, not what I ride. There are so
many fantastic bikes for sale out there today, I want to try
each and every one of them! I will not limit myself to one
style or brand of bike, that would be foolish. I will go on
Sunday rides with the sportbike crowd, and if the only bike
I have running at the time is my NX-650, then I will resign
myself to bringing up the rear, and helping sweep up the
wreckage of those who ride over their heads. I've been
there, and others have helped me pick up the pieces, so it's
only fair that I return the favor. Now, I may even
buy another Harley-Davidson someday, when my savings account
catches up with my motorcycling ambitions. They are now well
built and reliable machines, and that new twin-cam motor
looks promising. Excelsior-Henderson and Polaris Victory
look pretty intriguing, and I certainly wouldn't turn down a
test ride on one of those either. But right now my tastes
run towards the smaller, lighter, quicker kind of bike. I
want to build something unique, a rolling sculpture unlike
anything else out there, which will be equally at home
dodging traffic in the city or carving up the alphabet
roads. A vintage roadrace replica, like one of the Specials
that would have contested an early `70's Manx TT, perhaps.
I'll have to look around my garage and shed and see what I
can come up with. But when it is done, we will ride the
Slimey Crud, the Flood Run, and any number of other events.
We will not be discouraged by the attitudes of a few
ignorant souls. Go and preach your particular gospel to
someone who cares. Don't look for me to join your
congregation, I don't go to church anymore. All I want to do
is ride. M.M.M.
There
will always be snobs in any endeavor, I guess. That's just
human nature. In motorcycling we have snobs of several
different persuasions. I know that motorcycles in general
attract those with a larger-than-normal competitive urge, or
perhaps just a simple surplus of ego. On the one hand, this
is what makes us an interesting group to hang around with.
But the flip-side is the aggressive ignorance displayed by
one subgroup toward another on the basis of motorcycle brand
name or genre. Anyone who has ever ridden a
non-Harley-Davidson to Sturgis or Daytona will know exactly
what I am talking about, but this same disease afflicts
other segments of our two-wheeled population in more subtle
ways. Not satisfied with our status as outsiders to the
majority four-wheeled public out on the freeways, we seek to
further isolate ourselves into little cliques based on brand
loyalty or riding style, and heap our derision on anyone who
does not ride or think exactly the same as we do. All you
rugged individualists out there, suddenly go out and buy the
same bike, the same leathers, the same patches and even
tattoos, so you can look just like every other member of
your chosen tribe. No longer unique, you are accepted by
others just like you, but at what price? No matter how much
you spend on your bike and your gear, it's not going to
change who you are.
Archives,