It has been long enough and regular
enough. It has become a tradition for me. This time of year, for seven of the
past nine and again this year, I have been in the midst of a multi-state,
several thousand mile motorcycle ride. And for the sixth year in a row (leaving
in less than two weeks) that ride coincides
with the Mecca of motorcycle rallies, Sturgis. Riding to Sturgis was not my
first extended motorcycle ride, and riding 500 miles or more in a single day
now feels like a walk in the park, but there was a time when that sort of
adventure was intimidating as hell.
I’ve been riding street motorcycles since I turned 18 years
old. But for much more than the 38 years since, the allure of riding on top of two wheels attached to
a motor has been irresistible. Although my active participation in that life
has ebbed and flowed with the realities and responsibilities of life, at this
point in my life and for the past decade-plus, I have owned at least one Harley
and ridden as much as I could. That changed somewhat when my son had a serious motorcycle
wreck late last year (I no longer commute on my bike), but I still ride – a lot.
A huge part of the allure is an image burned into my memory
from some time in the mid to late 60s. My family was traveling from our home in
the Santa Clara Valley (now more infamously known as “Silicon Valley”) to
Southern California in our 1966 Chevy Impala station wagon. Somewhere on CA-99
(before I-5 was built) a pack of black leather clad, long-haired bikers came
roaring by us. The details of who they were and what they were riding were more
than I could absorb at that age, but looking back it isn’t too difficult to put
the pieces together. It was the “Easy Riders” era, they were likely Harleys and
it was likely some club ride.
I didn’t see any of what so many attribute to “one
percenters” or “outlaw” motorcycle clubs. And I am not here to defend them or
slam them. I know enough to say that we don’t know everything, it is not like “Sons
of Anarchy” and, that like all other stuff of legend, there is some truth in
it. It would turn out that what I was attracted to had nothing to do with the “pack,”
it had to do with the machine itself. It was and is both a tangible and intangible
representation of freedom. The actual tactility of being one with the machine,
directly encountering the elements and the flooding of all the senses are the
physical manifestations of freedom; but the attraction of non-conformity, the personal
and varied expressions in terms of appearance and the pride that comes from the
confidence of giving the middle finger to “middle America” who so often condemn
such expressions is equally compelling. That moment left an indelible impression
on my psyche, but it did not create it. I was, shall we say, predisposed to
rebellion.
There are some people, probably a majority, who are okay
with following establishment. There is nothing inherently wrong with “establishment”
in the abstract – indeed, it is, by definition, established. However, simply
because something is established, it does not necessarily follow that it is “good.”
The truth of the goodness of most things established lies somewhere in the
middle. The pendulum swings, slowly, back and forth along infinite planes – societal,
social, fiscal, fashion, expression… ad nauseum – but it is the fringes that
push it. We, the “bikers” (and artists, and adventurers, and other contextually, socially defined “extremists”) represent what is possible, what can be,
because we live it.
Okay, I do not live it every day. In terms of attitude, my
appearance, my transparency, sure, I live a non-conforming life. I,
refreshingly these days, say what I mean and mean what I say. Interestingly, 25
years ago I would be viewed as even more extreme, based upon the “establishment”
of the time. Such is the nature of pendulums. But I am also not some mid-life
crisis “Wild Hog” or a “weekend warrior.” I still log around 20,000 motorcycle
miles per year. That might sound like a lot, but it is on the low end for most “hard
core” motorcyclists. I log most of my miles in the summer and most of those
come in a relatively short period of time – my one long summer ride. However,
in the interest of full-disclosure, my first trip to Sturgis in 2014 was not
a ride. It was a drive and my motorcycle was on a trailer. While there are
legitimate reasons why I could not ride, and although I thoroughly enjoyed
myself anyway, I could not help but feel I had somehow betrayed myself. And I
knew more than half of the experience is in the ride there – it’s the journey.
However, my street cred is not only solid, it doesn’t
matter. We – all of us who push the edge, exist on the fringe and otherwise
thumb our collective nose at convention are not doing it for recognition. We do
it because we have to, it is who we are. Whether a “biker” (an establishment label
that still does not sit well with me) or anyone else who is attracted to not
just the edge, but what’s on the other side of it, we are the energy that moves
that pendulum. We keep it interesting, stagnation fears us. That attraction I felt
at five, six, seven years old? It was real and I never forgot it.
My university professors would be asking, “so what?” Where
is the “so what?” I agree, it is time to get to the ultimate point in all this.
I’ll do it with an example:
My first long ride on a motorcycle was planned for July of
2010. While I had several overnight - maybe two or three night – rides under my
belt, this was the first really long one. There were many friends who were “going
to go.” All but two of us dropped out for various reasons (maybe excuses). We
were now looking at a daunting trip without the strength of numbers or any
experience among us – neither if us had attempted anything like it before. The
questions washed over me: What if I can’t handle it? What if my bike breaks
down? What if it rains or even snows? What if I crash? It was almost enough to
stop us. We both had sons in the Army fighting in Afghanistan at the time. We pushed
past our fear (because that’s what it was) by comparing our journey to theirs.
When put in those terms, we could not not
go.
It was magical. We were gone 11 days, rode seven or eight of
them, covered six states and almost 4,000 miles. I was finally living an
extended version of the freedom I witnessed so many years before. It was
eye-opening. Despite my non-conformity in many areas of my life, I was still unwittingly
stifling myself, almost buckling under the crippling fear of “what if?” Since
that trip, I’ve made many much longer rides – in terms of both distance and
time – and although I have experienced my share of “what ifs,” they did not
stop me. Ultimately only one “what if” ends it all, and it is the same for all
of us. As far as we known, we only get one shot at this… why limit myself?