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A little history: growing up – all I ever heard was that I would never ride a motorcycle. It didn’t matter how many motorcycle magazines I subscribed to, how much I talked about them, that I jumped at the site and sound of one in traffic, how hard I begged my uncle to take me for a ride on his old Honda 250 or his new Kawasaki 900. It was simply a non-issue, as far as my parents were concerned.
So naturally, at the first possible opportunity, I bought a motorcycle. Not a new one; my first was a cranky old Yamaha Special 650 with a carb gremlin. Several carb gremlins, actually. That was followed by a cranky old Kawasaki LTD 700 that could’ve been an extra on the set of a Mad Max movie. It didn’t matter; they were beaters and they were beat upon, and I realized that as the first motorcycle owner in the family, it’s far better to get a couple beaters and let your family members dump them and tip them over than watch your precious baby take a digger at the hands of the over-zealous-yet-under-experienced.
Those first bikes eventually gave way to fanatical addiction; not only with motorcycles in general – the art, the engineering, the experience – but with one particular Italian marque that has in my opinion, successfully blended all three, Ducati. I like to think that while I am partial to (ok, I’ll give you ‘infatuated with’) one particular marque, I am not one to dismiss others just because they are not of my preferred manufacturer. I just happen to like this manufacturer above the rest, and everyone else is equally entitled to their own opinion. I know many riders of similar persuasion even if we do not share the same coveted name on the tank. And I know many who exhibit more of a bigoted attitude and disrespect those who do not feel similarly inclined. (A general statement that can sadly applied to many, many circumstances and topics.)
My addiction to this means of transport (in both the physical and emotional sense) has proved to be contagious: my father, at age 50 or so, enrolled in the earliest MSF class available and bought his first motorcycle – a late 70’s Suzuki GS500E. Unfortunately this particular bike was riddled with gremlins beyond the physical – no title, a lousy dealer, a laundry list of things better off avoided. It was quickly replaced by a pristine 1981 Yamaha Maxim 700 with very few miles. A year later, this was joined by a brand new Harley Davidson Wide-Glide. In time, this “affliction” carried over to my mother, who at age 52 purchased her first motorcycle, a Honda Rebel. And while Mum hasn’t been drawn into the “my brand is the best; your brand stinks because A, B, C … etc.”, dear old Dad occasionally likes to ruffle feathers by fluffing his Harley plumage and pish-toshing other brands – mostly in jest, I’m sure. He tries to rattle Mum about her Honda, but she could care less; I, on the other hand, enjoying rattling Dad about the Honda parked alongside his Harley.
The Battle of the Brands is another discussion entirely, but mention of it here serves to demonstrate the camaraderie and friendly needling between father and son – indeed, it exists as it should between any lucky fathers and sons. These discussions occasionally flare up to debate status, and occur beyond the garage or a ride, such as at family functions, holiday gatherings (especially during winter months, when the bikes are hibernating) and the like – and sometimes to noisier and more pointed levels; but nothing a laugh, a nudge, a beer or a clap on the back won’t alleviate. Ultimately, family is the strongest tie of all; but motorcyclists are also a family. One in which everybody has an idea of who the black sheep are but – like a family – not everyone will agree who that is. At the root of it all, although our preferred brands may differ, Dad & I share the same zeal about motorcycling even if the particulars might put us at odds once in a while.
However, all differences are transcended once the machines have been brought to life, appropriate gear donned, and my father & I merge into traffic, together, separate on our machines but united in purpose, intent, experience … and the intense personal satisfaction that we are heading onto the roadways together, to do what brings us both immense satisfaction.
When we first set off - as with any ride – initially, I am primarily conscious of ‘getting my game on.’ I get my head into what I’m doing, begin shutting out those extemporaneous thoughts, tweaking my reflexes, priming the instincts I need to ride and turning off the ones I don’t. I focus on shedding the mental baggage that could hamper some other reserve I may call upon during the ride.
But once the roads climb away from the general populace, the houses become fewer and farther between - they become farms and barns; the sky grows bigger and the city gets smaller and smaller in the mirrors that we pay less and less attention to. The detritus of everyday life evaporates like the smoke from the two pairs of barking exhaust canisters, if just for a little while.
Solo riding (implying no passengers) is a very personal affair for both of us. We have no radios, no personal communication devices, no CBs or cell phone hook ups. We have only wind noise, road buzz and the motorcycle’s feedback as our traveling companions – and we are alone with our thoughts and feelings. Those items are comfort in and of themselves, especially when enjoyed upon two wheels. The wind and road create an isolation chamber, allowing us to focus on the motorcycle and the events unfolding that immediately affect us. Although it sounds like a confusion of terms, a ‘group ride’ is basically a collection of individuals enjoying their ‘solo ride’ in unison.
When I ride in a group, even if it’s a group of two, I require a stagger formation. I’m happy leading or following, as long as the next rider is on the other side of my lane and a suitable distance back. When we happen upon the fast or tricky spans (and they’re usually one and the same), the people I ride with are all in tune enough to space out and assume the entire width of the road, allowing themselves and others maximum breadth to enjoy the apex of their turns and provide any run out for obstacles and the occasionally sloppy line. When Dad & I are in the city and the small towns, we ride stagger. It doesn’t matter who leads; we each swap up on a whim just because. But every once in a while, I find my ‘requirement’ has dropped away. The wind noise has died down, and the road buzz is more of a pleasant, old familiar hum. That need for space erodes and I find myself riding side by side with my father, sharing the same span of the road. He’s not in my mirrors; I’m not in his. He is in my peripheral vision, but more than that he is right next to me in presence and spirit – and I realize that’s just where he’s always been. And then I revel not only in my joy of motorcycling, a joy we share together, but I revel in being my father’s son and doing something, the same thing, independent of one another, together.