Well, the motorcycle season is upon us and in all sincerity I could not care less.
Despite the weather, my motorcycle is still in storage. The two-wheeled machine that in previous summers carried me to Vancouver, Florida, New York City, San Diego and Alaska is still tucked away, practically forgotten. I have made no effort to get it out and hit the road.
In fact, as temperatures warmed I actually began to feel a sort of resentment toward bikes - similar to the way one feels about the return of insects. Sure, it's nice to be able to venture outside in shorts and a T-shirt, but I groaned with the realization that bikes - and mosquitoes - would now be making their return.
This may come as somewhat of a surprise to many of you, particularly those who have followed my series on various cross-country motorcycle expeditions. So, before I continue, I need to define some terms.
There is a difference between being a "Motorcyclist" and a "Biker," just as there is a difference between a "Motorcycle" and a "Bike."
Probably everyone reading this falls under the category of "motorcyclist." You, like me, enjoy hitting the road on two wheels for the freedom, flexibility and unvarnished thrill that riding a motorcycle has to offer. There really is nothing like turning onto a scenic two-lane highway or hidden byway and touring the countryside on a motorcycle. The sights, the sounds, the feel of the road - these are all aspects indescribable and particular to the experience.
Being a motorcyclist, and riding a motorcycle, is not make- or model-specific. I happen to ride a Yamaha supersport crotch rocket, which as mentioned above, has been taken across the United States repeatedly. At fuel stops and scenic outlooks I have shared laughs with Harley riders, taken advice from people on BMWs, and even got to take someone's KTM 990 for a spin, simply because he wanted me to try it out.
A true motorcyclist lives by the credo: "It is not what you ride, it is that you ride."
Conversely, there is the "biker." Don't worry - if you've read this far you are not a biker. A biker is still on the first paragraph trying to enunciate the word 'sincerity' - that four-syllable behemoth. The root of the word 'biker' is 'bike,' a monosyllabic grunt of a word that even a mating bullfrog has the dexterity to pronounce, which makes it onomatopoeia.
You all know what I am talking about when I use the term 'biker.' You can picture him (or her), flying down the road without a scrap of protective gear. They sit erect, elbows turned out in a pathetic attempt to accentuate their triceps muscles. The biker will dedicate a small fortune to making his bike as loud and obnoxious as possible, and then grin moronically, "Well if you can hear me, you can see me" - as though disturbing the peace is for safety's sake.
Being a biker is not make- or model-specific. That punkish little snot who screams up and down the city street at two in the morning on his crotch rocket is a biker. The leather, chrome, and tattooed caricature of a man who rattles windows and forces all normal conversation to stop until he thunders past on his cruiser while blasting AC/DC is a biker. You see them at stoplights, revving their engine while grunting and gesticulating to one another.
Curiously, with as much focus as a biker puts on his or her bike, they do not tend to clock respectable distances in a season. I have heard many a biker admit, with pride, that they load their bike onto a trailer in order to haul it to a rally. I don't know what else to say, outside of pointing out that hauling a bike to a rally is like towing an airplane to a fly-in.
For the sake of fairness, I have actually test-driven a bike. I wanted to see what the big screaming deal was all about. The bike I drove happened to be a Harley Sportster. The size of the engine does not matter; all that matters is that it had extra chrome, black custom accents, and extra loud exhaust (laughably billed as "performance" exhaust). To be honest, the experience was exactly as I had imagined:
Especially when compared to a motorcycle, the bike I test-drove handled like an off-balanced washing machine. It was laughably underpowered; on hills I downshifted more than I would have on a bicycle. The loud exhaust only made it sound clownish. I actually found myself snickering whenever I cracked the throttle. To me, 'performance' exhaust makes a bike sound like a pre-World War II airplane that just swallowed a piston (something with which I have intimate experience). The thought of taking such a bike, whether it be a cruiser or sports bike, on a cross-country trip was even more laughable.
In conclusion, now that summer is upon us, rest assured that insects - and bikers - will once again be out in force. If you begin to feel annoyed at the crotch rocket keeping you awake at night or the Harley ruining your conversation from two miles away, have some sympathy for the poor, emotionally unstable biker.
As a fun experiment, based on what I've described, picture in your mind a 'biker.' Conjure up a good, solid image - bare arms, leather, super-duper loud exhaust, perhaps a radio blasting metal, and plenty of chrome. Got it?
Note that when I change the term from 'biker' to 'midlife crisis,' the picture in your mind does not change.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
Despite the weather, my motorcycle is still in storage. The two-wheeled machine that in previous summers carried me to Vancouver, Florida, New York City, San Diego and Alaska is still tucked away, practically forgotten. I have made no effort to get it out and hit the road.
In fact, as temperatures warmed I actually began to feel a sort of resentment toward bikes - similar to the way one feels about the return of insects. Sure, it's nice to be able to venture outside in shorts and a T-shirt, but I groaned with the realization that bikes - and mosquitoes - would now be making their return.
This may come as somewhat of a surprise to many of you, particularly those who have followed my series on various cross-country motorcycle expeditions. So, before I continue, I need to define some terms.
There is a difference between being a "Motorcyclist" and a "Biker," just as there is a difference between a "Motorcycle" and a "Bike."
Probably everyone reading this falls under the category of "motorcyclist." You, like me, enjoy hitting the road on two wheels for the freedom, flexibility and unvarnished thrill that riding a motorcycle has to offer. There really is nothing like turning onto a scenic two-lane highway or hidden byway and touring the countryside on a motorcycle. The sights, the sounds, the feel of the road - these are all aspects indescribable and particular to the experience.
Being a motorcyclist, and riding a motorcycle, is not make- or model-specific. I happen to ride a Yamaha supersport crotch rocket, which as mentioned above, has been taken across the United States repeatedly. At fuel stops and scenic outlooks I have shared laughs with Harley riders, taken advice from people on BMWs, and even got to take someone's KTM 990 for a spin, simply because he wanted me to try it out.
A true motorcyclist lives by the credo: "It is not what you ride, it is that you ride."
Conversely, there is the "biker." Don't worry - if you've read this far you are not a biker. A biker is still on the first paragraph trying to enunciate the word 'sincerity' - that four-syllable behemoth. The root of the word 'biker' is 'bike,' a monosyllabic grunt of a word that even a mating bullfrog has the dexterity to pronounce, which makes it onomatopoeia.
You all know what I am talking about when I use the term 'biker.' You can picture him (or her), flying down the road without a scrap of protective gear. They sit erect, elbows turned out in a pathetic attempt to accentuate their triceps muscles. The biker will dedicate a small fortune to making his bike as loud and obnoxious as possible, and then grin moronically, "Well if you can hear me, you can see me" - as though disturbing the peace is for safety's sake.
Being a biker is not make- or model-specific. That punkish little snot who screams up and down the city street at two in the morning on his crotch rocket is a biker. The leather, chrome, and tattooed caricature of a man who rattles windows and forces all normal conversation to stop until he thunders past on his cruiser while blasting AC/DC is a biker. You see them at stoplights, revving their engine while grunting and gesticulating to one another.
Curiously, with as much focus as a biker puts on his or her bike, they do not tend to clock respectable distances in a season. I have heard many a biker admit, with pride, that they load their bike onto a trailer in order to haul it to a rally. I don't know what else to say, outside of pointing out that hauling a bike to a rally is like towing an airplane to a fly-in.
For the sake of fairness, I have actually test-driven a bike. I wanted to see what the big screaming deal was all about. The bike I drove happened to be a Harley Sportster. The size of the engine does not matter; all that matters is that it had extra chrome, black custom accents, and extra loud exhaust (laughably billed as "performance" exhaust). To be honest, the experience was exactly as I had imagined:
Especially when compared to a motorcycle, the bike I test-drove handled like an off-balanced washing machine. It was laughably underpowered; on hills I downshifted more than I would have on a bicycle. The loud exhaust only made it sound clownish. I actually found myself snickering whenever I cracked the throttle. To me, 'performance' exhaust makes a bike sound like a pre-World War II airplane that just swallowed a piston (something with which I have intimate experience). The thought of taking such a bike, whether it be a cruiser or sports bike, on a cross-country trip was even more laughable.
In conclusion, now that summer is upon us, rest assured that insects - and bikers - will once again be out in force. If you begin to feel annoyed at the crotch rocket keeping you awake at night or the Harley ruining your conversation from two miles away, have some sympathy for the poor, emotionally unstable biker.
As a fun experiment, based on what I've described, picture in your mind a 'biker.' Conjure up a good, solid image - bare arms, leather, super-duper loud exhaust, perhaps a radio blasting metal, and plenty of chrome. Got it?
Note that when I change the term from 'biker' to 'midlife crisis,' the picture in your mind does not change.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
