Why We Ride E-Book

Mark Barnes

• Herausgeber: CompanionHouse Books
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 450

Beschreibung

Why would anyone want to do something as dangerous as motorcycling? For those who love to ride, no explanation is necessary. For everyone else, there's Why We Ride. Designed as both an explanation for outsiders and an anthem for those within the fold, this new book presents the insights of Mark Barnes, PhD, a motorcycling clinical psychologist. As a popular columnist at Motorcycle Consumer News for more than 20 years, Dr. Barnes articulates the elusive physical, emotional, and interpersonal elements that make the world of the motorcyclist such a rich and exciting place. His wide-ranging text covers both sports psychology and the psychoanalysis of common riding experiences, including the results of Dr. Barnes' own empirical research. Heartfelt and thought provoking, here is a straightforward account of what makes real motorcyclists tick. Inside Why We Ride: What makes all the hazards and hardships of riding a motorcycle worthwhile to perfectly sane, intelligent, and responsible individuals Insights from clinical psychologist and moto-journalist Dr. Mark Barnes Examination of the complex gratifications, relentlessly compelling passions, and deeply personal experiences that motivate motorcyclists Sports psychology, psychoanalysis of common riding experiences, and reflections on the author's personal journey as a rider Results of the author's own empirical research on the motives of motorcyclists Thought-provoking exploration of the human dimension of motorcycling Special section on how riders achieve the quasi-mystical state of "Flow," a concept currently at the center of modern sports psychology

Leseprobe

Why We Ride

CompanionHouse Books™ is an imprint of Fox Chapel Publishers International Ltd.

Project Team

Editorial Director: Christopher Reggio

Editor: Amy DeputatoCopy Editor: Laura Taylor

Design: Mary Ann Kahn

Index: Jay Kreider

Copyright © 2017 by Fox Chapel Publishers International Ltd.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Fox Chapel Publishers, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Barnes, Mark (Mark Holder), 1960- author.

Title: Why we ride : understanding the human dimension of motorcycling / Mark

Barnes, PhD.

Description: Mount Joy, PA : CompanionHouse Books, an imprint of Fox Chapel

Publishing, Inc., [2017] | Includes index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2017020308 (print) | LCCN 2017028142 (ebook) | ISBN

9781620082294 (ebook) | ISBN 9781620082287 (softcover)

Subjects: LCSH: Motorcycling--Psychological aspects. |

Motorcyclists--Psychology. | Motorcycling--United States.

Classification: LCC GV1059.52 (ebook) | LCC GV1059.52 .B38 2017 (print) | DDC

796.7/5092 [B] --dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017020308

This book has been published with the intent to provide accurate and authoritative information in regard to the subject matter within. While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the author and publisher expressly disclaim any responsibility for any errors, omissions, or adverse effects arising from the use or application of the information contained herein.

Fox Chapel Publishing

903 Square Street

Mount Joy, PA 17552

www.facebook.com/companionhousebooks

Fox Chapel Publishers International Ltd.

7 Danefield Road, Selsey (Chichester)

West Sussex PO20 9DA, U.K.

Dedication

For Dylan, the best riding buddy ever.

Dylan in mid-adolescence, with a used bike we rebuilt together from the ground up—and on which he eventually rode faster than his teacher.

Foreword

First, a bit of background might be in order. Motorcycle Consumer News, the first to publish all of the columns in this book, was established in 1991 as America’s first nationwide non-commercial motorcycle magazine—meaning that it would be completely subscriber-supported, with no advertising to pay the bills. The concept was considered crazy, considering that journalism has often—and not undeservedly—been called the world’s second-oldest profession for its incestuous relationship with advertising. Many in our business placed bets on MCN’s quick demise—yet it continues. MCN became a beacon for honest reviews, renowned for its focus on consumer education.

My own transformation from counterculture artist/filmmaker to motorcycle mechanic/businessman to technical writer/editor was equally improbable, and I’m proud to report that I willingly lost my first writing job for refusing to promote a dangerous product manufactured by my publisher’s company, to spend more than two decades working for MCN (editor-in-chief from 2000 to 2016), concerned only about truth and accuracy. And strange as it might be for such a seemingly high-minded effort to be based on the rebellious activity of motorcycling, it was in fact the perfect subject matter; riders are notoriously fearless and independent thinkers.

So, in addition to casting a critical eye on motorcycles and attendant products each month, MCN dared to broach editorial subjects that would be out of place in more conventional motorcycle magazines as well—Mark Barnes’ writing being a perfect example.

In nearly twenty years of working with Mark, his “Mental Motorcycling” columns were consistently the most thought-provoking material we published. His insights into the motivations behind our common love of riding, many of them widely shared and others uniquely subconscious, not only helped us each make sense of what outsiders viewed as a reckless and unnecessary activity but also provided the basis for conversations we might all have with family and friends who couldn’t understand our passion for motorcycling.

As riders, you should also know that Mark is much more than a perceptive raconteur and philosopher; he enjoys working on his own machines as well. Whether changing tires on his dirt bikes, keeping his personal watercraft shipshape, or learning the complexities of modifying the fuel injection on his street bikes, he savors the technical challenge and sense of personal fulfillment that only the wordless realm of working with one’s hands can provide. While up-to-date technical information changes rapidly in motorcycling, unlike the evergreen material in these stories, a collection of his technical writing and detailed product comparisons would be equally deserving of a book.

If you have read Mark’s work previously, this introduction is merely a brief delay to the enjoyment to follow. If you haven’t, you’re in for a treat. This handy volume contains a wide selection of his writing, organized into important themes with new annotations.

His personality also shines through in these pages. Thoughtful, charming, and modest in person, Mark is a careful listener and a wise counselor, traits that I’m sure predated his Harvard training in clinical psychology. He is a highly skilled rider, and it’s been my distinct pleasure to have shared thousands of miles of great roads as his riding companion. I’m certain by the time you finish reading this book, you will feel like I do: lucky to have made a true friend and full of new appreciation for our shared love of motorcycling.

—Dave Searle, former Editor-in-Chief, Motorcycle Consumer News

Introduction: One of Them

It was a dark and stormy night… No—wait, that was Snoopy’s iconic opening line as a would-be writer (lifted from Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s 1830 novel, Paul Clifford—ain’t Google grand?). In my own case, it was a dim and snowy afternoon, circa 1994. Instead of sitting atop a dog house with a typewriter, I was huddled in the tiny half-windowed attic chamber where I’d locked myself away several years prior to write my doctoral dissertation. The now unimaginably primitive computer was still outfitted with monochrome monitor and dot-matrix printer. It was a space I loathed and avoided.

But I was angry—angry enough to finally do something. Having grown sick and tired of reading the dozen motorcycle magazines I got each month, envying the journalists who got paid to ride all the latest and greatest bikes; cover races, exotic destinations, and extravagant new model launches; interview big names; and drone on about the eternal bliss of SoCal weather, roads, and scenery, I decided to forcibly join their ranks, at least in my imagination.

Stuck inside (I had only a street bike at the time), my options were limited. I had no fresh product review or bike test to compose. The old adage “write what you know” came to mind, so I set about crafting a fantasy guest editorial wherein some enlightened enthusiast publication had asked for my take on motorcycling as a psychologist. I counted the words of a random column in the nearest magazine, made that my target, and watched as strings of characters on my screen arranged themselves into a coherent theme with surprising ease and speed.

That first effort—entitled “Is Motorcycling a Disease?”—ended up being a rebuttal to the cliché critiques that all riders have heard from the non-riding majority: we must be foolish, be insane, or have a death wish to take such unnecessary risks; we must need to compensate for some penile insecurity with a giant motor between our legs; and so on. After checking their submission requirements, I sent that retort off with a cover letter to several of my favorite mags, not really expecting any response. To me, the exercise was over, and it had been a success. I’d converted my frustration into pleasure by pretending to be a motojournalist for a few hours. Case closed.

So I was shocked and thrilled to hear back from Sport Rider editor (at the time) Nick Ienatsch, who printed the piece and even sent me a check. Emboldened, I pitched another idea to him. I was headed to my first track day, a regional club-sponsored weekend at (little) Talladega Gran Prix Raceway in Munford, Alabama. I could write it up from the perspective of a total track newbie, with attention to preparations and educational details that seasoned veterans might take for granted. Nick approved the project! It was called “The Late Apex Learning Curve: Getting Up to Speed When You’re Already Up in Years.”

Although that second article was seemingly well received, I never got another gig with SportRider. But I’d gotten a taste of the motojournalist life, and I was hooked. I sent in photos from races I attended and got a couple published in Roadracing World & Motorcycle Technology, and (now-defunct) American Roadracing. I wrote another essay and shopped it to every American motorcycle magazine I could find. Lee Parks, then-editor of Motorcycle Consumer News, responded. He liked my writing enough to publish that piece, “The Joy of Maintenance,” in the October 1996 issue, and he offered me more work—small jobs to see what I could do.

I performed the most minor of editing to get a few of Keith Code’s articles to fit the monthly space allotted to “Mental Motorcycling,” and I reviewed several trivial accessories. Occasionally, the “Mental Motorcycling” spot would be vacant, and Lee would let me fill it. That column was usually supplied by a small number of contributors and was devoted primarily to cognitive skills involved in riding. I expanded its scope to include a broader range of psychological and social phenomena and wrote for it more and more frequently until it eventually became a regular deal. I’ve never considered it my space, but it has been almost exclusively my responsibility since Y2K. You hold in your hands a sampling of my “Mental Motorcycling” columns from 1996 to 2017.

Lee also sent me products of increasing complexity and importance to test and started having me write up gear and accessories that I acquired on my own. Although I was deeply immersed in my day job as a clinical psychologist, I was also starting to thrive in this sideline venture as a motojournalist. I felt in some small way like I’d become “one of them,” one of those writers I had envied, especially when I was invited to MCN’s Irvine headquarters several times to be part of multiple bike tests, which included touring those storied California roads up to the races at Laguna Seca and buzzing around Willow Springs and Buttonwillow racetracks. Some dreams really do come true!

When Dave Searle took over as editor-in-chief in 2000, I got to do much more involved technical articles, both in-depth product comparisons and extensive how-to pieces. In 2004, he let me survey the readership of MCN and share the results in a seven-part series called “Why We Ride” (long before the 2013 movie of the same name); I’ve consolidated that series for this book. Other mammoth projects included an eight-part exploration of the experience of “flow” in motorcycling (2001), also consolidated here, and a total of twenty pages (!) in four installments on reprogramming electronic fuel injections (2012). Each time I got permission for a new major undertaking, I felt the same exhilaration as when I landed that first spot in Sport Rider.

Editor Searle took big risks in publishing my contributions, not only the sprawling pieces just mentioned but also unconventional features, such as teaching kids how to ride and using yoga, meditation, neurofeedback, and other methods outside our culture’s mainstream to enhance motorcycling safety and enjoyment. He also let me push further into the world of off-road riding and equipment than what had previously appeared in MCN’s traditionally street-focused pages. Just keeping a clinical psychologist as a monthly columnist was a pretty weird—actually, utterly unique—thing for a motorcycle magazine to do.

I’m extremely grateful for the way I’ve been able to “live the dream.” The amount of time I’ve spent on my second job as a motojournalist has varied widely, but it has been a constant element of my identity. And it all started as a whim on that snowy afternoon. Sure, my schooling and clinical work gave me plenty of practice writing, and I have some native aptitude for things mechanical, but I had the unpredictable and uncontrollable good fortune of a few magazine editors taking an interest in my work; there were many more who did not. It has been a thoroughly unexpected journey that I would never have believed possible beforehand.

And journey is the right word. In reviewing all 200 of my columns to date, I was struck by the wide shifts in my writing since 1996. Many pieces made me cringe, either because they were so dry and cerebral or so flamboyantly melodramatic. More than twenty years contain a lot of transitions in anyone’s life; there was certainly copious evidence of this in both my style and topics. I’ve weeded out the columns that now seem too preachy about technique, too grouchy about bad drivers and customer service, or too tightly focused on transient preoccupations. The pieces here may not be my “best” (someone else would have had to make such decisions), but these stood out to me as having been the most fun to write, as conjuring the dearest memories, or as my strongest efforts to articulate what I consider central to the rich, intimately subjective experience of being a motorcyclist.

What follows are the submissions I made to MCN with their original titles, some of which were renamed and/or shortened for publication in the issues noted. I’ve added comments here and there, mainly my reactions to rereading the pieces or bits of context to make them more understandable. Oddly, it feels very different to send out these essays to an audience beyond the familiar readership of MCN. Though I’ve never gotten used to being recognized by subscribers or receiving their responses to my articles (you mean somebody actually read what I wrote?), this book is a new level of exposure.

My self-consciousness is undoubtedly a reflection of just how personal this whole business has been for me from the very beginning. I hope these words will illuminate and resonate with the intensely personal elements that make riding such a passionate endeavor for other motorcyclists, too.

Part 1: Of Rides and Riders

On The Road

When I’d finished selecting the columns for this book and had them sorted into roughly defined categories, I was startled to see how few ended up here. After all, most of the twenty-five motorcycles I’ve owned over the past forty-three years have been road-going machines, and pavement is where I’ve put in the vast majority of my miles. True, the track-based section of this book also features experiences on street bikes, and many of the columns under other headings were written with riding or working on such motorcycles in mind. But a mere four titles for “On the Road”?

Street bikes and street riding certainly don’t suffer low status in my personal motorcycling hierarchy. In fact, it’s just the opposite. Because I’ve spent so much of my life as a motorcyclist on tarmac, this is the default backdrop. In that position, though, it doesn’t stand out. Instead, it’s the medium for musing about other things. So, if you’re a road rider, don’t think you’re getting the short end of this deal. Most of the book you’re reading was written for you.

The Call of the Open Road

March 2002

This isn’t the first column I wrote for Motorcycle Consumer News (MCN), but it seemed like a good one to kick-start this book. Even though long tours have made up only a small portion of my riding, they have invariably been among the most memorable rides of my life. And, predictable as the metaphor may be, motorcycling has certainly been one very long, challenging, and deeply satisfying ride.

I’ve been itching for a long motorcycle trip lately. When I mentioned this to folks around me (a few motorcyclists included), they were perplexed. Not particularly with regard to why I’d go on a bike, but why I’d take the time to ride/drive anything cross-country. There are more efficient means of travel than going over the road if getting to the destination is really what’s important. And there are more effective ways to fully escape the responsibilities of life if achieving such relief as completely as possible is actually the goal. Yet there’s something irresistibly compelling—at least for some of us—about riding where we want to go, even when it requires enormous commitments of time and effort and includes the risk of serious and unpredictable frustrations. So what’s the big deal?

Let’s start with this issue of efficiency. People who don’t love riding (or driving, for that matter) ask why anyone would want to “waste” all that time getting there when we can fly and get there more quickly, presumably to start the enjoyment sooner, and then allow the fun to last longer at the tail end of the trip, zipping back home through the sky at the last minute. To this, I answer that they’re the ones wasting time. Instead of enduring the boredom and hassles of air travel (and vulnerability to delays caused by errors and problems) at both ends of my journey so I can theoretically begin the pleasure earlier and hold onto it longer, my enjoyment begins the moment I start my motor and doesn’t stop until I pull back into my garage. In fact, the trip’s fun actually starts even earlier than that, as I’m tending to the preparation of my bike a week or two before my departure. Factor in the possibility that the travel we’re talking about isn’t a vacation, and the ride there and back could be the only fun involved—I’ve certainly had work trips like that, and I’m sure I’m not the only one.

So the definition of efficiency depends on the context. If you love riding, it’s actually more efficient in terms of fun-per-minute than having someone else take you there by plane or train or anything else that you’re not controlling, which brings up the next item for discussion. Part of the satisfaction of riding is having maximum control. I decide what route I’ll take. I decide when to stop for fuel and snacks, for a look at the scenery, for a real meal, and for the night. I decide how much luggage I take, which—if any—music to play, what temperature to wait for before departing. The list goes on.

My point is that riding allows for autonomy. Not only is autonomy inherently appealing (we all want to do what we want to do, when we want to do it, right?), but it can also stand in stark contrast to the grinding confinement of everyday life, wherein our ability to make unilateral choices is often confined to a pretty tiny corner of existence. Riding, even when it’s just a matter of commuting or running an errand, provides a partial break from this sensation of captivity. Deliberate movement through space concretely defies the abstract mental walls that routinely hem us in; that’s why simply taking a walk can be such an effective means of attitude self-adjustment.

Unless we’re teenagers, autonomy isn’t only about breaking free of the constraints of others’ expectations. It’s also about taking responsibility for ourselves. When that challenge is accepted willingly, we call the experience adventure. Long-distance riding can be a treacherous ordeal, and it requires planning, foresight, skill, judgment, and patience, along with a host of other actions and attributes. You often need discipline and perseverance in order to avoid disaster or to recover from a setback.

How does this voluntary exposure to difficulty and demand square with that talk about “fun”? It’s the same category of pleasure we feel in competing with an opponent in a game or perfecting our technique in the gym. While there is a period of discomfort at the outset, when our fate is uncertain and our adequacy is unproven, the process of surmounting the obstacles in our path provides a sense of satisfaction that outweighs the anxiety involved. As skill and confidence accrue, the anticipation of that satisfaction can turn the initial anxiety into something more like excitement—roadside repairs become adrenaline-filled adventures! One of the most enjoyable rides I ever took was through a horrific storm that required an additional two nights on the road; the struggle to make headway (slowly and safely, but also surely) in spite of the weather felt like an adventure of epic proportions.

The Blue Ridge Parkway, probably somewhere in North Carolina, circa 1999. Excellent pavement, smoothly flowing curves, and spectacular scenery—sport-touring in the East doesn’t get any better than this.

Adventure is about discovery and surprise. That can involve the potentially frustrating whims of nature, road conditions, and mechanical failure, as well as unexpected delights and windfall opportunities—a stunningly gorgeous vista opens up around the next curve, you meet a whole new set of friends at a rally. No matter what, the rider is thrust into unfamiliar situations that require mental flexibility. This is a big part of what makes travel re-creation. Our minds tend to calcify and grow numb in the ruts of day-to-day repetition. Variety is more than the spice of life; it’s an essential nutrient. Without discovery, we grow weary, restless, and incompetent. Experiencing new things frees us up to experience old things in new ways. Creative problem-solving requires regular exploration away from the problem at hand. Those who can’t leave a problem until they’ve solved it may be working a lot longer and harder—and come to a far less effective solution (if they come to one at all)—compared to folks who can walk away from one challenge, exercise some other part of the mind or body elsewhere, and then return to the project with a fresh perspective. The more diverse our experiences and the wider range of challenges we face and learn from, the better our set of tools for dealing with whatever comes up in the future.

So the pursuit of discovery can expand our horizons, literally and figuratively. It provides a contrast, allows for the emergence of multiple perspectives, and levers us out of ruts. But sometimes the change we seek is not a matter of discovery but one of rediscovery. Travel can be about finding something we feared was lost, and it can mean reconnecting with people, places, and memories. While it’s a change from our present situation, it’s also an attempt to recapture something “same”—something we once knew and want to know again. In repeating something from the past, we experience ourselves as we were then, too, along with all the layers of who we’ve been between then and now. It provides us with a sense of personal coherence and stability.

There are many ways to slice the pie of human motivation. One cross-section reveals the opposing poles of adventure and security. At one extreme of this dichotomy, we seek excitement, take initiative, explore, and create. At the other extreme, we seek serenity, embed ourselves in the comforts of familiarity, relax, and receive. Riding can be employed in the service of both, even simultaneously. What about the reassurance of feeling dry and warm in the midst of a storm, courtesy of your trusty old rain gear, as you approach the entrance to a national park you’ve never seen before? Or how about opening your kit in the middle of nowhere, remembering the times in the past when that well-chosen collection of tools proved capable of getting you back on your way?

Riding is a many-splendored thing, and the open road makes it possible for days on end. Who needs a destination, anyway? So get on with it…and don’t waste any time.

Get Lost!

August 2002

A decade and a half later, this is still one of my favorite things to do. It’s amazing how much the pleasure of solitude can be enhanced with the following method—and how much fun it can add to a group ride.

It’s a beautiful Sunday afternoon. My bike is running great. The scenery is sublime. And I’ve just reached my destination: The Middle of Nowhere, aka Parts Unknown, etc. I’m utterly lost in virginal territory uncharted in my own mind, totally unfamiliar and devoid of any recognizable landmarks except for the sun’s trusty arc across the azure dome above. Ahhhh . . . I can relax now. Like most arrivals, this one brings with it a sense of accomplishment and relief. I think I’ll take a few minutes to congratulate myself at that pull-off by the stream up ahead.

Getting here wasn’t easy. I have to go farther and farther afield each time to cross the line into that neighboring State of Confusion. In order to complete the journey, I have to leave my GPS at home (or at least in the bottom of my tank bag), along with any maps or notes I might be tempted to glance at along the way. I must deliberately shut off my brain the moment I catch myself automatically analyzing my heading: Hmmm . . . didn’t that last turn just change my horizon from north to—DON’T FINISH THAT THOUGHT! And when I’m tempted to wander over and check out some vista or half-noticed signpost I think I might recognize, I have to force my eyes back to the pavement in front of me and spare no glance in that alluring direction. Achieving ignorance requires considerable self-discipline.

This is one of my favorite games. I can play it as solitaire or with teammates, and it can last a day or a weekend or even longer for those whose work and family life allow extended absences. The basic idea is to perform a certain type of alchemy, creating the gold of high adventure from the base metal of mundane routine. The catalyst is simply this: the cessation of attention to one’s route while remaining focused on all of the usual tasks of riding. This trick is more difficult for some than others. As someone who tends to lose his way even when he’s trying desperately to hang on to it, I may have an easier time with this than most—at least the first part of it. You see, getting there is only half the fun; then I have to get back. Maybe in time for dinner. Then again, maybe not.

After wandering as aimlessly as possible, the project becomes one of reconnoitering without tools and finding my way home without simply retracing my steps. This creates the possibility of genuine discovery and introduces a few risks, such as not eating on time or running out of gas. It’s enough tension to sharpen my wits but not enough to interfere with the enjoyment of the process. And, if I’m ever really in danger of not making it back under my own steam, I can always stop somewhere and do the typically unthinkable: ask for directions.

The exhilaration of such navigation is akin to an indulgence I imagine most of us have allowed ourselves at one time or another. (For some of us, it’s the only way we do things.) I’m talking about eschewing another type of direction—the kind that comes with new purchases sporting the “some assembly required” warning on their packages. What fun is it to move from step one to step two, adhering robotically to the fixed sequence foisted upon the noble end user by a completely anonymous and potentially unqualified source? Can’t we all justify diving into the project unassisted/unfettered on the basis of one bad experience with faulty instructions twenty years prior? And besides, what needs to be done is obvious from a quick survey of the parts already spilling out of the box, right? They’ve revealed themselves voluntarily, so why make them wait any longer to fulfill their destiny?

Talk about the middle of nowhere! Roy’s Motel and Cafe served up some delicious burgers for MCN writers on a seemingly endless ride along historic Route 66.

I won’t go into (painful) detail about my experiences as a would-be engineer, second-guessing or totally disregarding The Way included with various assembly-requiring items from my past. We all know that you win some and you lose some. But my point is this: plowing ahead and seeing what we can do on our own can be quite enjoyable—even irresistible—if we have the time to fix mistakes and don’t mind the inefficiency involved. It turns out that learning is not a terribly efficient process anyway because a great deal of it requires trial and error, and there are usually more ways to screw something up than to make it work properly. Much learning is a matter of ruling out what doesn’t work and narrowing down the possibilities. And, unless overly stressed or affected by some pathological process, human beings are innately driven to learn.

In the assembly process, we can break things, ruin things by performing procedures correctly but in the wrong order, or create contraptions that may function but do so without critical safeguards in place. The consequences can be very expensive. Out on the road, one is free to savor the pioneering spirit with fewer threats to health and finances. Wrong turns rarely cost anything more than time.

It’s a bit paradoxical how appealing it can be to make life harder when we usually try to make things easier. It’s actually a balancing act wherein we have to ensure that there’s enough challenge to make existence meaningful and exciting but not so much difficulty or danger as to be overwhelming. Everybody has a different point of equilibrium. A friend of mine climbs sheer cliffs, preferably encased in thick ice, with minimal safety gear and the constant threat of virtually certain death if he doesn’t execute every move perfectly. His need for challenge is greater than mine. My neighbor is content to pit himself against the terrors of crabgrass invasion. His need for challenge is less than mine. But we’re each looking for something that forces us to rally our resources, concentrate our efforts, and exert masterful skill, even if we might refer to our recreational pursuits as “relaxing.”

The mastery of challenges is not just enjoyable, it’s a necessary part of life. People who have no interest in mastery are not really alive. They’ve retreated from the difficulties of living into a state of insulated passivity, withdrawn from meaningful engagement with the world in favor of something more womb-like. Life is certainly capable of sending an overabundance of challenges our way, but there’s an ebb and flow to this process. At times, rest and retreat are perfectly legitimate needs. At other points, we have a surplus of energy and interest that must be utilized or lost; such surpluses don’t accumulate over time—they atrophy. We maintain and hone our problem-solving skills (including managing our level of anxiety) by practice. When we don’t employ them in the externally imposed demands of work responsibilities, domestic chores, and relational obligations, problem-solving skills can be developed in activities that fall under the broadly defined category of play. In any case, they are a large part of our personal identity.

Just as games generally become dull if the demands aren’t increased as our skills develop, other forms of recreation have to be made more challenging to extract maximal enjoyment. My game of getting myself lost on my motorcycle is one way I’ve found to “up the ante” and make riding more fun, but there are countless others. They open up the possibilities of disappointment, frustration, discouragement, and other negative experiences, but, with perseverance, they simply become the raw materials from which we can deliberately cultivate wisdom, confidence, and competence.

Doh! Brain Fade and the Perils of Fatigue

January 2005

Some motorcycling experiences are far better as memories, and recounting them can be a way of reassuring ourselves that they’re truly over. I vividly recall collapsing into an overstuffed chair opposite the late, great Larry Grodsky upon reaching the hotel at the end of this misadventure; I hesitated, but it was a story I had to tell.

Although I’ve “told on” myself before in these columns, I generally prefer to describe how other motorcyclists get themselves into trouble, as though the same thing couldn’t possibly happen to moi. But, this time, I must share what is without a doubt the most embarrassing, bonehead thing I’ve ever done as a motorcyclist. Perhaps I can salvage the experience by keeping someone else from repeating it. Or at least give someone a laugh. And, anyway, you know what they say about confession . . .

I got the assignment to cover Larry Grodsky’s Stayin’ Safe Tour just two days before I’d have to leave Knoxville, Tennessee, to get to the training event’s starting point in Warrenton, Virginia, about 450 miles (724 kilometers) away. I was happy to go, being in desperate need of tuning up my road-riding skills as someone reentering the street-bike scene after taking a few years off to play in the dirt. Just the trip to Warrenton would double my street mileage thus far in 2004 and would equal what I’d logged in 2003 and 2002 combined. I barely had time to get my SuperHawk prepped for the trip, figure out what to pack, and triage the rest of my week’s work at the office. I was so excited and had to get so much done that I slept very little. All of that frantic activity allowed only the dimmest awareness of trepidation about taking on four whole days of riding (two days on tour and a day each to get there and back) after being out of the saddle for so long.

The morning of my departure quickly arrived. Suited up in my trusty Aerostich and with my clever VenturaPack luggage behind me, I felt ready. I’d “generously” allowed myself an entire day to travel those 450 miles, almost all on the interstate. Easy, right? It was a gorgeous day, and I had a lot to look forward to.

Needless to say, those miles did not pass as quickly as expected. I had to stop. A lot. My bones, tendons, and bladder had apparently undergone significant changes since my last daylong ride. I knew my muscles would be out of shape—you know, those mysterious muscles that seem to be used for nothing other than riding and identify themselves with piercing clarity after the first full-day voyage at the start of each season. But this was different. (Indeed, those muscles didn’t scream until the next day.) My joints were on fire. My hamstrings had shrunk to what felt like just a few inches in length. My head was numb. I had to rest half an hour for every hour of riding just to revive myself from the stiff and stuporous state into which I would repeatedly devolve from being fixed in one position. So much for the SuperHawk being a kinder, gentler, more comfortable sportbike! Actually, the main culprit was I-81, which greatly compounded my misery with thick, slow traffic for most of my trip.

The author’s SuperHawk (left), having survived its unconscionable mistreatment, rests with its cohorts somewhere in the Shenandoah Valley as the late Larry Grodsky holds court in the background.

By dusk, I’d finally made it to the end point of my interstate droning: New Market, Virginia. There, I’d at least gain the relief of switching to a nice curvy road (US-211) through some mountains on the last leg of my journey; finally, I’d be moving around on the bike. SuperHawks are gas guzzlers with small tanks, so I topped mine off—just to be safe. You never know what you’ll run into in uncharted territory. And, this way, I might be able to save a gas stop the next morning. After all, it had become abundantly clear that I needed as much rest as possible. I congratulated myself on this forethought.

The first couple of twisty miles were indeed refreshing. Although I was physically shot, the change of pace and scenery restored some of my mental acuity. The sunset was beautiful as I entered the dense forest at the mountain’s base. But as I asked my bike to climb the first rise, it balked. Kind of a burp/hiccup/backfire that sounded totally unfamiliar. Moments later, a miss, and then another. When I opened the throttle quickly, a cacophony arose from the engine bay like a jackhammer duet. I went easy. Great! A breakdown was the last thing I needed now. I’d miss my tour, have to get my lame bike home, and sleep in the wilderness on what was fast becoming a very chilly night.

I pulled over to take inventory. No sign of anything out of place. Maybe I’d gotten some bad gas. I guessed I’d have to burn through it, so I pressed on, but my bike ran worse and worse. I eventually lost one cylinder altogether, and the other was good for only about 30 mph. Whenever I slowed down, it stalled completely. And each time it was harder to restart. I just wanted to make it to Warrenton, but I was only halfway through the mountains. If I stopped here, I’d be equidistant from help in either direction.

It was then, maybe because the breeze had changed direction, that I smelled it. It was a sickening odor, not because of what it did to my nose but because of what it meant. It was the smell of a tractor trailer. A bus. A bulldozer. A diesel engine. Except mine was the only engine operating on this road for miles. My heart sunk into the small of my back. I must have put diesel in my tank in New Market. I pictured my pistons with huge gaping holes in them from what I now realized had been the sound of horrific detonation earlier, although its extreme intensity had made it unrecognizable to me then.

I looked behind me, and—sure enough—I’d been leaving a crop-duster-esque trail of thick, billowing smoke. My poor bike. Poor me. Unbelievably stupid, idiotic, #@&% ME! I’d never, ever done that before, not even close! Fortunately, I’d only put in two gallons; the rest of the tank contained premium gasoline. I remembered a little “last chance” gas station/diner/gift shop some 20 miles back, and I figured it was the closest place where I might drain my tank. Thanks to St. Honda, my bike limped all the way back. They had no siphon (SuperHawks don’t have easily accessed petcocks), but I was able to improve the ratio in my tank with an additional gallon of high-test. That got both cylinders firing, and—as long as I kept the revs up—the bike didn’t stall. It had grown very dark.

I made it, wrung out and bleary-eyed, into Warrenton at 7:00 p.m. With absolutely astonishing luck, I happened upon Blalock Cycles, which was just closing. They took pity on me, vacuumed my tank, and sold me new plugs. I filled up at the gas station next door, insisting on gasoline this time. After a few more stumbles, my bike acted like her old self again, apparently none the worse for wear throughout the rest of the trip. Amazing.

As I look back on this near-catastrophe, it’s completely inconceivable to me that I mistook the diesel pump for premium. It’s also impossible to believe that I didn’t recognize what was happening sooner or turn back earlier. Had I been fresh, I’d have disassembled my fuel lines and drained my tank at the “last chance” place, siphon or no siphon. I made one bad choice after another. All because I was tired, quite literally, out of my mind. I certainly knew I was sore and anxious to finish the day. But I had no idea how seriously impaired I’d become mentally, largely from the monotony and lack of bodily movement on the interstate—I was much more “out of shape” for those factors than for covering 450 miles.

Part of what gets lost in a state of severe fatigue, as in a state of inebriation, is one’s perspective on how fatigued (or inebriated) one actually is. If you think you can go on, it might be a good sign that you shouldn’t. If only I could have taken my own advice.

Time Machines

February 2017

Riding buddies do more than supply camaraderie and assistance. Sometimes, they also nudge us to try things we might not have checked out on our own. In this case, I didn’t require any pushing, just the offer of an opportunity I hadn’t previously pursued. Curiosity can be richly rewarded.

I was never a vintage motorcycle guy; advanced technology was my passion. But two events have nudged me toward adding an old bike to my stable. First, the 2016 Vintage Festival at Barber Motorsports Park plunged me into the world of two-wheeled yesteryear. A seemingly endless variety of machinery and enthusiasts reminded me how much diversity exists beyond the confines of modernity. For a true technophile, the past actually couldn’t be more intriguing!

We talk about the multitude of increasingly specialized niche-market bikes. Such observations imply that motorcycling has become unprecedentedly variegated, with more uniquely differentiated designs than ever before. Well, yes and no. We now have categories that weren’t in the lexicon of our youth—adventure bikes, supermotard riffs, and hipster-classic styling exercises, to name a few.

But this explosion of designations isn’t all expanded variety. There have also been shifts toward greater homogeneity as the usefulness or appeal of particular designs has prompted convergences in engineering and aesthetics toward the patterns that work/sell best. Sure, there are significant differences between, for example, today’s power cruisers. But step out of the present to appreciate the vast array of mechanical solutions to motorcycling’s age-old problems, and the distinctions between those power cruisers shrink from small to microscopic. It’s true in every other category, too. The niches may be more numerous, but the machines within them are less unique.

Classic. Evocative. Triumph’s old Bonneville is relentlessly compelling, despite its technical shortcomings and maintenance requirements. This bike took me down memory lanes I’d never traveled before.

Considering the temporal dimension is like adding depth to length and width. The environment expands exponentially, with the variations among modern motorcycles just a thin layer of foam atop the ocean of their predecessors. However, quantity doesn’t equal quality. Just because old motorcycles approached challenges from more angles doesn’t mean they had more success. In fact, the flip side of the engineering convergence principle is that most of those delightfully inventive, divergent approaches proved inferior and died out accordingly. But “quality” can be defined in many ways. While a fascinating engine design may not have been very efficient or effective, it might still have been extremely entertaining. And motorcycles are used for entertainment at least as much as for any other purpose.

Objective data such as acceleration and braking numbers establish the superiority of the latest, greatest hardware, but not so with subjective factors. Who can say any particular motorcycle is more enjoyable, given that we each enjoy different things to differing degrees?

This brings me to the second event that sparked my interest in vintage bikes. My buddy Russ let me ride his 1976 Bonneville 750 on a spectacular autumn day. I’d heard Russ recount his travails with this bike in the past, and it misbehaved before we even left his driveway: the ticklers on both Amal carbs stuck open and gushed fuel! The cause remained mysterious, but they settled with more jiggling, and we didn’t wait around for something else to go wrong. I was apprehensive about the next mishap occurring with me in the saddle, but such thoughts vanished quickly as I succumbed to the old Triumph’s charms.

Although the Bonnie’s vibration far exceeded that of anything I’d ridden since adolescence, it was more amusing than offensive. Steering was startlingly crisp and light, as was the transmission. It even kicked over easily. The pegs seemed impossibly high in relation to the low, flat seat, but only at first, and the oddly swept bars felt surprisingly natural. Engine response was confusing. On one hand, revs built slowly and deliberately, and my initial impression was of laborious sloth. But I noticed considerable grunt was always on tap—very pleasing! The oxymoron “sporty tractor” came to mind and made me smile.

The whole was truly much more than the sum of its parts. Eventually, I realized that this was the most unique ride I’d been on in many years. Cliché or not, I’d been transported back in time. The soundtrack in my head was by Bob Dylan, Simon and Garfunkel, and other folksy artists from the ’60s and ’70s. Disco may have been ascendant when this bike was built, but the Bonneville sustained an earlier vibe. There was no hurrying to the next thing. That doomed the Meriden factory back in the day, but there’s a good reason these machines maintained a cult following despite their flaws and limitations and the marque’s temporary disappearance.

I cruised contentedly, without interest in performance envelopes or g-forces. The aura emanating from that sonorously thrumming collection of antique parts was plenty entertaining. By modern standards, Russ’s bike had pathetic brakes, a lazy paint-shaker motor, poor reliability, flimsy suspension, blah, blah, blah. All that just made its magical delivery of pleasure even more impressive.

Lately, I’ve been unexcited about spending the fortune required to put cutting-edge technology in my garage. Maybe my next bike won’t be from the future, but from the past. And, given the greatly enlarged range of possibilities, choosing an old bike may be more exciting than choosing a new one.

At the Track

First, I’ve never ventured onto a motocross or other type of off-road racetrack, so these are observations and experiences from road-racing circuits. Second, I’m not talking about watching a race, but rather a particular type of racetrack activity unknown to most people, probably even most motorcyclists. Some sport-riding clubs rent tracks for special events called “track days.” Members ride the course, honing their skills but not actually competing (at least not in any official way). Similarly, rider- and/or racer-training operations, often featuring famous ex-racers, hold riding schools at racetracks with varying levels of supervision, classroom instruction, and individual attention. Any of these events may last from one to several days. Facilities require whoever puts on an event to provide on-site medical services (e.g., one or more ambulances) and to staff the course with flag-bearing observers at key locations to signal riders on the track about emerging hazards; it’s not a matter of just letting a bunch of riders go crazy.

Ironically, racetracks may be the safest places I’ve ridden fast, and they can be quite beautiful. They’re certainly the places where I’ve learned the most in the least amount of time, though sometimes I would have learned even more if I hadn’t been so intent on racing my ego.

Wrecks

December 1996

What’s even better than spending time on a racetrack? Introducing your friends to the experience. Not only do you get to enjoy their exhilaration vicariously, but you also may be inspired by their fortitude, and you can celebrate their triumphs over trepidation and mishap.

My friend Bill went down. He ran wide exiting Turn Two, the wheels of his Honda Hawk GT slipping suddenly out from under him as gravel replaced tarmac beneath those precious tiny contact patches. It wasn’t a very dramatic crash; Bill was up and walking it off before the trotting corner workers reached the scene, and the bike sustained only mild cosmetic damage. The medical crew recommended a trip to the local hospital for x-rays, just to be safe, and Bill’s day of track practice was over after just thirty minutes of seat time. He returned later in the afternoon with the official news: he had a broken collarbone, but not so much as a bruise anywhere else. The worst of it was the goofy harness he would have to wear for the coming six weeks; it looked like backpack straps without the backpack. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief—me, most of all, because it had been my idea to get him out on the track.

After months of coaxing and cajoling, my two main riding partners finally agreed to join me for the Southeastern Sportbike Association’s track practice at Talladega Grand Prix Raceway (the road course, not the NASCAR oval). I had started making such pilgrimages the year before, visiting four different tracks in the process, and I came away from each experience a more enthusiastic and better rider. Bill, having just started riding a few years ago, resisted my urging to try out “the track” until this past spring, but after he got his first taste at the wonderfully winding circuit at Mid-Ohio, talking him into Talladega was actually pretty easy. Dave, on the other hand, was ambivalent up to the last moment. He’d only recently returned to riding after a lengthy hiatus, still had fresh memories of two street get-offs, and was trying very tentatively to get acquainted with a newly acquired pristine Ducati 750SS. Dave eventually surrendered to relentless persuasive efforts, his fate being decided by something like democratic process within our little riding trio.

About a dozen of my local riding buddies descended upon Talladega the night before practice, and we retold all of the usual riding stories over dinner. I might not have noticed, but Dave pointed out afterward that the vast majority of the tales told had to do with crashing. This conversational bias was not lost on a track virgin who was already apprehensive about losing his cherry-red Ducati (or more) in some riotous orgy of uninhibited speed. As I tried to come up with a verbal antidote for the queasiness Dave had contracted at dinner, it occurred to me he wasn’t the only one nervous about the next day’s potential for trauma. All of those stories he had just heard were actually attempts at inoculation.

Each rider had taken one of several approaches. The most popular tactic was to catalog all of one’s own errors, reviewing the lessons learned and reaffirming one’s own invincibility in the process. Another strategy was to tease fellow riders about all of their respective mishaps, with the implicit conviction that such disasters occur only in the lives of others. A third group paid their respects at the altar of famous racer crashes, thereby invoking some celestial blessing on their endeavors. It could have been the evening before a perilous expedition or the locker room before the big game. The details vary from one setting to the next, but, generally, human beings trying to manage collective anxiety tend to do so in these ways.

Dave went on to face the dreadful beast and conquer it; by midmorning, he was all grins after each practice session, despite his concern about Bill’s spill. By the end of the day, he was asking about how soon we could return. Bill, too, was undaunted by his fall. He said his greatest pain was the disappointment of having to end the day so early after riding quite well, at least up until his unplanned sampling of Alabama soil. He wanted to get back out and master that Turn Two exit! He had analyzed his mistake and couldn’t wait to try a different approach (no doubt we’ll hear more about this at the next pre-practice dinner). But, alas, we all must return to our workaday lives between motorcycling events. And it is there that we encounter another set of crash stories . . .

“How’d ya hurt your shoulder? Oh, you wrecked on a motorcycle? Friend of mine had one of them things. Ran underneath a train at 350 mph with his wife and kids on the back. All of ‘em burst into flames and died instantly. Killed some people who weren’t even there when it happened. They’re still finding pieces of that motor scooter all the way across the state line. You’d never catch me on one of them things. Death traps, I tell you! Where’d you crash? On a racetrack? Are you crazy? Foolish thing to do, a man your age out racing around on a suicide machine like an irresponsible teenager! Did I tell you a friend of mine had one of them things? Got run over by a Greyhound bus in his own driveway. Broke every bone in his body. Terrible thing! Nurse friend of mine says the same thing happens to somebody in town every eleven minutes. What? You wanna go back again? What are you, some kind of daredevil or just plain stupid? Didn’t you learn your lesson? Did I mention a friend of mine had one of them things . . . ?”

We’ve all heard the stories. It seems that everyone—and I mean just about everyone—who hears that you ride a motorcycle always knows someone somewhere who had some hair-raising, awful crash that either prevented the person from ever riding again or convinced the rider and all of his or her friends, neighbors, and relatives that motorcycling is the most surefire way to incur extensive physical injury known to man. And they feel compelled to tell you about it. Again and again. Punishment for youthful exuberance comes swiftly, surely, and severely—if you believe these stories. Which I don’t.

Sure, motorcycling is a dangerous activity, and accidents really do happen, sometimes with very serious consequences. But that’s only part of the story. Non-riders tend to leave out (maybe because they never heard) other important factors, such as the seventeen beers ingested immediately prior to the ride of death, the absence of appropriate riding gear, or the lack of good training and experience (or common sense and maturity) on the part of the rider. Nor is there any accounting for the millions of people who do not instantly detonate upon contact with the doomsday device supposedly lurking within each and every motorcycle.