Let Freedom Ring!
So what can a patriotic citizen do to help us defeat the crushing world economy? Buy a motorcycle! That way, we can claim our independence from high gas prices, foreign oil and crazy taxes! On a recent trip to New England, I averaged 44.6 MPG! Now, that's pretty good by motorcycle standards, and really good compared to a car or SUV. There are other bikes out there that offer better mileage. The more cars off the road, the more parking spaces will be available (parking spaces made of oil based asphalt, by-the-way) and the traffic snarls we sit in today (burning gas while we idle our cars) will go the way of the Do Do Bird. Will we rid ourselves of cars and trucks altogether? Probably not, but if we begin to live like the Europeans have lived for decades, we'll pull through this just fine!
I'm not advocating socialism or communism or even armpit hair for women. No, I mean to travel like the Europeans have for decades. For Europeans, mass transit has been all the rage for over a century. Before cars became popular, trains took citizens all over the place. In the U.S., because of the expanse and relative youth of our country, a comparative system of transportation was not practical. Instead we relied on our own form of transportation and decided on our own schedule and route. People got used to that and it became the American Way! I love the American Way! Imagine a country without spontaneous travel. Where would the College Road Trip be? What about the ride to Sturgis with your buddies? Preposterous! If we tried to catch up on the rail system, we would lose our cool freedom to travel whenever we want, we'd spend billions upon billions and decades and decades to lay track and build engines only to be obsolete once it was completed. No, the other European answer is coming into focus.
If you've ever been to Europe, the first thing you noticed was a lack of large cars. I recall seeing a '76 Chevy Camero in Paris and the thing was HUGE compared to other vehicles. A friend of mine exported to Europe a Buick LeSabre, it was so massive he had to be careful which roads he drove! Cars like the Mini and the VW Bug have always been popular in countries that pay an exorbitant amount for fuel. Also popular are names like Vespa, Lambretta, Moto Guzzi, BMW, Triumph, Ducati and even the venerable Harley Davidson. Motorcycles are popular because gas prices have been high for decades. We complain about $4.20 for a gallon of gas. In Europe they've been paying that and more! In Paris, gas is selling for $5.54 a gallon (sure, they use liters instead of gallons, but when you do the math for one gallon containing 3.78 liters, the cost per gallon is $5.54). Now, that's a lot of dough! As gas prices get high in the U.S., our desire to travel will not diminish, but the size of our vehicles might.
Stepping up to the
plate to save the country, his own money and look hip while doing so, is my
big brother Beaumont. Beaumont lives out in Texas, where everything is BIG!
His truck is big, his house is big, his gas bills have been getting bigger.
Finally, he decided to join the rest of the family and become a full fledged
motorcyclist. Well, almost. My brother bought an Aprillia 250 scooter that
would be perfecly at home in Rome, Munich, Paris or Milan. For now, he's
drawing some stares and jeers from his fellow Texans, but he's able to save
$20 a day in commuting fuel costs. What used to take 4 gallons of gas now
takes one and he can park on the sidewalk (saving who knows what in downtown
parking fees).
This month, go out and see America from the saddle of your motorcycle. If you need to save money and gas, great! I know a guy who wrote a couple of books that will let you know exactly how to get around (so you won't waste gas getting lost). I did my part, the wife and I just got back from Bristol, RI, where we saw the longest running 4th of just parade (223 years). Don't let the oil companies keep you in your house, enjoy a slice of Americana and get out and ride!!
Until next month,
Ride with
Pride!
~Hawk
Polygamy among motorcyclists?
A few weeks ago, I was asked by a potential convert to motorcycling, "What's the best bike for me?" With gas prices so high, I'm sure he was ready to hear about MPG of various machines, but I spoke first of the "attractiveness" of the motorcycle. I explained that each make and model has it's own style, form, shape and feel. Just like with people, there are many different kinds and not one is "right" for everyone. If you're looking for a sprightly waif of a motorcycle, try a Vespa or Honda Metropolitan. If you enjoy the look and feel of an East European heavy lifter, try the BMW Adventure R1200GS with metal saddlebags. I described the general choices inbetween (cruiser, sport bikes, touring, sport touring, etc). Once he was locked into that philosophy, he asked, "So, motorcycles are like women?" I replied that in many ways they are. That's not to say that women are like motorcycles! I'm glad for that. A motorcycle has never shared a glass of wine with me nor refreshed my spirit like time well-spent with my wife, daughters or mother. To me, motorcycles are like women, but to be perfectly clear, women are not like motorcycles, ok?
I still remember the day I met my first bike. "Suzi" was a maroon, 1979 Suzuki GS550L with a silver Vetter fairing and throttle lock. If "Suzi" were a human, she'd have been the slightly awkward, freckled, girl next door growing into a woman type. She wasn't much to look at, oh sure, she was cute, but my attraction to her was her ability to have fun at the drop of a hat. What a ride. We spent lots of time together and went everywhere the road could take us. I loved that bike so much that I sold my old Jeep and became a full time motorcyclist, no four wheeler in my garage (well, apartment parking space at the time). "Suzi" and I enjoyed many years together. Then she changed. Instead of being reliable and trustworthy, she became tired and disinterested. On more than one occasion in the rain, she left me standing on the side of the road trying to coax her back to the road. We could see that a break-up was inevitable. One of "Suzi's" last trips with me was a ride to the local Honda dealership where I looked at the latest models. I had settled on buying a new, 1993 Honda Goldwing, but "Suzi" had to go first. The last thing I bought for "Suzi" was a FOR SALE sign. On a warm Friday evening, she unceremoniously left me for a younger man in exchange for $550 dollars. I would see "Suzi" from time to time and I would wave, not at the rider (who would eagerly wave back) but to "Suzi". She looked good, and something in my soul ached to have her back. But what would "Raven" think?
"Raven" was the name given to my black, 1993 Honda Goldwing. She came with all the bells and whistles, a AM/FM stereo cassette, cruise control, adjustable windshield, she even had cup holders! Like "Suzi" before her, I associated "Raven" with the female form as well. "Raven" was the Aunt Bea of motorcycling. She was and is efficient, reliable and can accept any assignment without complaint. However, apart from a couple of curves, she is not physically attractive, but one had an undeniable connection to her once you met. She was good for the long haul. Yes sir, "Raven" saw me through more human relationships than I care to admit and over the years we danced the asphalt tango for more than 150,000 miles. Raven has been in all lower 48 states with me. She's a stout beauty, no sporty looks, but could be counted on for anything at anytime. "Raven" rests in my garage between book and magazine assignments. Sometimes we'll ride just to see what has changed in the road. "Raven" is a workhorse and loyal to the core. Until that other bike moved in....
A few months ago, my friend Pete was sent to Iraq and asked me for help in maintaining his Suzuki GSXR 750. "Sure, no problem," I replied. I mean, it's the least I can do, selflessly dedicating my time and energy to ride a 2007 Suzuki sportbike for a brave young soldier. I parked the adolescent and sporty machine near the matronly "Raven" without a thought of jealousy. I mean really, why would "Raven" care, it's just like having a visiting niece. Surely "Raven" knows that I'm not interested in the little sportbike? I mean really, she's not even my type! Something inside my psyche told me that "Raven" is not threatened at all by the little sportbike. Sure she's cute, but clearly to all who know me, not my kind of bike.
Lisa (my wife, not a motorcycle) has
been asking me for two years to go buy another motorcycle. What a great problem
to have. I'm sure there are a lot of riders out there that would love to have a
spouse (wife or husband) that insisted that you buy a new motorcycle. We've been
able to afford it for awhile, everything is paid off and the last of our older
daughters is about to finish college, leaving weddings as our only major expense
on the horizon. Lisa and I have talked for several years about what kind of
motorcycle we would like to have, if we could pick any in the world. In each
discussion, we focus on sport touring bikes. Aunt Bea be damned, we've grown
tired of having only one kind of bike in the garage. But which make and model;
Honda ST1300, Kawasaki Concourse (aka Connie), Yamaha FJR, BMW R1200 RT,
others?? The choices seemed endless. I remember looking at the new BMW R1200 RT
a couple of years ago at the Honda Hoot in Knoxville. My first impression was
"Man, this is one ugly bike!" Contrasted against the soft, flowing curves of the
R1150 RT, the R 1200RT had sharp points and violent angles. To be sure, our
friends in Munich have built a more powerful engine, and increased performance a
bit, but I just didn't like the look of the new one. So, when the time came, I
went to the local BMW dealership and bought a blue, 2002 BMW R1150RT. The
previous owner had lots of motorcycles and had only logged 3,600 miles on the
bike, and took great pains to keep the bike immaculate. The bike is perfect, not
a scratch, ding, speck of rust, not a single fault. I got her for a song, too.
Lisa was thrilled, we had our new girl and the night I brought her home from the
dealership, Lisa and I took a short ride.
"Heidi" has gotten lots of attention and is parked just inside the garage, in case I need to make a quick leap on and ride. "Raven" remains parked deep in the garage, I'd have to move "Heidi" just to get her out. "Raven" once shared garage space with "Brenda" my co-worker, a Harley-Davidson FLHTP police edition Road King. I never felt a pang of concern for "Raven" when I would ride off with "Brenda" because, "Hey babe, it's just work." I don't feel so magnanimous when I abandon loyal old "Raven" for yet another ride on "Heidi". Maybe I need to more associate them like daughters? I sincerely tell my four daughters, "I love you all the same amount, for different reasons and in different ways." Maybe I need to take the soul out of the machine. Could I think of my motorcycles as just a blend of metal, plastic, chrome, oil, gas and other fluids? Logically, I'm there, I have no real delusions that my motorcycles think or have emotions, but I think that I'm not alone in thinking of motorcycles as beings. Have you ever talked to your bike? I bet you have.
How do polygamists do it? I don't know how I'm going to cope with the emotions pulling from this bike to that, but I sure hope they don't argue and try to push each other down! One thing is for sure, it's a nice problem to have.
Ride with Pride!
~Hawk
Do you want Hamsters with that?
Back in the early 1990s when I was young and still had hair, I wore 3/4 helmets. These were the style that had an open face, but the ears and lower part of the back of the head was covered with protective fiberglass, foam, glue, felt and whatever else the safety gurus put in them at the time. I hated those helmets. I thought they didn't look very "cool." Then came the day that I bought my first 1/2 dome helmet. Because it's less material covering your noggin, it's hard to defend your helmet to Mom or anyone else who wants you protected to the 9th degree.
At work, we switched from the 3/4 to the 1/2 dome helmets at about the same time. We were the last metro Atlanta department not wearing 1/2 domes and we looked like a squad of "MaGoos" instead of the lean, mean crime fighting machines we were. The 1/2 domes bought a flashy new color scheme and helped us fit in with the other police departments as we joined in parades and motorcades. Yes sir, the new helmets sure were nice. Cool in the summer and warm in the winter (you could snap in some ear muffs in the winter-truly high speed low drag!). We all loved the 1/2 domes. Then a question came from the young woman at the supply depot; "Won't these helmets, that don't cover your ears, cause some hearing loss?" One by one we gave the same answer; "Hearing loss? We're in our twenties! Who cares about hearing loss! Besides, apart from looking cool, we can hear better with the 1/2 domes than with the 3/4 helmets. It's safer to have them than stick with what we've had." Seeing that she was outmanned and literally outgunned, we got the 1/2 domes.
I rode for years and years with a 1/2 dome helmet. On duty and off, I wore a 1/2 dome. The concerns about the noise rarely surfaced. On cool days with lots of high speed driving, my ears would ring for hours at the end of the day. The Harleys at work made plenty of noise too. I usually rode up front, so I didn't have much cause for concern about having my ears too near the loud pipes. Siren? Oh yeah, my work bike had a siren that was supposedly audible for over 100 yards. I'm sure it was, but I was too young to let it bother me. My personal motorcycle, at the time a Honda Goldwing, was notoriously quiet, except for the stereo that I had to crank to hear over the road noise. Things were going great, I looked cool and I could still hear, but the question of the Supply girl haunted me.
Growing older, and feeling the need to stay fit and trim, I have frequently turned away from what many consider lunch to take in a fruit smoothie. Standing in line at the local Smoothie Center, I looked at the wall and tried to interpret the neon colors of the menu to make a decision as to what to drink for lunch. I settled on a Mango Tango or some such concoction. The high school aged girl behind the counter asked; "Do you want any hamsters blended into that?" I flipped out, "Hamsters? A Hamster in my drink? What kind of place are you running here? Are we in some South American country where Hamsters and Guinea Pigs are on the menu?! No thanks on the Hamsters there sweetie and I bet you don't get too many takes on that offer!" Laughing hysterically and texting her "fav 5" as fast as she could to retell the story, the young girl pointed to the bright but bewildering neon menu at the word "ENHANCERS" from which "normal" people can order fat burning dust, muscle building powder or energy boosts to be blended into the smoothie.
Unfortunately, medical science has taught me that I'll never be able to hear the difference between the words "Hamster" and "Enhancer". What's gone is gone. However, I do now take good care of my ears. Like money and relationships, advice on hearing loss is frequently ignored (as in- it falls on deaf ears- man I'm sorry, I just couldn't help myself). So I won't tell you to take care of your ears, to invest in some good ear plugs, I'll write it instead and it'll be your mental voice that tells you to do it. Maybe you'll listen to yourself and get the earplugs. You can buy the el cheapo foam kind or spring for the custom made earplugs like I have now, but you really should consider getting some.
Repeat after me-
Ride with
Pride!
~Hawk
April Showers bring, wet roads?
A bikers guide to handling wet weather riding-
Standing in the relative comfort of my garage doorway, looking outward to my rain soaked driveway, my mood was somber. I grudgingly reached for my rain suit and began to wrestle it on over my boots and jacket as I looked forward to the day's big adventure. The rain was coming down in sheets that seemed to run up my hilly driveway and spill into the garage. The countrified meteorologists would proclaim the rain was "like a cow pissing on a flat rock." Indeed, unabated and heavy, the rain poured down. It mattered not, I had places to go and my bike was, is and ever shall be the best way to get there. For the trip, I would use certain items I've collected over the years, like rain gear, face shield and a towel, but more than these items, I'd need to put to use the training and experience I've collected over the years. Some of it painful experience, but all of it useful. Maybe my pain can be your gain? Like it or not, from your garage or from a roadside Taco Stand, if you ride a motorcycle for any length of time, you will be rained on. Chance of rain 100%.
As a young motorcycle officer (about a ga-billion years ago), it was common to find me riding in all weather. There's a funny story somewhere about me writing a parking ticket from astride my motorcycle, in the snow, to a lady that just had to park in the handicapped parking space because she didn't want to be cold. I digress, this is about rain. One afternoon, in heavy rain, I was just riding down the road, careful and slow when "WHAM!"; ol' Rosebud, my Kawasaki 1000P, was sliding on her side. Being a good little jockey, I was still firmly mounted to the saddle. I had no sensation of; "Whoa, I'm about to crash!" No; "Man, this is gonna be close!". For me it went like this, I was thinking to myself, "Golly, my face sure is getting wet. I wonder if that sandwich place WHAM!. This road hurts!" Too much front brake and a "tar snake" had worked together to teach me that painful lesson. After that bit of asphalt surfing, I was shy on the front brake in the rain. To a fault, I avoided the front brake. Today, I'm more gentle with the front brake in the rain, but gone is my phobia of using it.
I collected a nice piece of experience one evening by watching my buddy Bob make his way back to the precinct with his rain-soaked paperwork. I had made it in from my assignment and like a nervous son, I was standing in the shelter of the awning of the stoop of the precinct, looking out for Bob, worried that he'd gotten lost and I'd have to call "Elder Care" to go search for him. I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard the motor of Bob's Harley FXRP and laid eyes on his ancient form piloting that bike around the corner. WHAM! Bob slid gracefully across the parking lot toward empty parking spaces at the rain soaked mall. Who knew that reflective road paint would be that slick when at a steep lean angle in the rain? Well, after that night, Bob and I were well aware of the threat those cool directional arrows pose to motorcycles.
Stopped, facing up hill at a red traffic light, I was proudly riding next to my partner Robert (he was more like Ponch, I guess that made me John). Robert liked to play games with my rookie mind. The rain had just began as he revved the engine of his crime fighting steed. Instinctively, I revved back. The light turned green and like hundreds of times before, I dumped the clutch and grabbed a big handful of throttle that would have normally gotten my bike thundering down the road like a rocket, but this time it didn't go like a rocket. The bike started off the line like a cartoon character beginning to run. The rear wheel began to spin wildly and once coming in contact with the oil slick left by cars dripping oil for years, the bike changed form "rocket ship" to "bucking, spinning bronco". Yee Ha! The amazement and wonder (maybe terror) in faces of the drivers of the surrounding cars was not to be missed. For good measure, my bucking bronco allowed me to traverse all four corners of the intersection so I was sure to get a close look at all of them. Traffic stopped, waiting for the eventual carnage that would be the crash of the young motorcycle officer careening into the terrified crowd. As fate would have it, I rode her the full seven seconds, regained control and got to wear a new Motorcycle Rodeo belt buckle. Once back on an even keel and traffic returning to normal, I turned the bike in the direction Robert and I were headed. As he pulled alongside he said, "If you meant to do that, it was cool. If you didn't mean to do it, you are one lucky S.O.B." So, from that experience, other than learning that I can ride a bike with one hand waiving wildly in the air, I learned to be mindful of and avoid oil trails left by cars. I'm particularly vigilant when rain first starts, because that is when the oil that is stuck to the road begins to break loose making the road most slick.
As far as equipment goes, I've learned that cheap brings "discomfort distraction" which in itself is a hazard. "Go cheap and go home". Now, there are some inexpensive but well made motorcycle gear out there, that's not what I mean by cheap. I mean cheap in the sense of poorly made. You'll want to avoid the poorly made stuff and some of it can be pretty darned expensive. If you've ridden a motorcycle in the rain, no doubt you've felt that stream of water made it down your back and chilled you from the inside out. Worse still was the experience of the saddle full of water finally soaking through that poorly placed seam in the crotch of your rain pants. Wet face, wet feet or hands? Why would anyone want to ride a motorcycle in the rain? Well, to be frank, if you buy cheap rain gear and boots, you'll hate the rain. Make the investment and buy some good stuff. When I started riding in earnest a few years back, I had the cheap stuff. It was horrible. Rain soaked through the cheap stuff and held it in. I was more wet, hot and miserable than if I had just been riding "buck- nekked". Today, I spend the extra on the good stuff. Along with the bib style rain gear, dry gloves and waterproofed boots (I waterproofed them with some boot dry waterproofer that goes on like shoe polish, added despite the advertising claims of waterproof boots), I have a face shield that snaps onto my half dome helmet. Granted, a full face helmet makes the most sense in the rain, but usually I ride with a half-dome, I had to fin another answer. I found a good snap-on face shield with a visor and other than looking like an Olympic Luge participant, it's a sensible rig. I've learned to cut old towels (that my wife has cycled through the natural towel evolution process of "guest towels" to "family towels" to "dry-off-the-dog towels" to "Hawk-can-use-these-for-whatever-he-wants Towels") and make them into rain scarves. This prevents the rain from running through the neck of your rain gear and regardless of the design, let it rain hard enough and long enough, raingear without the rain scarf will let the rain in.
In the end, make sure you pack everything you'll need for the rain, good experience and training as well as gear that fits and is comfortable. Finally, for Pete's sake, if you have to ride a bucking motorcycle around an intersection, have the decency to waive "howdy" to everyone that is stopped!
Ride with
Pride!
~Hawk
Et Tu, Brute?
Julius Caesar was warned by a psychic that he would be murdered in the Ides of March. The Roman calendar referred to the middle of the month as the Ides. On March 15, 44 B.C., Julius Caesar joked to the psychic that the Ides of March were upon them. The psychic reminded Caesar that the Ides were not yet over. In the waning hours of the day, Julius Caesar was preparing to speak to the Roman Senate when a group of Senators rushed Caesar and stabbed him. His closest advisor and friend, Marcus Junius Brutis, or simply Brutus, literally stabbed Caesar in the back, mortally wounding him. As the blood rushed into Caesar's lungs, he uttered, "Et Tu Brute?"; translated : "You too, Brutus?" With the shame of knowing that his own friends had turned on him, Caesar died.
Whether or not Caesar deserved to die is still a point of contentious debate. He was a power hungry evil ruler who wanted to strip the Senate of power and become the self-appointed ruler of the Roman Empire as part of an absolute Monarchy or Dictatorship. This made the Senator's really mad, mad enough to kill. I'm sure you're thinking to yourself, "Great history lesson there, Hawk. What's your point and what on God's green earth does a murder in 44 BC have to do with riding a motorcycle?" Follow along and I'll try to explain.
The phrase, "Et Tu, Brute?", is used today to express surprise and dismay at the treachery of a supposed friend, or someone with which a common goal is shared. Such is often the case with motorcyclists. I find myself doing it, albeit in jest, like a brother giving a "nuggie" to his younger sibling.
In a recent conversation with a coworker and fellow biker, we had this exchange; pointing to my motorcycle, Brian said, "Man, nice hunk of plastic you got there, Hawk!" "Thanks bud. I really like your bike too. Do you own the entire clothing line that goes along with it?" Taking pot shots at each other is commonplace. In another "incident", I snuck into the garage of a good friend who had just bought a new Harley and was really proud of it. I poured 1/2 quart of oil on the floor under the new motorcycle. He spent hours trying to find the source of the leak. I spent hours laughing until my sides hurt. The next week, a pile of dry rice was in my garage, apparently having leaked from my bike's engine. Is this kind of fun ribbing bad for the motorcycle industry? I don't think so, but I do think that sometimes brand loyalty or motorcycle style loyalty (i.e.; cruiser vs. crotch rocket) goes a little far, maybe to the point of detracting from the sport and turning interested converts away from the Church of the Two-Wheeled Vehicle.
The universality of the experience of riding a motorcycle is what's really important. I have no prejudices for the motorcycle. If a bike is broke down on the side of the road, I'll stop to check on it. I don't care that it's an American bike and I only have metric tools. It might not be a matter of needing a 14mm wrench versus a 1/2 box end wrench, it might just be out-of-gas. The gas in my tank will fit just fine in an American, German, Chinese, Italian or even a Swedish made motorcycle. That's not to say that I don't judge the rider. To be sure, just as a porcupine has quills that warn other animals to stay away, we all try to read other riders for commonality. Are they in my club? Do they run in the same kind of packs I do? I usually break it down to how much trouble they look like to me. Sometimes the trouble is a good thing. A few years ago, John and I rode to Daytona Bike Week. I was stupid enough not to listen to him and brought my girlfriend with us. After hearing her refer to us as "animals" for several days, it was time to give her one last ride- TO THE AIRPORT! John was right, when acting like an animal, don't bring your girlfriend along. She judged us more by appearance than action. She complained that we were thugs. In actuality, we were a bunch of tea-totaling cops at a motorcycle rally to see what was new, smoke some cheap cigars and let our unbelievably short hair down. She never got it, but I got a new girlfriend! We had a great time after she left.
Riding a motorcycle is all pretty similar; the controls are relatively uniform these days, clutch on the left, brakes on the right, etc. The risks are exactly the same too; cars and trucks still think we are invisible and we risk life and limb just to run down to the corner market for a bite to eat. Don't you think we share too much for such a small percentage of the population to have class warfare? They say you shouldn't judge a book by the cover. The next time you see a "squid" (sportbiker who rides like a banshee), take the book of the shelf, open it and read a few pages, you might find an interesting chapter or two you can add to your book. But whatever you do, don't shiv the guy in the back, you might be turning someone away from riding.
Ride with
Pride!
~Hawk
Motorcycles create strange bedfellows
I couldn't make up these two examples if I tried. After last call at a honky tonk in Smyrna, Georgia, I had an octogenarian who has never ridden a motorcycle, climb aboard a Harley with me for her very first ride. Once a burly firefighter wearing a pink tank top, smoking a cigarette, rode on the back of my motorcycle on the back roads of Florida. Considering my humorous opinion of firefighters as "paid sleepers", who only work one day out of three and are not worth paying, the latter story is the more curious. Yes sir, Shawn the fireman and I took the back roads from Panama City Beach to Destin, FL in search of the coldest beer in the panhandle of Florida. We happened to find mighty cold beer at the Hooters, if you needed to know. How this came to pass is a yarn that will take a few minutes to explain, but it was the motorcycle that made it happen.
Considering that February is synonymous with all things love, you might assume from the title that this piece has something to do with an actual bed, thankfully, it does not. Bedfellows, metaphorically, not literally means an associate, somebody or something paired or allied with another person or thing. One usually hears the phrase "strange bedfellows" and can conjure up an image of two politicians on opposite sides of the political fence getting together for one particular cause. The merging of former Presidents Bush and Clinton in their effort to raise money for tsunami relief is one of the most glaring examples of "politics create strange bedfellows". I would argue that the universal appeal of the motorcycle mixes things up far more than mere politics. Follow along and you'll see what I mean.
As a military veteran and police officer, I have attended more funerals than a man of my age should. One such funeral was held in New York for a good friend who had been killed as part of a SWAT operation to free a woman who had been taken hostage by her deranged son. Steve Gilner had moved his wife from their families in Long Island, NY, down to Metro Atlanta, because he felt this was where he should be. He was a great man, friend, father and husband; but this not really about him, rather it's about the friendships that were born out of his untimely death.
If you've never seen one, Police Officer funerals are filled with pomp and circumstance. To start, there is usually a long motorcade of police motorcycles escorting the fallen officer's family and another of the hearse and perhaps another for dignitaries. Of course, the service is huge, hundreds usually attend, with buglers, bagpipers, singers, politicians, and all sorts. Considering that Long Island is a long way from Metro Atlanta, it was going to be difficult for many of the Steve's fellow officers to attend, but then an airline in Atlanta gave seats to officers "as many as you guys need". The jet full of mourning officer (myself included) was escorted by police cars and ramp workers to the end of the runway. Crisp salutes could be seen from the tiny, plastic windows. Not a soul spoke as the metal bird lifted into the sky, bound for New York. Once in New York, mourning officers were greeted by our northern brothers and despite a small language barrier (I mean to say that New York cops really sound like they are from New York, ya know?). We were loaded onto city busses that had been "commandeered" by local officers and driven, with police escort, to a small town, with an unpronounceable native American name, near the tip of Long Island. About seventy of us were unloaded from the busses and treated to great Northern Hospitality at a local firehouse. Citizens and off-duty firemen came to bring us food and well wishes. We were stunned at their generosity. All too soon, it was time to get back on the busses and head to the church for for funeral service.
After about a five minute bus ride, we arrived at a large church that had not a single car in the parking lot. A sea of blue uniforms filled the empty parking spaces. They stood tall and proud, unyielding to the heavy breeze. There was room saved for those of us who had traveled from Atlanta. We lined up and tried to match their unwavering stance. The busses left. The smoke from their engines quickly dissipated in the breeze, leaving behind the surreal scene of hundreds of officers standing silent and motionless in a parking lot. Even the birds were quiet. Off in the distance, there was a gentle roar. It sounded like an approaching storm. Louder and louder it came. It was a steady sound, unyielding and unwavering. People who claim to have died and come back to life tell of hearing the sound of angels wings flapping, and that sound becoming increasing loud as they near the bright light that awaited them in the after life. Perhaps for Steve, he was hearing what we heard. Because I had served on the motorcycle squad for years, I knew the sound well. Just before Steve was killed, I was moved into an undercover position, which I loved, but it took me from my friends of the motorcycle squad; and as I could hear the approaching sounds of their motorcycles, I yearned to be one of them, but that chapter of my life had been written, published and not open for editing.
As the sound drew near, heads that had been held motionless for an undeterminable amount of time began to snap to the side to see the approach of the motorcade. The thunder of their engines reverberated in our chests like artillery. The motorcycles leading the procession were from Steve's own police department in metro Atlanta. How could that be? I beamed with pride as my friends on the motor squad rode past, just feet from me. Motorcycles from other police departments followed. The funeral and burial service followed.
After the service, we were escorted back to our waiting jet liner and flown back to Atlanta. It was then I heard the story of the generosity of the firefighter. Shawn and a close friend owned a controlling interest in a small trucking company (like a one truck, two dudes trucking company). When Shawn and his buddy heard of Steve's tragic death, they offered to help in the only way they could. They would take no money for it, but wanted to load the police bikes into the back of his big rig and drive from Atlanta to New York. The motor squad and all officers in attendance had a debt of gratitude to these firefighters.
Later that year, a group of police officers went down to Panama City Beach for our annual quest for debauchery. In appreciation for what they had done for Steve and the motor squad, we invited the firefighters along for the fun. Despite being firefighters, we actually got along pretty well. One afternoon, a group of us were getting ready to head out for a ride in search for cold beer. Firefighter Shawn wanted to ride along, but had no bike. Onto mine he climbed. That's the only explanation I can give for being ok with a guy wearing a pink tank top, smoking a cigarette, riding "bitch" on the seat of my motorcycle that is normally reserved for my lovely (and not at all bitchy) wife Lisa.
This month, offer a ride to an unlikely passenger. Who knows, you might convert them from cage driver to two wheeled commuter!
Ride with
Pride!
~Hawk
Annual Predictions for Motorcyclists
It's about this time every year some talking head thrills us with the predictions for what the New Year will bring. The result of most of these predictions is a humorous commentary of the inaccuracy of the the talking heads. That said, I'll wade into the cool clean waters of the future of motorcycling and make some predictions for 2008. I only hope that most of you will still be laughing on the morning that will greet 2009!
Predictions for 2008:
Gas prices will soar to a national average of $4.25.
The motorcycling community will grow by 19%. Many metropolitan "bikers" are attracted to the sport due to the great gas mileage of scooters and small motorcycles; they get caught up in the fun and buy more, larger motorcycles to travel and see the country.
1/4 to 1/3 of you will buy another motorcycle. You won't necessarily be a new one, just new to you.
Annual rallies like Sturgis, Americade, and Daytona Bike Week get overrun with Vespa riding 25-year old girls.
Motorcycle companies will become motorcycle companies again and focus their efforts on producing high quality motorcycles, not just cool leather gear with plenty of trademarked symbols stamped on them. On the flipside, boot companies will make boots, glove companies will make gloves... oh, you get the idea.
We will see new power sources for motorcycles. Hybrid and Hydrogen powered bikes will appear with some frequency, but they will still be in the prototype phase. You'll be able to pick up your hydrogen powered bike in 2010.
GPS systems will burp due to solar disturbances, causing many riders to venture out the way their daddy's once did; with cash, a map and some tools.
Membership in motorcycle clubs like HSTA, HOG will peak in June as more riders meet the sport and seek camaraderie of others who have ridden longer.
You will see nine states this year from the saddle of you motorcycle (and wish you have seen 41 more and some of Canada and Mexico).
Motorcycle laws relating to helmets and other safety equipment will begin to find new prominence in State Legislatures as more motorcycle vs. automobile crashes occur. The battle between the motorcycle safety geeks and the helmetless free spirits hits such a fever pitch that it nearly causes lawmakers to outlaw motorcycles all together, but the attempt is diverted by the astronomically high price of fuel and superb fuel economy of our cruisers.
I will run over an alligator and live to tell the tale (no pun intended).
We all have hopes and aspirations for 2008. It's my hope that brand loyalty will give way to motorcycle loyalty and riders of all stripes and abilities welcome each other onto the asphalt ribbon. If you see me trying to curl the ribbon, be sure to drop me a hand and wave. Have a great 2008!
Ride with
Pride!
~Hawk
Giving and The Art of Riding the Desk
Tis the season, TO GO RIDE YOUR BIKE FOR CHARITY! Unless there's snow on the ground, it is a statistical probability that you will join hundreds of thousands of lucky motorcyclists that get to ride through the chilly December spread Christmas Cheer. Motorcyclists give more to charity (in time, money, and gifts) than any other type of sportsman or social group. It seems that at every meeting I have attended, there is a raffle of some kind. Favorite fund raisers are 50/50 drawing and the door prize drawing for which you buy a ticket to win a trinket that has been donated. The money is given to local shelters, orphanages, feed the hungry programs, neighbors in distress, cancer research groups, all kinds of places. More often than not, I've seen the winner of the 50/50 drawing (who won 1/2 of the total take of the money raised) roll the winnings back to the charity. There's no question, we bikers are givers. We live to ride and we love to ride for a reason. As an example, the Patriot Guard are a group of riders who ride to show their support and respect for the families of fallen soldiers. Given a mission and a reason to ride, they are saddled up and ready to go. Another well known ride with a purpose is held in the spring and summer of each year. Rides are scheduled all over the country in support of the Pediatric Brain Tumor Foundation- the Ride for Kids (www.rideforkids.org). It seems though, that in December, the charity ride of choice is Toys for Tots(www.toysfortots.org ). This charity strums the heartstrings of bikers everywhere. It hits our Patriotic chord because it's operated by the brave men and women of the US Marine Corps and strums the string of that opens our wallets for needy local children.
I wonder why motorcyclists lead in giving? I think it's because we are a lucky bunch and know it. The freedom of riding with friends or alone is a thrill. Maybe it has something to do with the inherent danger of the road that sets us apart by thinking beyond ourselves. I don't know for sure, but I'm damn proud of our huge fraternity.
This holiday season, head down to the local motorcycle shop and see what is to be seen on a Toys for Tots ride or fundraiser. Give. Be generous; as my Grandma Gertie used to say, "Money's money and all we get is older!"
So what if you fall into the category of, "There's snow on the ground and I'm not moving my bike for anyone"? You can give online and "Ride the Desk" like I have had to do on occasion. As everyone knows, if you're not riding your bike for some time, it's important to start her up every so often to keep the carbs from gumming up. The same can be said of the blood of the biker. You have to get into riding at least once a week, if only in your mind. Now, before you think that old Hawk has slipped off to "existential philosophy land", don't bet on it. What I mean by "get into riding" can be as simple as browsing one of the hundreds of motorcycle parts and accessory catalogues, to the complexity of taking a motorcycle maintenance course at the local community college. If you can't physically ride, ride in spirit.
Last year, I rode around the world with Jim Rogers and his girlfriend Tabitha by rereading his book, Investment Biker. You might need to study the classic, Zen ad the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Persig, or follow Christopher Baker through Cuba in Mi Moto Fidel. Grab a motorcycle magazine from the local grocery store. The choices of what to read are as vast as what brand or bike to ride. Just like the bike, it matters more that you ride versus what you ride. If you are snowed in, keep riding, and if you can't get your bike over the snow bank, ride that desk!
Ride with
Pride!
~Hawk
Before
WW II -the war to end all wars- there were hundreds of motorcycle shops in
the U.S. creating their own brand of motorcycles. Sure, they all looked
similar, two wheels, engine in the middle, a seat and some lights; but each
bike had the unique touches of the shop proprietor. Something as simple to
how the gas tank was attached to the frame changed from shop to shop.
Because the throttle, brake and shifter locations and operation were not
standard on any bike, you would never ride a "buddy's bike". Because of the
lack of standardization of control placement and operation, it would take
weeks to acclimate a rider to a new bike. Sometimes, in an effort to reduce
this acclimation time, shop owners would place the controls to the
customer's demands or preferences. Then that big war broke out on the other
side of the pond.
Generals leading the fight overseas knew that they needed equipment for their soldiers and it all had to be high quality and simple to use. Standardization was born. From the C 17s that dropped the first soldiers behind enemy lines on D Day to the boots on their feet, everything was made to one specification. That way, any soldier who was trained to use a particular piece of equipment could use it from any source. This led to soldiers to frequently "commandeer" equipment from one another. A good example of this were the pool cars and early jeeps, if they used a key in the door or the ignition (many did not) ANY KEY for that model would work. To prevent "commandeering" of the General's cars, their drivers attached pad locks to the outside of the doors.
Motorcycle standardization was born during this era as well. Back home, stateside, the small shops gave way to the big manufacturers who could produce hundreds of the same bike in a single day. Same color, same equipment, with interchangeable parts. For the most part, throttles were put on the right, shifters on the left foot or left side of the tank and brakes on the right foot. Only two companies made motorcycles for U.S. soldiers, Harley and Indian. They were faster than horses, didn't need to be fed as often and were highly maneuverable. That's not to say that everything was the same, different missions made some modifications necessary.
One of the more interesting modifications was the introduction of a shaft drive, sideways mounted engine on the Harley for the North African Desert campaigns. The "Rat Patrols" would frequently capture German equipment after battles. Two motorcycles that particularly interested them were the BMW and Moto Guzzi. For the Nazis, their bikes had side mounted engines and shaft drives. To this day, Moto Guzzi is known for it's side mounted engine. In the desert of North Africa, chains would quickly get fouled by sand and dust, whereas the shaft drive remained sealed and operational. A side mounted, air cooled engine would stay cool in the desert because both cylinders would benefit from the air passing over them, whereas the standard mounted engine put one cylinder in front of the other. This caused the second cylinder to suffer from excessive and early wear due to heat. Harley and Indian answered the call from the Rat Patrols and made bikes with shaft drives and side mounted engines, but I think it was Harley that put it into production.
After freeing Europe from the yoke of oppression and death that was the Nazis; soldiers and airmen came home from seeing unbearable things in battle to peaceful white picket fences and suburban living. Gone was the excitement of battle and camaraderie that is made in the face of adversity. Jobs were scarce and for the first time, men were competing with women in the work place. Some of our soldiers and airmen didn't "blend" with what many saw as the new picture of the American Dream. They craved excitement and adventure. Motorcycles were then as they are now generally less expensive than cars and hey, they already had leather jackets. The leather coats worn by airmen in the unpressurized C 17s and other cold bombers and aircraft protected riders from wind, rain and even the occasional scrape of asphalt. The bomber jacket became the biker jacket. Groups of doughboys would gather to ride to see the sights. Some would boast of their exploits in the war, measuring the fighting prowess of one military unit over another. This would frequently lead to disagreement and often not polite disagreement. The biker fight was born, which led to the biker club (so everyone would know on whose side you stood) and that led to brand specific clubs that exist today.
Things began to change and evolve. Not all soldiers came home and joined a biker gang, some rode with friends and never fought again. Today, the same mix of clubs and gangs can be seen everywhere. Gone are the reasons most gangs and clubs started, but new feelings and directions have boiled to the surface. We've seen the return of the custom motorcycle shop. You can have a bike built to your own specifications (within the constraints of safety), gone is the near monopoly held by the two U.S. motorcycle manufacturers. And that American Dream? It's changed too. White picket fence, a dog and 2.3 kids, "No thanks." most say. Today's American Dream is synonymous with adventure, the need to explore, get some excitement.
For the uninformed, motorcyclists are a dangerous lot. We look mean in our black jackets or brightly colored racing leathers. To the white picket fence crowd, we're odd. We crave the road and the adventure of what lies around the next bend. We have a debt of thanks to pay to those who have gone before us, who helped shape the motorcycles we ride and the clothes on our backs. To repay them, we ride. To repay those who died for the freedom of the world, go ride, pay your debt, show the non riding world what riding free is really like. Ladies and Gentlemen, start your engines and start your adventure!
Ride with
Pride!
~Hawk
Post Script- After I wrote this, two things struck me. I am a veteran. My adventure was in the Coast Guard, swimming in turbulent waters to cheat the sea of those she wished to claim and wrestling drug smugglers for their illegal cargo. When I returned home, I bought a motorcycle. The other observation is that in my garage, there is a Suzuki 750 belonging to my daughter's boyfriend. He's entrusted me to start it and ride it while he's gone. Like the doughboys in the past, he's a soldier, fighting for us over in Iraq. I guess the more things change, the more they remain the same. Good Luck Pete and keep a weather eye out.
On a brisk October evening,
I found myself standing around the warm community campfire of the Blue Ridge
Motorcycle Campground in Cruso, NC. Riders from all over the country were
sharing their "road lies" and each tale was growing taller as the evening
progressed. I continued to listen intently for a good story, believable or
not, they interested me. One rider stood and spoke of a near miss with
a truck in a tunnel on the Parkway. Another rider, seeming to want to top
the previous story, told a tale of how a patch of leaves on the asphalt
nearly took his bike away. Another bared his right thigh to expose a large
scar he received courtesy of an inattentive SUV driver. Then, as if to trump
all of our scary stories, a rider stood and retold the story that had bee
n
coasting around the internet about the biker who went 175 mph on his new
rocket bike and got impaled on a telephone pole. He described the gruesome
photos of what appeared to be ground beef in a motorcycle helmet.
Collectively, the members of the campfire road liar association gasped. How
horrific! The rider retold another, "How about the one where the rider hits
the back of the semi so hard that his helmet gets stuck in the cargo door
rear door of the semi, only to be dragged to his death?" Spooky! As
the fire began to burn down, the shadows of the riders 'round the campfire
stretched across the campground and into the trees. It was a great scene.
I bid my newfound friends adieu and climbed into cool but comfortable confines of my tent and sleeping bag. The scents and stories reminded me of my Boy Scouting days. As scouts, we would tell scary stories around campfires with the specific goal of trying to scare the tears out of the rookie Tenderfoot scouts. There was one campfire story that usually got the job done. It was the tale of the young couple who picked up the hitchhiker who turned out to be an escaped prisoner with a hook for a hand, and somehow at the end of the story, the hook got stuck in the sheet metal of the passenger door and the prisoner with a nub was parading around the woods ( as coincidence would have it) near our campsite. I can't remember the specifics, but I'm sure that any Boy Scout or Girl Scout would be happy to retell it in exchange for the purchase of cookies or popcorn. As a young scout, I would listen to the campfire tales and return to my pup tent. Once inside, my mind would race, "parading the horribles" as my Dad would say. I would imagine the worst scenarios involving a one-handed escapee and then how to be victorious in each situation. I would only sleep when I had won each scenario and saved the lads from certain death. It was a huge responsibility that fell to an 11 year old. In the motorcycle campground, amid the occasional beam of twisting headlights and rumble of late arrivals, I continued the tradition of parading the horribles. Sleep came as the sun rose.
The problem with solving "the horribles" of the really scary and gruesome motorcycle tales is that these scenarios are nearly always self inflicted. Too fast, too dumb. As a police officer, I've seen first hand the effects of "too fast, too dumb." If you are like me, you're not fond of cars and trucks. Sure, I own a couple of each, but I'd rather ride my bike in anything but snow than be relegated to the confines of the cage. When I'm left in charge of the universe (remain comforted my fellow rider, I actually have no political aspirations), we'll have interstates and air lanes to move commerce, leaving surface streets the exclusive domain of motorcycles and scooters. With the recent sharp rise in gas prices, popularity of motocommuting has grown. It seems my evil plan for two-wheeled domination of the roadways may be working. However, some non riders hear our super scary road tales and cower away from our campfire. They recoil from motorcycling and return to the comfort and safety of their cages. Reminding them that the stories about too fast and too dumb are more caused by personal choice than freak accidents amy assuage some of the retreats, but we're called to do more.
For October, I will try to not make the Tenderfoot cry, instead, I will "up sell" our great sport by countering every scary story with a story of discovery of beautiful asphalt, a great diner along a cool stream or an attempt to describe the scent of fresh air at an overlook found along a blue highway. I'll tell some great road tales, but not the scary ones. I'll tell of the Honeymoon Adventure my wife and I had; a motorcycle adventure gone wild and great having ridden from Atlanta to Seattle and back for our Honeymoon. For me, the stories won't be of too fast and too dumb, it will be of the great adventure that awaits my listener, 'round the next bend. I hope you'll do the same.
Ride with
Pride!
~Hawk
March 2007
freaks and geeks, all riders, all types
With Daytona Bike Week in mind, my eyes recall the wild
riders I've seen over the years. My eyes have observed
felons and cops, strippers and nuns, business tycoons
and blue collar workers, all sharing the same road and
rides. What makes riders what they are? The answer is simple
really, life makes people what they are. What they saw,
experienced, how it effected them, makes them who they
are today. Freaks and Geeks. At the end of the day, it 
doesn't
really matter which side of that fence you fall on, it's
important that you are on the riding side of the fence.
Over the years that I've ridden, I've observed that there are literally dozens of major motorcycle manufacturers in the world, building bikes that range from scooters to trail riders, custom cruisers to crotch rockets. The sole common denominator of all types and brand of bike is that somebody, somewhere likes to ride it. Some riders are nerdy, some have the coolness of the Fonz. Maybe I just slipped into your definition of nerd for mentioning the Fonz, at least I didn't write, "Cool as Dungeons and Dragons level 7." I digress. Since riders are as diverse as bikes, why do some riders judge others by the bike they ride? Another question, what makes a rider "cool". I found my answer to these questions. Let's see if you agree.
To make a quick assessment of a rider, I glance over at their odometer. If the rider looks pretty, just left the shop with all the gear of the same brand name of their bike and there is low mileage, I might just have a nerd on my hands. That's not to call brand loyalty nerdy, no sir. Brand loyalty is a good thing. Different brands of bikes give us different choices of rides. Some people have settled on one style of riding and one model. That's fine for them, seems a bit narrow-minded, but who am I to judge? I've observed that the most ravenously brand loyal people ride one type of bike, and ride exclusively with people who ride that type of bike. They oft can be heard noting that that to be "cool" you must ride an Aprilia (or insert the name of any other brand here) and take offense when anyone who is short-sighted enough to ride something other than an Aprilia enjoys the comfort , fit and style of the Aprilia racing leathers. "I mean really, who would ride a JAWA with a red Aprilia jacket?" We've found a herd of nerd, but take heart, it's o.k. to be a nerd. I recently spoke to a HOG chapter and they were decidedly unnerdy. Not just because they rode Harleys, but because they were good riders. They didn't suffer from the mindless exclusivity that permeates some brand clubs.
The cool riders tend to withhold judgment on the nerd/cool question until they ride with someone. The nerds don't ride well. They have a hard time keeping their bikes upright; falling in parking lots and sliding off the road and speeds Capt. Kirk would be proud of. Excuses abound for nerds, like the kid who doesn't turn in homework. "There was an oily spot in the road. My carb has a flat spot and I just can't chop the throttle in that range. While turning in the parking lot, the bike just sputtered and died, so I fell down." Falling and crashing never seems to be the fault of the nerd. However, crashing doesn't necessarily make you a nerd. One of the coolest guys I know has owned dozens of motorcycles over the years and I swear if he had to buy tires for a bike without crashing it, there was national day of celebration. What separated him from the herd of nerd was that he was honest in his assessment of his riding ability, he knew that he didn't do well riding fast, and after a crash would remark, "Well, that was stupid." While this might not sound "cool", it is. Nerds can't face their own shortfalls, which might explain why they travel as herds of nerds. Sort of a traveling group therapy session, there to lift you up if you suddenly feel uncool. You wanna be cool and not nerdy? Rack up some twisty road miles of your bike without having to replace body panels due to asphalt surfing.
For me, I don't care what you ride. What kind of engine, or what it looks like, doesn't make you a freak or a geek. To tell you the truth, I'm not even sure if I'm a freak or a geek, but I'm 100% certain that I could care less. I think that separates the nerd from the herd. What I care about is that I ride, I ride far and I ride well. Maybe that makes me some kind of road geek, well, o.k., I'll take that. Oh, the Harley Twins (photo above) I met at the South East Police Motorcycle Competition were unquestionably cool, or were they hot? I'm not sure if there's really a difference for them, regardless they make me feel cool, if only for a minute.
Returning from Bike Week, give a wave to the super cool biker that is towing his $70,000 bike behind his $45,000 truck and hope against hope that someday he really learns to ride it. Maybe the sight of you bravely riding your JAWA wearing your Aprilia jacket will stir him into learning to ride that nice bike of his. If you have the chance to overhear a "truck biker" refer to you as a Geek, take heart, if a guy in a pick up truck towing a motorcycle thinks you are a nerd, you are probably painfully cool. Start a revolution and ride!
Until Next Month,
February 2007
On cold weather riding
Well, in HOTlanta, February started pretty cold. Which caused me to recall the hazards of cold weather riding and how to overcome those hazards. I’ll share these and hopefully, not offend your motorcycling intelligence.
My first real experience with cold weather was as an enlisted man in the US Coast Guard. My thought was that I could serve my country and live on or at least near a beach. That worked well for me for the first three years of my enlistment, I was stationed in Key West. Then, I was transferred to and Ice Breaker and sent down to Antarctica. While conducting a census of an Adele penguin rookery “and ma’am how many penguins share this rock?”, it came to me, "U.S. Coast" was in the name of the service I was in and I was no where near the U.S. Coast. Oh and it was cold. It got up to a balmy 18 degrees Fahrenheit. You’d think that the story of an Antarctic deployment would be the pinnacle of cold weather experience. No, that came in July, of 1998, unfortunately on my honeymoon.
My wife
and I had agreed that we would celebrate our nuptials by
taking a cross-country motorcycle adventure from
Atlanta, Georgia to Port Townsend, Washington (and
back). Convinced
that motorcycles are the bane of the highways, my mother
in law was non-plussed with the concept. It was a great
trip. We rode on the two lane ribbons of asphalt that
snake their way across the country in a slow tango. We
had little schedule, we kept to our personal desire to
keep riding or stop for a while. Only two destinations
had deadlines, Jackson Hole, Wyoming and Port Townsend,
Washington. We had reservations in Port Townsend and
friends waiting for us in Jackson Hole. To make Jackson
Hole, we had to keep riding despite our discomfort and
lack of sunshine. (We choose to ride during daylight, so
we could see the countryside, night time was the time to
well, er, do what newlywed couples do). Leaning our
motorcycle up the curves of the Eastern side of the
Rockies, our elevation changed quickly and drastically.
Signs warned us to watch for caribou, elk, free-range
cattle and snowmobiles. Anytime you are riding a
motorcycle and see a warning sign about snowmobiles,
you’re in a cold place. So, two o’clock in the
morning, been riding for 16 hours and now we’re cold.
I was cold to the point of distraction. Snow was piled
up on the sides of the road and we were wearing
everything we had brought. It wasn’t a pretty sight,
but we made it and I’m happy to report that Lisa and I
are still married. We laugh now of that cold and
miserable night. Discomfort. I was a real man, a real
stupid man! Don’t get your machismo between you
and safe riding.
Hyperthermia Cold Riding = Drunk Riding. First sign, cold hands, pain, then cold feet, pain. Once the pain stops and the numbness has set in, you’re in hypothermia. Your body begins to redirect warm blood away from fingers and toes to critical organs like your liver, kidney and heart, yes it still sends blood to the brain, but even that is somewhat restricted. So once your feet and hands go numb, watch your attitude. Stop for a break when you get giddy. With blood being redirected from your extremities and your head beginning to cool, your ability to make decisions will fade fast. With numb fingers and toes, feathering the clutch and throttle become a chore and shifting with a foot that can’t feel the shifter is an obvious problem.
Wind Chill
A 60 mph wind blast in temps below 40 is like standing on a Chicago city street in your boxer shorts in January. We have to protect ourselves from the wind. What works?
Good Gear
Our momma wasn’t crazy when she told us to layer your winter attire, but flexible layers, we don’t want to be the Michelin Man. Warm, but unable to see, hear or react to the road is useless. As a general rule, if what you are wearing is flexible enough to swim in, it’s flexible enough to wear while riding.
Leather, Cowhide has been used for hundreds of years in the states, and animal hide has been used since the time of chro magna man. Today, we have evolved to the Chrome Magna Wheel Man but still wear animal hides for all the reasons of our distant, ancient cousins. Leather protects us from the weather, it provides some crashworthiness and it impresses the opposite sex. If you’ve ever surfed the asphalt, it feels much nicer to rub off a layer of two of cowhide than a layer of your own hide.
To be all those things, make sure your leather is motorcycle specific. I like the cool bomber jackets as much as the next guy. Laugh if you must, but the sight of a twenty-something Tom Cruise wrapped in his bomber jacket is a present most of our wives would fight to unwrap. The days of my Top Gun, Tom Cruise imitations are over but I still own the bomber jacket. I’ve observed that the zipper in the front serves and a very effective vent, allowing the cold windblast to light on my chest. Which is fine for summer riding, it allows cool air to hit me mid chest, keeping my core body temperature down. In winter, it’s a sure way to get miserable fast.
Close that gap with a biker jacket, not a designer biker jacket, but a real one, with thick leather and an overlapping flap. That flap stops the cold air invaders in their tracks. Another thing to consider is your raingear.
My buddy, Tommy, who is dangerously too crazy to ride sport bikes, but wealthy enough to afford a few of the little road demons, has all the best summer riding gear. He leaves the house all leathered up. From head to toe, Tommy looks like he just left Road Atlanta aboard his Kawasaki painted like the Camel team’s crotch rocket. His gear is colorful and vented. So, riding in the summer time can be done safely and he doesn’t overheat. Unfortunately, those vents allow cool air to permeate his body on the dark rides home, because riding with me, we never make it home when we promised our wives “I swear, it’ll be a short ride, we’ll be home before dinner.” My wife responds, “Yeah, dinner on Tuesday, have a nice weekend, Hawk.” My wife is wise. On more than one occasion, I’ve loaned Tommy my raingear to wear as a windbreaker. Versatile gear is good.
Boots and socks. Wool keeps its insulating properties even when wet. If you’ve ever ridden with wet cotton socks, you’ve learned that cotton is really only comfortable when dry and warm. Rain boots to cover your riding boots serve as a windbreaker for your feet. Extra layer of wind protection and you can tuck your jeans into the rubbers, with your chaps outside the rubbers, keeps the wind from crawling up your legs. Also, tucking in your jeans to the top of your boots will do the same thing. Does it look silly? Maybe, but with your super cool guy looking chaps on, they won’t see that your jeans are tucked into your boots anyway. And you’ll be warm.
Chaps? You bet. Crashworthiness, and protection from the wind.
Gloves. Glove liners. Like socks for the hands. Harder to find, (army/navy store), but equally important. Gloves that restrict your hands and make clutch feathering difficult are useless. I sometimes wear summer weight summer gloves over wool glove liners. Once it’s too cold for that, you’d better have some thicker gloves that have a gauntlet. The gauntlet is that long part of the glove that covers the cuff of your leather jacket. If you keep the cuff of your jacket uncovered, not only will you get a cold windblast up your sleeve, it will puff up your jacket to make you look like the Incredible Hulk.
Heated Gloves? Two answers, if you frequently ride in the cold or ride up north in the cold, buy the heated gloves with the thermostat. If you occasionally ride in the cold and want the benefits of heated gloves, spend $1 at Home Depot for disposable pocket warmers. These things begin to heat once exposed to the air. Put them in your gloves and ride on. Just make sure that they don’t restrict your movement.
Face- Cover your face with a scarf (I use a wool one) or a full face helmet. If you look like a Bandit from the old west, you’ve got the idea. Just like the cowboys did, cover your face for protection from the cold air, dust and bugs that seem to seek out those of us who are “real men” riding without windshields.
Here’s the secret tip of the night- two words- Udder Balm, sometimes available as Vermont Bag Balm. Farmers use this stuff to rub on the teats of their dairy cattle to prevent chapping of that sensitive area. I use it on my face and I can attest that no, you won’t grow teats on your face if you use it. It will prevent the premature leathering of your skin. When I was younger, I wanted to look older, so I didn’t use the stuff, now that I’m older I’m preaching the effectiveness of Udder Balm to anyone who might listen. Chapstick, carmex, blistex or any other kind of barrier for your lips are a must in cold weather. I carry a stick or two on the bike and in my pocket. I use the sticks because even if it looks a bit sissy to be applying lip stick, the tiny drums of carmex and blistex require you to use your finger to apply it. Stopped at a red light which I know from studying Murphy’s Laws will turn green at an inopportune moment, removing my hand from a glove to apply “manly lip balm” is just a waste of effort. Lip balm is not just for kissing sake either. I love Mexican food, but there are certain spices I just don’t enjoy with cracked lips, so for the sake of your love for hot wings and spicy cheese dip, wear some chap stick.
Helmet
vents. No brainer, but I’ve seen experienced riders
(me) suddenly feel a cold chill in the head (or worse
still is the moist stream of water from a rain) by not
taking the simple step of closing the vents of the
helmet.
Road hazards
Shady spots on the roadway, bridges tunnel entrances, and mysterious places in the road where water passes under roadway (like in a storm drain). Lane placement-Motorcyclists get to choose between three places in the lane, left, middle and right. The middle can be treacherous, in the wintertime, the tracks of the cages on the road tend to keep the left and right sides of the lane clear and warm, leaving in the center a small mound of snow, ice, oil gravel and road salt. About the gravel and road salt. Those two have the coefficient of friction (that little thing that keeps our tire on the road when we’re riding along) of goose guano. Also be aware of ice and snow “ridges” in the center of the road.
Debris to think about; fallen trees and the like are also a hazard.
Your bike.
Generally, your motorcycle will love cold weather. You will find better gas mileage in the cold weather, but might have to let it warm up or choke a bit more than you are accustomed to. The carburetors and fuel injectors of most bikes are close enough to the cylinders to keep them warm and prevent the fuel flow from being disrupted by the minute amounts of water that naturally find their way into the fuel system. ONE big concern- YOUR TIRE PRESSURE. As the temperatures go down, so does your o your tire pressure. Harley designed the motorcycle to perform optimally with a tire pressure of 38 psi. On a cold morning, you can expect your tire pressure to have dropped to the low 20 psi (No, you don’t have a leak, colder air is less dense, so it takes up less space in the tire and pressure drops.). If you were to fill your cold tire to 38 psi and then ride on a warm road for an hour, you might find your tire pressure had increased to the lower 40s psi. Tire pressure maintenance is a bit of a dance in the wintertime. For my bike, I ride with 38-40 psi and I’ve learned that in the morning, my pressure can be as low as 27 psi. I just ride carefully until the tires warm up and then I check them again.
Motorcycle racers use soft rubber tires, and still require a couple of laps to “warm up” their tires. Super Kong-Grip racing tires don’t last long. We road riders use much harder tires, designed to grip the road, and are designed to last 10,000 miles or so. Do you think it’s important for us to warm up our tires? You bet.
Go or No Go? Why leave when you know that bad weather is coming? I don’t mean rain, a little rain just makes us wet, but snow or ice storm? Why go? What to do if you are out of town and weather closes in? Towing services from a remote mountain town back to your home can be expensive, but one-way u-hauls are cheap by comparison. Stop by Wally World, buy some straps, ride your bike into the back of the u-haul and drive home.
Regardless of the gear you wear, you will lose warmth. Using heated gloves, socks and vests will increase your cold weather durability. Are you riding that bike just to ride, or do you want to see the sights and meet the locals? Get of the bike and have a cup of coffee in that funky little diner and try to learn from the waitress what makes Bryson City, North Carolina a good place to visit. You’ll warm your body core and might just meet someone who has been on the “fence” about buying a motorcycle and another converted biker means one fewer car on the road to kill us.
So, how’s your cold weather riding? Do you layer like the Michelin man, or are you flexible.
Until Next Month,
January 2007
Now, where did I put that new year's resolution?
At the end of every year, riders tend to reflect back on their days of riding and recount all the great road tales we've earned. Last year, I rode in Maui and most of the southeast mainland U.S. Do I long to do some more riding? You bet, so here's my New Years Resolutions for 2007. Ride More and have more riding buddies.
We can all say we'd like to ride more, but the braini