They say confession is good for the soul, so this seemed like
the proper day, with the rally folks in town, to make this one.
I’m a biker wannabe.
They say confession is good for the soul, so this seemed like the proper day, with the rally folks in town, to make this one.
I’m a biker wannabe.
The romance of the cruiser, of the open road, caught up with me two years ago. At first I figured it was just a midlife crisis, so I fought it. I’d be damned, I thought, if I was going to allow myself to succumb to such a cheap cliche.
But it wouldn’t leave me alone.
One day it caught me in a moment of weakness, and I took the first steps to satisfying my budding bikelust. I signed up for the Safe Rider course, not because I thought I needed it (although I did), but because it was an easy way to get past the riding test required by the DMV. After the weekend course I took the written and got licensed.
I started looking into buying a bike, astonished at first at the how makers seem to have built a bike to suit any craving. But I let it slide, and only started thinking seriously about it again a few months ago.
A few weeks ago I came pretty close to buying one. That’s when the battle for my biker soul broke out.
My friend Dean, who lives in Santa Cruz, rides fast bikes, although he prefers the sit-up-and-beg style to crotch rockets. He recently traded in his Suzuki Bandit for a Yamaha Somethingorother, and has since been busily tweaking the engine and carburetor to extract every last ounce of horsepower out of it.
He’s one of those guys who gets out on the highway to Death Valley once a year and cranks the thing up to a million miles an hour, at which speed I’m pretty sure Einstein hypothesized that time begins to run backward.
When I told him I was thinking about buying a bike, he was happy for me, adopted a big-brotherly tone, and made a number of recommendations about what kind of bike would be good for me.
Then I told him I wanted a cruiser. He sneered, and his face grew dark.
“Not, for God’s sake, a” he choked, “Harley” – or words to that effect.
“You don’t like Harleys?” I asked. I pick up stuff pretty quick.
“Underpowered, loud, slow. Can’t drive ’em fast ’cause they’ll shake to pieces.” Those were the things he said that can be printed in a family newspaper. It was pretty much downhill from there.
Clearly, buying a Harley risked my friendship with Dean. Despite his advice, I still wanted a cruiser, even though they say it’ll just give me back problems. I looked at Shadows and Intruders – Japanese bikes, the kind Harley riders sneer at.
When I moved to Hollister recently, I learned something else, a kind of special connection between Hollister and Harleys. I think there’s some sort of municipal code against owning any other kind of bike in this town.
So now, Dean’s opinion notwithstanding, I catch myself casting a longing gaze at the fabulously tricked-out, beyond-my-budget Harleys filling the streets.
I don’t know how the battle for my biker soul will end. The best I can probably hope for is some kind of truce.
One thing is pretty certain: the romance of the cruiser has wrapped its handlebars firmly around me. I’m a child of the ’60s, and as lousy a movie as Easy Rider is (worst dialog ever), escaping its psychological orbit is hopeless.
So this weekend I’m hoping for an epiphany. Perhaps, somewhere in this orgy of bikes, I will see the ride for me. Maybe the ghosts of William S. Harley and Arthur Davidson will come to me in a dream and show me the way. Perhaps, just perhaps, the midlife crisis I refuse to admit I’m having will pass.
Perhaps the sun won’t rise tomorrow.
The main thing is to enjoy, to appreciate the sense of raw power, freedom and sensuality that makes us love these machines in such a different way from automobiles.
Somebody once said: “Four wheels move the body, two wheels move the soul.” If you’re in Hollister this weekend reading this, you probably believe that. I know I do.
John Yewell is the city editor for the Hollister Free Lance.
