NOTE: Hello! I know, it’s been a while since I last posted on here. In truth, a number of other priorities (personal and work) pretty much shoved writing and posting in my blog on the back burner (as well as other writing projects). Plus, I tend to be a slow and meticulous writer (i.e., a bit of a perfectionist), so I took my due time working on this post. But I wanted to reminisce about my few years of owning a motorcycle and some of the rides I took on it.
Please to be enjoying the next entry as much as I did writing it up…
I’m not sure where the original thought entered my mind about motorcycle riding.
Growing up, I was never a troublemaker, “rebel without a cause,” “car guy,” “speed demon,” or a racing fan type. In fact, I was such a straight-laced geek that the worst thing I did as an adolescent was play D&D with my friends.1 Well, to be fair, one friend in middle school was “from the wrong side of the tracks” and a not-so-good influence on me, but once the Fairfax County Public School system expelled him and his mom shipped him off to military school, I was a fairly well-behaved, benign teenager (much to my parents’ relief). And except for one year in high school when I hung posters of a Porsche and Lamborghini on my wall, I never really experienced any kind of love affair with motorized vehicles.
The closest I ever came to any level of car worship were the few times Reston Town Center hosted vintage car shows, where collectors parked their antique sports and race cars outside for all to see. It was a real treat to see some of the classic cars, even a 1930s Ferrari racer – though it also meant wading through throngs of the local “look what I got bitches” douchebag society. Beyond learning basic car maintenance, you’d never catch me spending weekend time tinkering on a car. Though there was one time when my friend Mike and I (more Mike instructing and me doing) replaced the brake pads and disks on my old Xterra (and they passed the next safety inspection…much to my legitimate surprise).
In college, one of my dorm roommates would spend hours on weekends watching NASCAR racing on a little TV, where I marveled at how he could do that since I found it utterly mind-numbing (and this was just the tip of the iceberg of things he and I differed on…so…many things…).2 However, I can say that I was always awed by motorcycle racing in a reasonably horrified way, watching riders leaning ridiculously low into high-speed turns, fearing that they’d fall over and/or crash in a careening blaze of glory.
And don’t even get me started on motocross – those guys have a death wish.
Image Isn’t Everything
Yet, something about motorcycle riding always fermented in the back of my mind.
There was the tried and true (maybe infamous) freedom-of-the-open-road image. The stoic rider on his steel horse, at peace with the road under him and middle-of-nowhere landscape whipping by. Maybe with a little splash of Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper’s counterculture “fucks not given” Easy Rider attitude like I remember from watching it once on late night cable. Despite the “bad boy” stigma inherent with motorcycles, I always envied the adventuristic aesthetic of how motorcycles help (if not directly provide) a connection between riders and their surroundings. These things stirred in the murky labyrinths of my subconscious – far more than an undefined urge, but much less than a fully-realized goal.
Of course, I was also raised by two parents who…well, let’s just say they shared a less than positive regard for the types of people who lived the stereotypical (and possibly antisocial) biker life style (not to mention the notoriety of their “instant organ donor” safety concerns).3
Time marched on. Carefree teen angst transferred into college age hijinks and then matured into the nagging priorities of adulting, which asserted themselves with a vengeance (e.g., college loan payments, affording food and rent), other interests came and went (e.g., writing, drawing, hiking, online dating). That and the occasional relationship or two redirected attention and energy (as well as money).
But motorcycle riding never quite left the back of my mind.
Documented Inspiration
The idea finally began to germinate and galvanize in the early 2000s when Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman rode around-the-world on motorcycles, documenting their entire adventure in the series Long Way Round, and a few years later did it again, but this time from Scotland to South Africa (Long Way Down).4 I wasn’t quite sure about the documentaries at first, but they definitely captured my imagination and had a powerful effect on me (I highly recommend watching them and reading the companion books for each). It wasn’t just about riding around on bikes, but following their experiences from planning and working out the bikes they wanted to ride, to exploring in different lands, seeing other cultures, and interacting with other peoples – half the time while not even on a defined road. And unlike more traditional and discrete forms of travel and tourism, they were connected to the places they ventured through thanks to their motorcycles, where the journey far outweighed the destination.
The idea of riding across a country (or in their case, several continents) seemed like an irresistible adventure (even if hopelessly unrealistic or logistically practical for someone living a more modest lifestyle). While I was gainfully employed back then, I was busy with work and life, so my burgeoning interest in travel was pretty much handicapped by a lack of time, money, and resources. But the idea of hopping on a motorcycle and going for a long ride or trip held a certain appeal, and it was more flexible and cost-effective for my limited means. It helped that several of my friends rode bikes and were helping spurn my interest in getting one.
As a significant relationship at the time eventually wound down and ended (one of my less dramatic break ups…well, initially…she erupted with a far more vindictive attitude in the aftermath), I found myself at a point with far more free time and a lot more flexibility with funds. As a result, my imagination began wandering back toward the idea of getting a motorcycle.
This time, the muse was working hard on me.
And true to form, when I decide I’m interested in something, I’ll be a little indecisive research and ponder the Hell out of it.
I accompanied friends to check out bikes at dealerships, feeling out what might be my kind of ride. Racing up and down streets at breakneck speeds didn’t appeal to me, so sport bikes weren’t my calling. Thanks to those motorcycle documentaries, a big, cross-country adventure sounded wonderful, but that was a lot of bike for a beginner (and much more expensive). My searches on the local retailers’ websites were bringing up all kinds of bikes – cruisers, cross country mega bikes, and even three-wheelers that were definitely not on my list.
One evening I was reading an article about a rider’s experiences and how he loved the immersive quality of cruising on a bike, how it was an entirely sensual experience. It was the antithesis of an isolating car cabin as the landscape passes by – a bike puts you in the element – you can smell it, taste it, feel it. He described it as a “Moment of Zen” when your mind and body sync with the ride and everything else fades away. Your perception becomes the here and now, with senses taking in a million stimuli around you and your brain’s only task is keeping your heart beating and lungs breathing as you scan the road ahead. That hit the nail on the head. Soon after, I was totally focused on cruisers and daydreaming about open roads. I pored over manufacturer and dealership websites, steadily building up a more focused list of models for my consideration.
Learn to Walk Before You Can Fly
However, despite my enthusiasm for riding, the lingering issue that stopped me from running out and buying a ride was the big question – could I even handle a motorcycle? One valuable piece of advice that came from everyone I knew who rode was a little training was a worthwhile first step. One or two told stories about older siblings or parents giving them their first riding lessons, but everyone else couldn’t recommend enough that I take some formal classes. At best, I’d test my abilities and decide if I even enjoyed riding, or discover my limitations at worst.
As luck would have it, one of the Meetup groups I participated in posted a motorcycle riding class event run by Motorcycle Riding Concepts (MRC). Excited at the incredible timing and opportunity, I signed up. The class was a private course held over a weekend and taught by a group of Fairfax County motorcycle police, where they camped out in a mall parking lot and provided the bikes (standard Buell “starter bikes”), helmets, and any other gear we needed (they still run classes in the same mall parking lot to this day).
That Friday evening was in a classroom, going over the mechanical fundamentals and general rules of motorcycle riding and safety. Saturday into Sunday morning was spent in a step-by-step, hands-on class for getting used to being on a bike, learning the mechanics in real life, how to be in control while minding your surroundings, and incrementally moving up from basic to more involved exercises. We began with short rides in a straight line to get the feel of the bike, then trying different turns and eventually figure eights and other maneuvers we’d need to know on the road. I was pleasantly surprised to find how quickly I was picking it up and getting comfortable with riding – the last turn I made while leaning in a few degrees was far less intimidating than my first ride in a straight line across the parking lot. During breaks, some of the cops would hop on their bikes and show off their riding skills, awing us with their precision and control (I believe some of them were competitive riders, too).
Sunday afternoon was the big payoff – free riding around the lot and trying out more of the exercises we learned over the past day and half. The group I was with took full advantage of riding around for hours, and every one of us with big smiles on our faces the whole time. The bikes were equipped with governors to keep them under 30 MPH, but I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who unjustifiably felt like a badass that afternoon (though we didn’t really look that way). I got home that evening tired and sweaty, but excited and energized. But the last revelation as we wrapped things up was the instructors giving us the bad news that the course wasn’t officially recognized by Virginia (at least, that was the deal at the time), so it wouldn’t help or apply to updating my license and getting street legal to ride.
Me in the MRC class. Another biker once told me that the first rule
of riding was to “always look cool.” Clearly, safety is my first priority.
A few months later, there was an opening in a county-run course that was recognized by Virginia DMV and I signed up. Similar to the other course, it began with a classroom session, then a full weekend of exercises with a written and practical riding test at the end. They provided everything, including a mix of “usual suspect” starter bikes (e.g., the Honda Shadow). This class wasn’t as much fun as the previous one, but taking it meant walking away with a certification to present at the DMV for getting that badly needed “M” stamped on my license (which I did the very next week). The class was a thorough mix of all types you’ll find in the wilds of the DC area suburbs, with the full spectrum of those taking to riding like ducks to water and others who nearly flew off of them (one poor woman screamed like a banshee as she careened across several medians in the parking lot). The boost in morale for me was one of the instructors telling me to go out the next day and get a bike, since from what he saw, I was definitely ready and able and as he put it “you’re not afraid of the bike.”
During this class, I met and made friends with two classmates. One was a Chilean woman named Marta who to say she exuded a vibrant personality was a ridiculously wild understatement. By contrast, her friend was an intern from her company who was a good humored but quiet and stoic German college student here on a visa. We kept in touch after the class since they lived close to me and were going to invest in their bikes, too. As a matter of fact, Marta beat me to the punch on another bike I spotted and thought about buying.
My First Ride (i.e., and the Stupidest Thing I’ve Ever Done…So Far)
So, we all make mistakes or do things that, while seeming like a good idea at the time, are really…really…really stupid. Fortunately, the ones that we can regale to others later and laugh at are the best stories.
As I was taking the riding classes, I was still researching available bikes online and zeroed in on a few at Coleman Powersports. Finally, I picked a weekend and checked out a red 500 cc Kawasaki Vulcan that I spotted on their website. On paper, the bike didn’t seem very big or overwhelming, but looked a Hell of lot more intimidating when I walked into the showroom. It was gleaming red and shiny chrome, and looked A LOT bigger than I imagined (though in retrospect, it wasn’t nearly as big as some behemoths you see on the road). Sitting down in the seat felt like putting on a glove, even as my eyes grew huge at the monster under me. I humored the salesman who took me around to look at a few other bikes, but I kept gazing back at that red beauty. At the time, the “too big to fail” Great Recession was in full swing, so a lot of people were buying up motorcycles to save money with gas costing an arm and leg. As a result, the salesman warned me that if I didn’t start the paperwork that day, then the bike might not be there later.
Of course, that was the oldest sales tactic in the world, but I knew I was buying the bike. The salesman knew I was buying the bike. And in short order, I filled out the paperwork and went to their gear department to invest in a few basics – helmet, jacket, gloves, and a tarp (I didn’t have a garage). A few days later, I got the call – the loan was approved and I was good to pick up the bike.
Later that week, I left work a little early, anxious to pick up my ride. Marta gave me a lift since she lived close by and I was riding the bike home. We arrived with about an hour-and-a-half to spare before sundown, and a quick peek at the weather on my phone showed a storm front was brewing, so timing was going to be tight. 45 minutes later, the bike was ready and sitting in the open parking lot – a gleaming red beauty. I looked out through the garage door with the salesman, trying to decide what to do. The sun was starting to set, but still revealed dark clouds on the horizon. The salesman and I agreed that if I hit the road right then, I’d get home in time. So, I geared up – jacket that I spent the previous night adjusting to fit just right, and clumsily pulling on the helmet and gloves. Although it wasn’t my first time wearing a helmet, its sensory deprivation effect was still a weird experience, even asking others around me to repeat themselves, making sure I understood them.
Geared up but nervous, I swung a leg over the bike and sat down. For that moment, I felt as if everything came together and synced. The bike felt good, I felt good. I hit the starter. It wasn’t the loudest or biggest chopper, but the growl sounded like the best purr ever. I revved the throttle a few times and smiled. Remembering my training, I eased the bike forward in first gear, taking a few nervous laps around the lot before giving Marta the thumbs up to hit the road, who was going to trail me in her car in case anything happened.
As I rode up to the lot exit, I stopped to check for traffic, still getting used to the helmet changing my sight lines and weight on my shoulders. The exit sat sharply uphill, so I kept both feet on the ground to remain steady. Eventually, a gap in traffic presented itself, I took a deep breath, kicked it into first and eased off the clutch as I pulled on the throttle.
This was it – my first ride on my own bike.
A thousand thoughts and feelings went through my head, my heart beat like a machine as the thrill took over. Years of undefined dreams and fantasies were finally becoming real. Something I never thought I’d know the feel of was about to become yet another experience to savor and reminisce about in later years. The universe spoke, telling me that it was finally my chance to ride off on 500 pounds of steel and composite materials. The wheels barely began to turn and I already felt amazing as I hit the road as a motorcycle rider – a wide smile hidden under my helmet.
And without any warning, the bike stopped in place, I felt a sudden shift in balance…and promptly fell sideways onto the ground.
Marta called out, asking if I was ok. And except for my face red with embarrassment and a wounded ego (both thankfully concealed by my helmet), I waved her off saying I was fine. I picked up the bike, checked it, hopped on again, and this time rolled out onto the street as smoothly as I could, feeling much less like a badass and completely like a kid trying to ride without training wheels for the first time.
From Falls Church to Reston is pretty much a straight shot up Route 7. Without traffic, it takes about 30 minutes to make the trek roughly northwest through Tysons Corner. This was a weeknight, so the remnants of rush hour still working their way through and just enough sunlight left to see the black clouds on the horizon with the odd flash of lightning growing closer. Tysons Corner is about the halfway point between the two areas, and just as reached it, the sky opened up and torrential rain came down with a vengeance.
Although I couldn’t feel anything in my helmet or jacket, my jeans, socks and boots were drenched through within minutes. I toyed with pulling into a parking garage to wait out the rain, but traffic was slow and snarled, making switching lanes a nightmare, let alone navigating over to any available covered lot. I sucked it up and kept riding as sheets of water crashed down on me, and as I got past Tysons Corner, the wind really began to kick up. At first, it felt like an annoying breeze, then the gale force stuff swept through, forcing me to lean into the wind while trying to see where I was going through the rain covering my visor. I felt the tires slide a few times underneath, making me wonder if I would crash on my very first ride. All around me were cars and blackness, occasionally interrupted by flashes of lightning and rolls of thunder. Plus, the other cars’ headlights and taillights added to my sight problems (as if the sheets of water already blurring the view my visor wasn’t enough), though traffic was moving at a veritable crawl thanks to the combination of rush hour and bad weather. The wind seemed to enjoy taunting and tricking me, changing direction and speed. At times, I’d nearly fall over in a stall from leaning into the wind, or practically get blown over when sitting more upright.
In reality, I was on the road for maybe an hour, but it was one of the longest hours of my life.
As Marta and I eventually made our way into Reston, I waved to her as thanks for following me. I pulled into my parking lot and draped the tarp over the already soaked bike, and got inside as the storm continued roaring around me. Stripping down to even my now thoroughly soaked undies, I turned on the TV and texted Marta to let her know I was fine and made sure she was, too. The local news came on, showing a radar map of the weather, heavy with yellow, orange, and red areas going through my area. Of course, the breaking story that evening was the lovely tornado cell that ran through Tysons Corner. As I stood there, toweling myself off, jaw dropped in awe and disbelief, I found myself remarkably thankful that I managed to get home safe and sound. I certainly never imagined doing battle with a potential tornado (though we’ve seen a few come through Northern Virginia over the years, including one less than a half mile from my home), let alone while that vulnerable on the back of a motorcycle!
Tired and hungry, I showered, made some dinner with a generous glass of wine, and vowed never to tell my parents about this night…ever (unless they read this).
Buzzing the Neighborhood
The excitement of owning a bike was matched by my intimidation of it, or more accurately, riding in Northern Virginia’s notoriously congested streets with its equally moody and unpredictable drivers. Treating riding like beginning a new exercise regimen or slowing wading into a pool, I opted for getting used to the bike before going out on long rides. To that end, I’m sure I annoyed the Hell out of my then neighbors and the local area, riding around on every side street and neighborhood route I could think of, trying to get used to the bike, its feel and quirks, and strengthen my riding skills. The hardest part was learning how to be aware of my surroundings when the helmet cut off a fair amount of peripheral vision and somewhat dulled my hearing (except for the engine beneath me).
True to my geeky nature, I enjoyed the idea of owning a bike with “Vulcan” as a model name, and changed out the generic and randomly assigned license plate for a custom one that suited my nerdy sense of humor…
As we were entering Autumn with still enough warmth and sunlight outside, I’d use free evenings for some quick spins on the bike, or slow weekend afternoons to get some riding practice in, and found a decent church parking lot around the corner that offered room for getting better at turns tight maneuvers. Unlike one particular job at a company that required me wearing a shirt and tie every day (which I loathed) and I was in a cubicle, my then current job was “office casual” and they provided me with my own office, so it was easy to ride in wearing old jeans and change into more work appropriate attire when I arrived. I quickly learned the art of studying the weather ahead of time so I could decide what days might be good for riding into work, or hold off in case there was a chance of bad weather later in the day. Funny thing, I was eventually laid off from that job due to a company restructuring, and happened to ride in the day I was given my walking papers, forcing me to return the next day by car to collect my belongings (but allowed me to say goodbye to everyone).
Expanding My Horizons
By this time, I was getting fairly confident about the bike and my riding skills, and began spreading my wings a little with moderately more ambitious rides. Pretty much keeping within an hour’s ride of home, I would try out some circular routes, such as riding Route 7 west out past Leesburg to Winchester and back. Another I enjoyed was riding out and then going south on Route 17, which included a beautiful view down the middle of a valley I liked. I made a habit of going back and forth along Route 55, taking me from Chantilly out to Front Royal and back again. I attempted another ride down the George Washington Parkway to Alexandria, but found it a little too busy and nerve wracking to really enjoy. On one of these jaunts, I rode out on Route 7 and caught in a traffic jam near Winchester because a local farmer was unloading a buffalo and it got loose, forcing everyone to wait until the police could subdue it. Another was cruising down Route 17 and passing another bike rider who wore a Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, flip flops, and a I-have-no-clue-how-it-stayed-on-his-head cowboy hat.
Finally, I felt it was time to do some longer and more location-defined rides, but for those stories, you’ll need to go to the next post…
Motorcycle Diaries – Part II (October 2008 – June 2013)
1 The group I played in (as discussed in my Boulder trip) typically rotated hosting duties at each other’s houses from week to week. My parents used their hosting opportunities to observe our playing and quickly realized that, despite D&D’s bad reputation back in the 1980s, it was just a bunch of geeky kids having some fun on a Friday evening.
2 I avoid falling back on stereotypes as much as possible, but in all honesty, I used to associate NASCAR with traditional white trash and the “good ol’ boy” tropes. Over the years, I’ve come to better appreciate the art and science that goes into car racing, but the bottom line is I get bored to tears watching cars just going around in circles.
3 They share similar feelings about tattoos, though grudgingly accept my two ink jobs. How I got them and their reaction to them are stories for another time.
4 Much later they did a third trip riding from Argentina to Los Angeles called Long Way Up and a fourth series called Long Way Home, neither of which I’ve seen because I don’t have Apple TV+…yet.
WineAbout 