There is something about riding a motorcycle that can transform a quiet middle-aged man into an ill-disciplined hooligan with the manners of an escaped convict. I know this to be true, because I'm one of them.
I have no idea why two wheels and a motor have that effect on me, but they do and like my waistline and my prostate, motorcycle madness seems to be growing with me as I age. Without doubt, part of the problem has to be attributed to the gear I wear when I ride. It's a sociological fact that the correct garb plays a major role in acting like a middle-aged buffoon on a loud motorcycle.
Everyday at work I am as mild mannered and inconspicuous as Clark Kent. I dress neatly, I'm well groomed and I make it a point not to discuss politics, religion or bodily functions of any kind with my co-workers. Five days a week from nine to five, I'm just your average office shmo in a polyester shirt and a cheap tie. But after work when I arrive home, my world, my attitude and my wardrobe all change radically. The tie comes off with the knot still intact when I walk through my front door, the white shirt gets dropped on the floor and the laced shoes are chucked to opposite corners of the room. Then the real duds come out; riding boots with round metal buckles big enough to use as a collar on a pit bull. Leather gloves with no fingers (which strangely enough cost more than the fingered variety) and jeans that are so ratty and threadbare they would be discarded by any self-respecting dumpster diver. And of course, the one item that all bikers treasure more than anything in the world, but their ride itself, the leather jacket. A good riding jacket is a vital piece of gear and there are certain qualities that are standard in such a garment. For example, the leather should be thick enough to stop shrapnel and the jacket itself ought to weigh more than a small hitchhiker. A minimum of two-dozen zippers are required, although only half of them need to be functional. Most important of all - a riding jacket must have so many pockets that you can lose your keys in one and not discover them again until three seasons later, by which time you've lost six more sets of keys. Enough items disappear inside my jacket to make David Copperfield envious and I regularly discover "lost" paraphernalia in the hidden pockets long after I've given up searching for them. Stuff like sunglasses, chocolate bars, old girlfriends... Boots, gloves, jacket; properly attired, I am geared up to nurture my alter ego --- Biker-Fogy.
In case you think being a Biker-Fogy is simply a matter of a grown man revelling in a pathetic display of immaturity and frivolity...you're absolutely right. Further, I thank my lucky moon that I am not too "mature" to enjoy such foolishness. As a matter of fact, I am hoping that in about 50 years I will be sound enough of mind and body (or at least body), to graduate to the rank of Biker-Geezer. I already have plans for my wheelchair-chopper that include a bored out monster V-twin engine with enough horsepower to shatter all existing land speed records for geriatric mobility devices. It's going to be one bad ass chair; fully equipped with extended wheelie bars and a purple flame custom paint job. Belted into a rig like that, I could maintain hooligan status well into my nineties.
As a card carrying Biker-Fogy, I thought it might be fun to hang out with others of the same ilk, so last summer I attended an affair called a Biker Rally. An average rally consists of a few thousand Biker-Fogies camping in a rain soaked field on the outskirts of nowhere, with their tents crammed close enough together to create a rural tenement housing project. The non-stop din from hopped up motorcycles is a bonus feature of any rally, as is the lingering odour of beer and the spontaneous "howling at the moon" tournaments. At least you don't have to worry about being awakened in the middle of the night by a 200 horsepower engine with straight thru pipes, revving at about a million RPM right next to your tent. It won't wake you up, because there is zero chance you will have fallen asleep in the first place. It's a whole weekend of staying awake all night, getting soaked by cold rain and listening to intoxicated out of control party maniacs. I can tell you without hesitation, it just doesn't get much better.
There are some very rough types who attend these rallies and it pays to be prudent with your choice of new friends. There was one biker I remember in particular; he had an unkempt beard, a whole gallery of risqué tattoos and a vocabulary colourful enough to make a vice cop blush. He was loud and menacing and the truth is, I was a bit intimidated by him. That is, until I looked a little closer and I realised that he was my accountant...and the guy with the "Born to Die" tattoo beside him, was my dentist.
I have earned my Biker-Fogy status through 30 years of riding one smoke-belching machine after another. I bought my first motorcycle the day I turned 16 and while I don't recall exactly how I extorted an official permission slip from my parents, the fact is they signed it. And then I learned to ride the old fashioned way -- by the seat of my pants, with a healthy dose of trial and error. I eventually learned to stay upright most of the time and I've survived riding a bike to an age where I no longer have to be concerned about dying young on a motorcycle. There are those however, who try to achieve Biker-Fogy status without paying their riding dues. These biker-come-lately's think you can just take a 3-hour class and start riding a snarling overpowered street cruiser right away. You can of course, but that's not the point. You can't learn to be a real Biker-Fogy from a how-to manual, or from a teacher with a clipboard. It only comes from riding til' your butt is numb, every year for a few decades.
Norman "The Nose" Petersmacker was one such wannabe and the year he turned 45, much to the dismay of his bride of 20 years, he decided to buy a motorcycle. I was considering selling my hog right about the same time and The Nose expressed an interest in purchasing it. We met in the parking lot of a mall the size of a Swiss village and I left the bike running so he could take her for a spin and see how she ran. Now I'll admit, I never asked Norm "The Nose" how much experience he had riding a motorcycle, so the first mistake was mine. But the next series of mistakes all belonged to him. Norm seemed comfortable enough sitting in the saddle and he located the clutch and the shift lever without any problem. I noticed he was revving the motor a little higher than necessary for just sitting in one place and I was about to mention that he might want to ease off on the throttle a bit. To my utter shock, The Nose goosed the gas hard and popped the clutch. The front wheel of the bike instantly lifted three feet off the ground and the rear tire smoked 20 feet of rubber as the motorcycle blasted across the parking lot. I was amazed to see Norm still hanging on for dear life a few seconds later, with the bike pulling a world-class wheelie that showed no sign of abating any time soon. The Nose might have known where the clutch and the shift lever were, but that must have been the full extent of his knowledge concerning the working parts of a motorbike. He certainly didn't seem to know where the brakes were. The bike continued accelerating at an alarming rate ever closer to the storefronts of the mall. All I could do was stand there and shake my head in disbelief. The motor was screaming in dissent somewhere beyond the redline in first gear and the front wheel seemed determined to remain aloft. The Nose still had a grip on the handlebars, but his feet never found the pegs and his legs dangled behind him, like an advertising banner. That was exactly the position he was in when the motorcycle sailed through the plate glass window of the "Anything For a Buck" store. In his favour, he never let go of the bike all the way through the store, taking with him a dozen or so display racks of stickers, potholders and scented candles. When I reached him, Norm was lying on his back staring at the ceiling, surrounded by a mountain of junk. I was relieved to see that he was still alive and looking down at him I noticed he was mouthing something, but I couldn't hear what it was. I leaned down next to him so he could whisper into my ear. His voice was so soft, it was all I could do to make out the three words he murmured to me. "I'll take it."
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