Thursday, July 23, 2009 8:45 PM CDT
COLUMN: Years after jumping bikes on ramps in the yard, it's time for a leisurely ride
By PENNY WEAVER, News Editor
pweaver@jg-tc.com
Once in a while I get to thinking I’m a pretty good writer, and then I try to explain something quite specific and I jumble the words worse than an elephant with a mouth full of peanut butter trying to sing Mary Poppins’ “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”
Seriously.
I don’t know how other motorcyclists explain it to non-motorcyclists, but I’ve been wondering how to express the “zen” of motorcycling to those who don’t ride.
I traded up last week and have a Honda Shadow Spirit 750 now. This is the motorcycle I’ve always wanted.
Since I was a kid, I’ve wanted to ride motorcycles. I’m not sure just why. It always seemed “cool” to me.
You might think I’d have ended up with a dirt bike the way my cousin and I used to ride our bicycles. Both “tom boys,” we’d race up and down the blacktop, or try to find stuff in the yard to jump over.
Dad made us a wooden bike ramp — I think it elevated us an ear-popping, daredevilish 5 inches off the ground. Wisely, he already knew the extent of my coordination skills — or the lack thereof.
So, naturally, we found a board here or there and tried to hoist that ramp up a bit.
Do kids do that anymore? ... make homemade ramps out of whatever’s available and see how far they can fly on their bikes as they pedal their way into the air?
Oh well. I’ll try not to sound like such an old fart today.
We’d start out a hundred feet down the road and push ourselves hard to pedal up to “top speed.” Then it was across the end of the driveway, into the grass, onto the ramp and up, up, up — maybe 18 inches that time! — into the wild blue yonder!
Bicycles were the closest we got to riding motorcycles in our younger days. I do remember Dad having a couple of different motorcycles briefly at times. He’d put my sister Kim in front of him near the tank, and, being older and taller, I’d perch on the back of the seat and wrap my arms around his waist, and he’d take us on wild, heady adventures — well, that’s how it seemed to a kid. To an adult, it was just low-speed jaunts around the yard.
It’s all about perspective, you know.
Years later, we had a moped. You don’t see too many of those around anymore. It had a long seat, so we older sisters would take our younger sisters for rides around and around our 2-acre yard. Once in a while, Dad would let me take the moped down the road a little ways, and I can still remember the wind hitting my face with a cool friendliness on hot summer days.
That was something!
I took the motorcycle rider safety course when I was in college — and failed. Well, I passed the written part with flying colors; it’s the riding that I couldn’t quite get. I’d kill that darn thing coming out of first gear every time.
Of course, I did that with Dad’s stick shift Jeep when trying to learn how to handle manual transmission as a teen, too. If we’d stopped on a hill — forget it. I can only imagine how Dad’s teeth probably would grind right along with every gnashing of the gears as I tried and tried to learn it and do it right.
When I bought a 1995 Chevy S10, it was a stick shift, so I had no choice but to learn. Finally, I could drive across town, come up to several stop signs in different places, and stop, then get going again and out of first without killing it...even on hills.
You can see why Dad would have been concerned about any notions I might have had in my younger days about setting up the bike ramp and vaulting my two-wheeled menace over Mom’s line of peonies.
Finally, a few years ago, I got my first motorcycle: a 1973 Honda CB350. It was affordable and small enough for me to feel comfortable honing my riding skills — or creating some “skill” out of thin air, if you prefer. I had a much easier time with that whole shifting thing, even though I had to work at it mentally: “Left foot, gear shift; left hand, clutch; right foot, rear brake; right hand, front brake and throttle ... not at the same time, please.”
I took the motorcycle rider safety course — and passed this time. I made sure I had all the safety gear — in addition to a helmet, I always ride with boots, long pants, jacket and gloves — because I want to be safe, and I totally admit that I still am not too coordinated.
About four years ago, I upgraded slightly to a 1978 Honda CB400, since my brother-in-law made me a deal. I did pretty well riding that one, and learned a few mechanics along the way.
Now I’m enjoying a “modern” cycle — lots different than those made 30 years ago, although the old Honda CB models are real gems — and I’m honing my skills.
Motorcycle riding is something I have to work at; it doesn’t necessarily come easy to me. Writing, on the other hand, has always been natural and usually effortless for me.
Now, can I write about motorcycling? Maybe my lack of coordination, physically, is spilling over, mentally.
Motorcyclists, help me out. How do you explain the feeling of riding that seductive piece of machinery? It’s partly about the freedom of the road — the lack of barriers between the rider and the world around. For me, it’s also about the lack of radio, cell phone, etc. — I don’t allow distractions.
I don’t think about work. I don’t think about bills. I don’t think about what to fix for supper.
I ride.
Well, if you don’t understand it, just trust your friendly neighborhood motorcyclist. There’s nothing quite like riding a bike — specifically, the motorized kind. And although you won’t see me going off any ramps or launched in the air over a line of cars while on my cycle, don’t think I’m not enjoying the journey.
And that’s life, isn’t it? You might like speed or a slow cruise, dirt-biking it or the smooth pavement. Those details aren’t the point.
You gotta enjoy the ride.
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Rockin Rotty wrote on Jul 22, 2009 11:41 PM: