 |
| Tucker & I on my old 1985 Honda Shadow VT700C |
My father and I had been talking about the fact that my poor rat rod was nearly at its wits end and I didn't have any other mode of transportation. I had been eyeballing a used Harley Davidson Sportster 72 for a while and was hoping to pull the trigger. Now long story short the sales team took advantage of my enthusiasm and excitement of possibly owning my first Harley and convinced me to go with the 72's big daddy the FXDB, a.k.a Street Bob. Baseline model in vivid black with no special features, just your standard good ole Harley Davidson. I handed my rat rods keys to a co-worker free of charge that very evening, and rode home on my brand new Harley Davidson.
I had made a commitment I would pay for over the course of the next 5 years. $326.77 a month including insurance. This means I would make seemingly infinite sacrifices throughout my life. It means I wouldn't make enough for rent, new shoes, cloths, and I'd virtually be guaranteed to live off ramen noodles, hot dogs, and canned chili. If I wanted any of the above luxuries, I'd have to sacrifice elsewhere. It meant pretty much only having enough money to pay for fuel and little else, meaning my only source of entertainment was to simply ride. A bikers life.
A bikers life; man how could one explain such a life when so much controversy is involved between defining a "motorcycle enthusiast" from a "biker"? Well, I wish it were as simple as to say that just throwing a leg over two wheels makes one a biker, but I can't say I believe that. See I grew up country, cowboy through and through. My father was a horse farrier and my mother was a horse trainer (she'd say people trainer) for the better part of 20 years. I grew up with wranglers, white and plaid western shirts, shit kickers and a cowboy hat. My mornings were scented with the graceful stench of horse shit, not burned rubber and motor oil. So how the hell do I know what it means to be a biker?
I'd like to take a look at this question from a different angle. Who am I to know what makes a real cowboy from the yuppie? Anybody can throw on a pair of wranglers, cowboy hat and shit kickers, throw a leg over a horse and be a cowboy; right? Well, I guess anyone can do those things, but to be a cowboy one would not be. See, riding a horse takes more than just the ability to hop on or dress the part. It takes knowing to squeeze instead of kick, it takes knowing that steady pressure trumps trying to yank the animal around. Being a cowboy means your up at the crack of dawn throwing hay and shoveling shit, it means getting bored and hopping on your horse bareback, laying down and taking a nap or going for a ride, trusting the animal won't take off with you (which sometimes happens!). It takes knowing how to clean their hooves and trim their feet, being a cowboy requires a full devotion of your life. Not just owning the horse and attire, and hopping on for a short ride on the weekends.
The same is applicable to the biker. You can own all the leather you think need be required, hell own a leather pair of socks if you have to! You can own that $10,000-50,000 Harley Davidson even, but that won't make you any more a biker. Yes, you love motorcycles and you enjoy every minute of the road you actually get to enjoy, and that's respectable.
A biker is one who devotes his entire life to his love of motorcycles. Think of it as a marriage, because you'll hear more stories than you'd think of a biker leaving his woman and taking nothing but his motorcycle in the end (ok ok, she probably left him). It keeps us breathing, and no doubt keeps others breathing too if you know what I mean.
A biker knows that his bike brings such joy and life to his world that without it he would loose a part of himself, just like a good woman. And its not just the material reality of the bike itself, but everything that comes with it. The smell of freshly moist grass in the morning sun as you take a morning scoot, the sun beaming just over the horizon as it wakes for the day. Its riding 2,100 miles in three days for a family reunion or sleeping in on the forest floor under a tarp because you can't afford a motel. Its packing a couple cans of spaghettios for $0.99 a can at the grocery store to last you the trip. Its packing only one set of cloths to save on load. Its having to carry your tools and a few quarts of oil in preparation for unfortunate circumstance and its a long conversation with some old raggedy ass biker that saw you sitting in the shade at the gas station.
I'm a biker in training and life is my teacher. I foolishly left my job and now my life wreaks of the stereotypical old-school stories of a good for nothing biker (cowboy) bum and his dog living out of his girlfriends bed as she picks up the slack in his down time, Harley Davidson sitting in the parking lot, view able from the apartment at all times. The stay at home "step-dad-like" figure struggling to make money while educating a 5 year old in manners and knowledge while ensuring the house doesn't get jacked up throughout the day. Swapping motorcycle details for parts and labor, and if there's any time, maybe get in a few details gigs for extra cash to help out where he can.
I don't have much leather, in fact only a leather vest sporting a 3 piece "Born Free American" cut, and a pair of old worn out brown suede chaps good for little more than blocking the wind. Leathers a rich mans game. I sport an old military style OD green cap everywhere I go and a pair of square toed shit kickers to cover my feet. I ride year round both voluntarily and involuntarily through the rain, snow, sleet, ice and shine simply because its what has to be done when there are no other options. But I can honestly say, I'm getting used to it. Once you do it long enough, you don't seem to notice the searing pain shooting through your hands after having rode 60 miles through 8 degree weather and a -35 degree wind chill, or the ice frozen to your beard. You no longer notice the shot gun blast of a pouring rain at 70 mph or the feel of the pavement on your side as your rear tire loose its tread to the ice. It becomes almost second nature, push the bar out into the fall, clear the leg, hang on till you quit sliding, pick it up and keep on rolling.
One could scan any biker page online and see thousands of bikers accusing another of posing to be something he's not. I sit back and shake my head at times because if there's one thing I've come to know it's that no matter how experienced I think I am, there is always someone out there more beat up, broken-hearted, and financially ruined; whose beard drags by his ankles and his eyes twinkle with kindness and humility through his old wrinkly face.
There are only three determining factors to know whether you're dealing with a real "biker". Does his bike consume his entire life, does he live in respect for those who respect him, and does he live a life of humility? These are the three golden rules of a "bikers" life.
There is no shame in being an enthusiast, because any true biker understands that the thrill of a motorcycle can be appealing to anyone brave enough to give it a try. But only a select few will be so consumed with the love, life, and liberation of their motorcycle that it shapes their very identity, their very being. When you see a true biker, there is no doubt in your mind as you look at him that he is the real deal. As the rodeo cowboy walks out of the arena covered in dirt and manure after being thrown off a 1000 lb. animal, or rides in from the sunset after a days long cattle drive, so does the biker who throws a leg over his iron horse and rides into the distance.
MLH&R
Ziptie
 |
| Day 1, my Father and I |
I had made a commitment I would pay for over the course of the next 5 years. $326.77 a month including insurance. This means I would make seemingly infinite sacrifices throughout my life. It means I wouldn't make enough for rent, new shoes, cloths, and I'd virtually be guaranteed to live off ramen noodles, hot dogs, and canned chili. If I wanted any of the above luxuries, I'd have to sacrifice elsewhere. It meant pretty much only having enough money to pay for fuel and little else, meaning my only source of entertainment was to simply ride. A bikers life.
A bikers life; man how could one explain such a life when so much controversy is involved between defining a "motorcycle enthusiast" from a "biker"? Well, I wish it were as simple as to say that just throwing a leg over two wheels makes one a biker, but I can't say I believe that. See I grew up country, cowboy through and through. My father was a horse farrier and my mother was a horse trainer (she'd say people trainer) for the better part of 20 years. I grew up with wranglers, white and plaid western shirts, shit kickers and a cowboy hat. My mornings were scented with the graceful stench of horse shit, not burned rubber and motor oil. So how the hell do I know what it means to be a biker?
I'd like to take a look at this question from a different angle. Who am I to know what makes a real cowboy from the yuppie? Anybody can throw on a pair of wranglers, cowboy hat and shit kickers, throw a leg over a horse and be a cowboy; right? Well, I guess anyone can do those things, but to be a cowboy one would not be. See, riding a horse takes more than just the ability to hop on or dress the part. It takes knowing to squeeze instead of kick, it takes knowing that steady pressure trumps trying to yank the animal around. Being a cowboy means your up at the crack of dawn throwing hay and shoveling shit, it means getting bored and hopping on your horse bareback, laying down and taking a nap or going for a ride, trusting the animal won't take off with you (which sometimes happens!). It takes knowing how to clean their hooves and trim their feet, being a cowboy requires a full devotion of your life. Not just owning the horse and attire, and hopping on for a short ride on the weekends.
 |
| Me riding my old horse Spec |
A biker is one who devotes his entire life to his love of motorcycles. Think of it as a marriage, because you'll hear more stories than you'd think of a biker leaving his woman and taking nothing but his motorcycle in the end (ok ok, she probably left him). It keeps us breathing, and no doubt keeps others breathing too if you know what I mean.
A biker knows that his bike brings such joy and life to his world that without it he would loose a part of himself, just like a good woman. And its not just the material reality of the bike itself, but everything that comes with it. The smell of freshly moist grass in the morning sun as you take a morning scoot, the sun beaming just over the horizon as it wakes for the day. Its riding 2,100 miles in three days for a family reunion or sleeping in on the forest floor under a tarp because you can't afford a motel. Its packing a couple cans of spaghettios for $0.99 a can at the grocery store to last you the trip. Its packing only one set of cloths to save on load. Its having to carry your tools and a few quarts of oil in preparation for unfortunate circumstance and its a long conversation with some old raggedy ass biker that saw you sitting in the shade at the gas station.
I'm a biker in training and life is my teacher. I foolishly left my job and now my life wreaks of the stereotypical old-school stories of a good for nothing biker (cowboy) bum and his dog living out of his girlfriends bed as she picks up the slack in his down time, Harley Davidson sitting in the parking lot, view able from the apartment at all times. The stay at home "step-dad-like" figure struggling to make money while educating a 5 year old in manners and knowledge while ensuring the house doesn't get jacked up throughout the day. Swapping motorcycle details for parts and labor, and if there's any time, maybe get in a few details gigs for extra cash to help out where he can.
I don't have much leather, in fact only a leather vest sporting a 3 piece "Born Free American" cut, and a pair of old worn out brown suede chaps good for little more than blocking the wind. Leathers a rich mans game. I sport an old military style OD green cap everywhere I go and a pair of square toed shit kickers to cover my feet. I ride year round both voluntarily and involuntarily through the rain, snow, sleet, ice and shine simply because its what has to be done when there are no other options. But I can honestly say, I'm getting used to it. Once you do it long enough, you don't seem to notice the searing pain shooting through your hands after having rode 60 miles through 8 degree weather and a -35 degree wind chill, or the ice frozen to your beard. You no longer notice the shot gun blast of a pouring rain at 70 mph or the feel of the pavement on your side as your rear tire loose its tread to the ice. It becomes almost second nature, push the bar out into the fall, clear the leg, hang on till you quit sliding, pick it up and keep on rolling.
One could scan any biker page online and see thousands of bikers accusing another of posing to be something he's not. I sit back and shake my head at times because if there's one thing I've come to know it's that no matter how experienced I think I am, there is always someone out there more beat up, broken-hearted, and financially ruined; whose beard drags by his ankles and his eyes twinkle with kindness and humility through his old wrinkly face.
There are only three determining factors to know whether you're dealing with a real "biker". Does his bike consume his entire life, does he live in respect for those who respect him, and does he live a life of humility? These are the three golden rules of a "bikers" life.
There is no shame in being an enthusiast, because any true biker understands that the thrill of a motorcycle can be appealing to anyone brave enough to give it a try. But only a select few will be so consumed with the love, life, and liberation of their motorcycle that it shapes their very identity, their very being. When you see a true biker, there is no doubt in your mind as you look at him that he is the real deal. As the rodeo cowboy walks out of the arena covered in dirt and manure after being thrown off a 1000 lb. animal, or rides in from the sunset after a days long cattle drive, so does the biker who throws a leg over his iron horse and rides into the distance.
MLH&R
Ziptie
 |
| Dads 05' Road King, my 2015 Street Bob |
No comments:
Post a Comment
What are your thoughts?