Motorcycle Man

Motorcycle Man

Me on a 2004 Softail Standard (Harley Davidson of course)

I grew up around motorcycles.

I loved riding with my dad on the back of his motorcycle.

Didn't matter how far or to where, I wanted to go.

It was fun, exciting, and of course dangerous.

I didn't care.

The danger was part of the thrill.

So long as I was with my dad and being on that bike, all else was second place.

Sure, after a few minutes your butt gets numb and your body aches after a long ride.

But the sense of being 'free' and in the element was something else.

I wanted a motorcycle for myself.

Tricycle to Bicycle

I also wanted to be a police officer (CHiPs) on a motorcycle.

An electric tricycle I received one Christmas.

My sister's cockatiel 'Charlie' on my shoulder.

I was so happy to get that tricycle.

My grandfather was a police officer, and he led a disciplined life.

Him, and the television show CHiPs, were major influences.

Having that electric police tricycle with police stickers on it made me feel great. 

Jumping on My BMX

Before I was able to go solo on two wheels and a motor, I had a BMX bicycle.

What a joy it was to ride that bicycle down the length of my block to my grandparent's house, and back again.

I knew where all the spots where the driveways met the curb in a steep way were.

These were ideal to jump, either from the street onto the sidewalk or the other way.

via GIPHY

(that ⇧ is not me, by the way, but I had a bicycle similar to this one)

I was fortunate to live on the same street as my patriarchs (maternal grandparents), and relatives right next door to them (from my mother's side).

On my dad's side of the family two other houses on that street were related to him, and another house one street over.

The house on the other street were cousins I would go on trips to the desert with to ride dirt bikes as a teenager.

From BMX to Dirt Bike

Me about 16 years old on a 1989 Yamaha YZ 125

When I was 14 I moved to Texas with my dad after he divorced my mom.

It was only a matter of time that I began begging him for a dirt bike.

He bet me if I could beat him in a race down a certain long and winding stretch of road near our house, he'd buy me the bike.

The day of the race, while he was on his feet at work, I laid in bed resting.

I was determined.

I don't remember how the race started, but I know I ran the entire way and waited for him at the finish line.

Waiting for what seemed like an hour.

He eventually emerged slowly walking over the last rolling hill with my stepmother beside him.

Maybe it was his way to get my lazy bones out of the house.

That was what I wanted to do - get out of the house, but with a dirt bike!

Dirt Bike Trail Riding

Behind our neighborhood were several acres of undeveloped forest.

Years previous my brother-in-law had taught me how to ride a motorcycle on his dirt bike.

I was hooked.

I'd go see him practice and race at a track.

That was for me.

Racing

So this was my dream while living with my dad in Texas.

I spent hours riding the trails, trying not to run into a tree or down into a creek.

My dad made me promise I wouldn't ride the dirt bike on the street.

The entrance to the forest was about a quarter of a mile down from our house.

So I'd push the dirt bike down the street before starting it up and riding into the forest. 

I had two dirt bikes growing up: a brand new 1989 Honda CR80 my dad bought me in my early teens, and a used Yamaha YZ125 I bought in my mid-teens.

Crash and Burn

There's footage somewhere on VHS of me taking a major tumble on the 125.

Carnage.

Me going over the handlebars and the bike flipping quite a few times.

I was racing those cousins that lived on the next block, and one of them took a turn into me.

via GIPHY

(it was almost like that ⇧ but at a much higher speed - I was in 5th gear)

He was riding a quad (atv) and was gouged in his back with the end of my handlebar without being ejected from his quad.

It was a nasty crash for me, and my bike was damaged.

I survived without a broken bone nor sprained anything, but for a few minutes, my body felt like everything had been broken.

The bike was unridable... and I actually never got back on that particular motorcycle again.

All my crashes or tumbles were quite minor up until that point when I went flying at nearly 40 mph.

The pain of the crash and the pain of having to now spend money on fixing the bike calmed me down.

It wasn't until about 10 years later that I had my own motorycle again.

A Biker is Reborn

After venturing into the self-employed realm and starting my own small businesses, I had some money and time... and remembered how much I enjoyed riding with my dad on the back of his Harley as a kid.

Getting a dirt bike now was not prudent, nor did that interest me (although I still like watching motorcross).

The effort in deriving an income outside the usual job (someone's empoyee) helped me apply that mindset to my next motorcycle purchase.

When I read an ad for a mint condition 2007 Harley Davidson Sportster Classic that had been repossessed, with less than 300 miles and the price very competitive, I knew I was looking at a deal.

I drove two hours to San Diego (from Los Angeles) and made a verbal agreement to have the seller bring that motorcyle up to me on his trailer.

Upon arrival, I handed him cash-in-hand.

It was like I was 'free' again like when I was riding with my dad.

The danger and risk were back too.

A new level of road consideration was learned now that I was in control.

I could see every crack and pebble on the road.

A much greater awareness now seeing how even the slightest detail may send me to the ground.

I signed up to a website to find people to ride with and met some cool guys to spend weekend rides with, cruising into the Malibu mountains or north along Pacific Coast Highway.

We would sometimes be 20 strong on the road in a staggered formation.

Some became friends that I'm still in touch with on occasion.

One riding friend already retired, invited me over to his home one day to hang out with some of his friends and relatives.

I brought a date (a girl I actually met while riding on my motorcycle).

It is interesting how our possessions are extensions of ourseelves, or at least that is how the mind perceives them as being.

Ego

I was a different person (in my mind and in the minds of observers) having a motorcycle.

At this particular party, there are about six or eight of us enjoying some beer and light-hearted conversation.

My buddy's elderly mother happened to be there (and it is this memory I'm going to recall for you that triggered this article's writing).

I remember one moment when she looks over at me and asking me: 'do you sell drugs?'

Lol.

Now, why would this elderly lady (heritage I won't mention) suspect me of selling drugs?

Was it after hearing my name and taking a look at me in jeans and a black leather jacket?

The thing that was really funny is she asked with all sincerity.

Too much evening news perhaps?

Generational prejudices die hard, especialy when those prejudices are repeated right befor your eyes or those prejudiced against walk right into those expectations for failure.

Before she had asked the question, I had told here what city I had grown up in and some other things about my upbringing.

I get it.

Stereotypical Programming Runs Deep 

My friend (her son) was quite embarrassed.

I didn't miss a beat.

I played along with her worry for a moment, jokingly adding that I had retired from being a bandito some years ago and that she had nothing to worry about.

The Harley tear-drop shaped mirror, and a 'bad guy' with a balaclava in it.

I've had a few adventures with the Harleys and the bikers.

One of Many Near-Fatal Experiences

I almost went down a ravine while coming down Ortega Highway (route 74) in Orange County.

I was enjoying the sites across the ravine instead of keeping my eyes on the winding road.

What was funny at a moment of sheer terror was when I tried gunning the engine and pulling back on the handlebars (like I would on a dirt bike) to get over some rough patches along the side of that two-lane road (where I already was).

via GIPHY

A 650 lb. motorcycle is not easily moved by a 160 lb. human.

And the torque in high gear at 40 mph doesn't lift the front end like you'd wish it would.

Although the edge of that road sloped steeply just a few feet away, I was able to gain my composure and somehow get the bike back on the road.

My friends riding about 50 yards ahead of me never noticed me go off the road.

The only time I had an actual accident while riding street bikes was one day I was caught out in the rain.

I had the bike parked up against the curb (like you're supposed to) when the first rains of the season began.

I was in a hurry to get back home, not having ridden in the rain before and not wanting to take any chanes.

I was leaving a buddy's house and cranked the bike on and began to pull away... or so I thought.

A Lesson Learned While Laying in the Street Leathered Up

Instead of going forward, the rear tire slid to one side.

The bike came down onto my left ankle.

Another near-fatal incident.

via GIPHY

Maybe not so much 'fatal', but likely very troubling physically... like almost getting bitten by a shark.

I was wearing an old pair of Sketcher loafers.

They had a thick leather sole and were quite comfortable and still useful although very old.

These I used to ride the motorcycles.

The crank case fell on the heel of the shoe!

The shoe, with my foot still in it yet not crushed nor discomforted in any way, was keeping the bike from touching the ground!!

Neither my foot nor the bike experienced any damage.

Only my pride was damaged.

And the fact that I had gone to this 'buddy's' house to buy drugs was not missed on my conscience when laying there for a minute in the rain in utter humiliation.

via GIPHY

Some things seem insignifantly due to human error (like me almost going down the side of a mountain because I was not paying attention),

Some other things seem to turn out to be quite significant despite human error.

So there I am, stuck in my shoe and laying on the ground.

Pinned down by a quarter-ton piece of metal in the rain.

I'm yelling out to my buddy, but I know he has his music on loud all the time...

So I'm texting him 'can you please come outside and pull the motorcycle off of me?'

No response.

Those Moments of Reflection Seem to Last Forever

After about a minute of me thinking of what I can do and feeling helpless, a couple of people drive up and park their vehicle near me.

They are friends of my buddy.

I ask them nicely if they can lift the bike off of me.

They do so, and I'm very grateful and also very embarrassed.

I sold my motorcycles some years ago to utilize the money in a better way (investments), but I miss riding.

My wife isn't opposed to me having a motorcycle, and we've planned on renting a bike for a day-trip but something else would come up.

Maybe again when time and circumstance allows.