Howdy,
I was in my garage yesterday putting some tools where they oughta be, instead of leaving them piled up on the bench where I had left them. I paused to notice an old dusty brown leather king/queen seat hanging from the wall above me. I just had to sit down, light a smoke and dwell on that seat for a moment. I originally bought it for, and used it on, a Sportster that I used to have long ago.
Before I go further, any references I make about any particular make or model of motorcycle are only meant to be in a historical context. Today there are many bike companies making some fine-ass scoots, many of which are far superior to some of the pieces of crap offered up in years past. This disclaimer is to make it absolutely clear that what is said isn’t intended to offend anyone, and shouldn’t. I’ve even suggested to my own sons when they made their purchasing decisions that these days there are a lot of makes of bikes out there to choose from that are righteous. Besides, like a wise old timer once told me long ago, “It ain’t what ya ride, it’s how ya ride.” Now, getting back to it....
Years ago, after having owned a few British bikes, I became frustrated by their mysterious electrical systems and their unusual mechanical problems. I remember the early ‘70s as a time when I seemed to be wrenching on my bikes more than I rode them. So much so, that I grew to hate turning a wrench on anything with wheels unless I absolutely had to (ask my motor-head buddy Deeter).
At various times I had a BSA, a Norton, a Royal Enfield, and a Bonneville that seemed to be the best of the lot. In addition to these street bikes, I even had a 250 Triumph Trophy that was supposed to be made for on and off the road, but though I raced it in a few sanctioned hare scrambles, and even managed to place with it once, I found it was really good for neither. Needless to say I wanted something more: Something dependable and easier to understand and take care of....something that would actually take me down the road without a ton of issues. Then I found my Sportster....that one special bike I had to let get away from me.
I bought the bike from someone who couldn’t seem to make her run right and had very questionable taste about how the bike should look. The weird, but beautifully done air-brushed graphics were, shall we say, just not me (or anybody else I personally know thank God). So, she changed color a few times. That is until I eventually painted her a deep oxblood red. She ended up being just about the purtiest damned bike I’ve ever seen, even to this day. She was a 1972 XLCH, and soon with some tinkering she ran like a raped ape. I was just a skinny little puke back then, and the bike fit me like a glove (I keep referring to her as “she” because I called her Roxanne after the name of the stock Cadillac paint I used....Roxanne Red).
It didn’t take long for me to realize (after a lot of long distance pushing) that the stock 2.2 gallon gas tank was just a little too small to make the 75 mile round trip I had to go to work each day. The frame wasn’t raked, but she had an 8” over front end, so the bike stood high in front and the tank was tilted. To compensate for this I started using a 3+? gallon tank made by Paucho instead. And that made all the difference.
The bike ended up being so chromed up that the only color on her was the tires, the jugs, the frame, the sheet metal and that seat. Even the cables and hoses were covered in braided stainless steel. The old adage, “Chrome don’t get ya home” didn’t apply to Roxanne. The only times that bike was hauled was when I initially brought her home, and once when I had a front tire blow at over 60 MPH. But even then she stayed on her feet until I got her stopped.
At that point in American history there really weren’t that many bikes on the road (comparatively speaking). Often times when I pulled into a bar (which I did often back then) women would actually run out and exclaim, “WOW! Nice bike! Take me for a ride?” Those shorty pipes without baffles could be heard coming from far away. To say Bummer was in his glory days is an understatement (yes, I used to be a dawg.) That seat has had some fine....well, you get the picture.
My shoddy behavior has been somewhat modified in recent years due to the fact that I’ve come to realize what is most important about the person riding on the back. And no, it’s certainly not because I got too old and fat to pick up floozies! True wanna-be biker floozies know no such bounds. But these days, with all the bikes that are now on the road, that kinda thing probably wouldn’t happen that often anyway. A loud bike pulling into a bar? Yeah, that’s something special.
And by the way, for those of you that have had to put up with being slammed by people who might make fun of your Sportster and claim that it’s just a glorified dirt bike, you have to consider the source. Anyone who knows anything about what they’re talking about knows that a Sporty is the ballsy-est and most fun bike you could ever ride. The bike was designed for racing....and for easy maintenance. I know I had a blast owning mine for the few years I had her. In fact one of my saddest days was when I decided that I had to sell her to make ends meet financially.
I was in the middle of restoring an abandoned farmhouse and the bucks literally flew out of my hands for building supplies. But it didn’t take long to catch up, and soon I was looking for another bike.
I found an old Shovelhead at a car auction that was crashed and burned, and got it for peanuts. In a few months I had it up and on the road, and that bike worked well for me for over 25 years. But as good as that bike was and the great times I had with it, Roxanne was always in my memories like you might remember an old girlfriend.
It seems that maybe a person might grow to fit his bike, not unlike a tree or a bush will only grow as big as the soil it stands in. I just know I sure put on more than a few pounds during the years I had the Shovel. In fact, I bet the reason I got so damned fat was because I ended up with this Road King! If I just coulda kept the Sporty I might still be thin and trim LOL.
I often wonder what it is about motorcycles that make us feel the way we do about them. I mean, some of us even name our bikes. Often we talk to them (I know I’ve said a few things to mine). When we see scoots that belong to total strangers, we often stop and admire their beauty. We rubberneck when one passes us on the highway, turning to say, “Wow! Did ya see that?” like it was a passing float in Macy’s parade. If somebody we know gets a new one, we fawn over it like it’s a newborn baby, while the owner struts and gushes like it’s his kid or the new love in his life.
When most of us first get our driver’s licenses we drive our cars whenever we can. We relish that newfound freedom that can allow us to go wherever we want. In our immaturity we advertise the fact that we’ve become mature enough to have a car and a license by driving to school, to the game, to our friend’s houses, and to just tool around showing off. But in a few years we eventually tire of all this and rarely just drive around aimlessly. The car becomes a mere means of transportation.
On the other hand, long after our first few years of riding, a bike still beckons to us often no matter how “mature” we become. It allows us to relish the ride. It gives us much needed therapy and permits us to relax. No matter what’s on your mind, a ride (if it’s done properly) settles ya down. In fact, it’s almost a form of Zen.
What is it that makes us think like this?? Is it the way the motorcycle can become wings for our souls as well as our bodies? Is it the power between our legs? (Hey, watch it!) Is it the fact that we identify with the fluid motion and the beauty of the beast? Could it be that sense of almost total freedom that the bike allows us to temporarily think we have?
I think it’s all that and more. I think it just might be WHO we become. Maybe they are literally our avatars, just like the creatures in that big blockbuster movie.
Bummer
