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Kick
Starting the Grumbles
I really don't care what you ride so if you're riding a jap bike quit
apologizing for it! The dude who apologized for riding a Goldwing cause
he just couldn't take vibration then went on with the old: “it's so
smooth I can balance a nickel on it's edge on the engine while it's
running” bull story just made me laugh, I got no respect for that. The
other day I pulled up along side of a young guy on a small (175cc
maybe?) Honda street. Said he had owned it since he was 15 and he looked
to be in his mid twenties. Said he had rebuilt it once already and the
bike looked well ridden but taken care of. I hope we meet up some day
when he's got a “big” bike, I'd be proud to ride with him. By the
way my bike is a 1976 Guzzi 850T3, 34 years old at the time of this
writing. I didn't buy new 'cause I just couldn't bring myself to put
cash in the hands of non-bikers and the new stuff just ain't the old
stuff, it's ahhhhh too new. This brings us to the second reason for not
buying new. I'm glad it worked that way at the dealerships because I
bought a “project” bike. One that I could ride away on but would
require love and attention. So now I get too “sleep” with my
“new” 34 year “old lady” and I'll know her a lot more intimately
than you'll ever know yours.
Biker
Defined
A couple of Sundays ago I saddled up and went about 15 miles to
breakfast. I guess I missed the road home and kinda got lost cause it
took me three hundred miles to get back. What a ride! All back roads
with a good mix of curves and straights, woods and fields. Very little 4
wheel traffic and a beautiful sunny day. Found a little coffee shop and
that's what it's all about.
In “the day” if strangers on two wheelers stopped at
the same light or stop sign they actually talked and a lot of times
ended up in that little coffee shop. We swapped riding stories, how to
fix..., how to make..., hey do you know..., have you ever ridden....,
…..gone camping etc.
Grumbles
Revisited
On
another Sunday ride I stopped 3 times to talk with Bikers but what I
found was “Motorcyclists”. I could tell they were
“Motorcyclists” by the way they were dressed and the “newness”
of their bikes but decided to chance it anyway. The first was a couple
close to my age on a XXXX (we ain't gonna “brand bash” here) with
saddle bags. The woman was talkative, the guy was trying to beeeeee
what? No smile, no greeting, no nothing. Maybe my feelings were hurt
cause I love it when I'm asked about my bike and he didn't. They had no
destination, no time limit and were heading down a road that I knew was
a dead end and very bumpy. I started to say something but he took off,
maybe he thought I was chatting up his wife? Anyway I followed for the
fun of it because the road is a few miles long and ends in a cul d'sac
turn around. I thought maybe we could stop and pick up the conversation
at the cul d'sac. I was planning on telling him how much smoother that
XXXX took the bumps as a way of breaking the ice, but he didn't stop,
just turned around and bounced on out of there.
I
split off and went another way and found a little county park. Pulling
in I spotted two XXXX's and their riders (guys my age) and parked the
Guzzi. The bikes and the riders were “dressed” almost identical (so
much for the “rugged individualist” bikes once portrayed) My bike
has a short sidestand that likes to sink in soft dirt or hot pavement so
I bumped it up on the center stand. One guy asked the other guy if it
was a BMW and the other guy was smart enough to read “MotoGuzzi” on
the tank. Then the first guy starts talking about how he could never get
his XXXX up on the “Double Kickstand” but a 100lb girl he knew could
do hers with no problem. These guys were dressed in the typical
“biker” gear, red bandanas, fingerless gloves, black leather vests
etc. etc. I offered to show him the trick but he wasn't interested, he
didn't care that my bike was 34 years old either (hurt my feelings
again!) or that Harley in the 1900's was one of the first to run a drive
chain instead of a belt giving them an advantage in rainy weather over
the Indians. My grandfather rode a Harley and was known to the local
cops (who rode Indians) as the Flying Dutchman. One dude was interested
in being cool as he left and that little extra throttle in the dirt
almost dumped him.
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