Only a motorcyclist knows what a dog feels like when it sticks it’s head out the car window: Redux

Still wheeling after all these years

Happy Monday! As I cleaned up the year-old Indian Chieftan Limited Edition this morning in preparation for a cool mountain ride in the pines—I thought this 15-month-old essay was worth a repost. About a hundred of you saw it back in April ‘23. I hope you enjoy this riff on two-wheel adventures and some changes brought about by A Sober Mind.

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Let’s say right away that motorcycle riding is not for everyone. There’s a good argument in fact that it’s for less and less people today, given our distracted and impatient World. For those of us that have weighed the many pros and cons and have made a conscious decision to participate in the two-wheeled universe, we notice these things. My love of riding motorcycles came a bit later but given my 2-wheel history it made perfect sense.

I’ve always loved bikes. Most kids of my generation do. I see far fewer kids bombing around the neighborhoods on their stingrays and BMX bikes today. This is a huge loss of freedom in my opinion. We had two-wheel biker gangs when I was a kid. My treasured candy-apple red Schwinn Stingray with the fat pavement slick on the back. We’d be gone from the house all day in summer months, building ramps and dirt piles, measuring our skid marks on the freshly paved cul-de-sacs.

In teen years I graduated to a forest green Schwinn Varsity 10-speed. I inverted the drop bars for better wheelies. As my time became split between school, sports, Boy Scouts, and girls; the Varsity was reliable transportation. Heavy steel frame and durable tubed tires made for a durable commando platform as well, as we hoisted BB guns, firecrackers, and bottle rockets on evening raids. A college job working in a sporting goods store allowed me to upgrade to a Motobecane Grand Record with Campagnolo gears. I was the shit rolling to classes with my early rectangle Sony Walkman and headphones. Bikes were my constant companion in my youth and early adulthood. My introduction to the amazing mountain bike came almost accidentally through a job. Having just begun my second career in sports marketing, I was introduced to NORBA (National off-road Bicycle Association). This was an organization independent of USA Cycling back in the 80s, and managed by a group out of Phoenix called the American Bicycle Association. The ABA was a sanctioning body (still is) for BMX racing. Many of the early converts to mountain bike racing grew out of BMX so it was a natural extension. Those years were heady as I found myself right in the middle of USA Cycling’s attempt to own the up-and-coming sport of mountain biking. “Klunkers” had been bombing down the hills around Marin County and Colorado for a couple of decades. I got to meet the pioneers; Gary Fischer, John Parker (Yeti), Tom Ritchey, Charlie Kelly, Joe Breeze, Doug Bradbury. Working to raise sponsorship dollars and also managing racer relations took me to many of the early organized races in Big Bear, Durango, Crested Butte, and of course the World Mountain Bike Championships in Mammoth Mountain. Legendary mountain owner Dave McCoy, Head of mountain operations Bill Cockroft, and his race crew at Mammoth, were committed to fat tire racing early on. Their 4-stage championships included downhill, cross country, cyclocross, and trials. We did a series of 30-minute shows on ESPN that you can still find on YouTube. My very first mountain bike purchase was a pro-deal made possible in the late 80s by the young racing talent John Tomac. He raced on a matte grey Mongoose with no suspension. I loved that bike. My Phoenix buddy Byron got one as well, and we beat those things like big, bass drums. In short order, the riders like Tomac, Ned Overend, Julie Furtado, and others organized themselves to sanction with the UCI in order to formalize their growing sport. My professional connection to mountain biking ended there, but certainly not my love. Moving to Vail, I found a whole community of riders and racers to support my habit. I continued riding both road and mountain bikes for many years. I now possess a fat-tire version that gets me around my own property, neighborhood, and the occasional trail quite adequately.

I didn’t grow up having access to motorcycles. A couple of neighborhood friends had mini-bikes and dirt bikes. Some of them had big brothers with street bikes that we’d see roaring out of the ‘hood with envy. I always coveted a Yamaha mini-enduro or a Honda 70 or 90, both of which were popular when I was growing up. I got the chance to ride both of them once or twice under the watchful eye of the owner.

Street bikes didn’t really interest me in those early days. The many examples demonstrated to me while rolling down the interstate were of two types; gangs of leather clad Harley riders, or pairs of couples snuggled up on Honda Goldwings. Neither appealed. I managed to own a Kawasaki 900 (chain chewer) during my college years. My experience was full-throttle, dangerous, and brief. I didn’t own, and wasn’t around, motorcycles much after that for many years.

One of my closest friends had enormous success on Wall Street and began collecting fast cars and fast bikes. He had a carriage house garage on his Greenwich, CT property to showcase his collection. After a traumatic divorce, while living a rich, single guy’s existence, he wrecked on one of his collector bikes coming home one late night from Manhattan. It was touch and go for long months. He lost his arm as a result of the accident, yet has made a hard, won and remarkable recovery after many years. He now golfs and sails at a high level with a prosthetic. As a result of his accident and the loss of his arm, my friend liquidated his collection of bikes, off-loading one classic to me at a favorable price. The bike was a chromed-out Ducati Monster with drop bars and sexy attachments. I have several standout memories from owning that bike. One summer Saturday afternoon, I rolled into the parking lot of south Denver sports complex to watch my friend Darrell’s oldest boy compete on the field. As I roared in on the Ducati with shorts and flip-flops on—sans helmet, I could feel the judgmental eyes of every mom and dad upon me. What an example I was setting. I definitely heard about it from my buddy and his wife.

The Monster was eye candy to be sure and made quite the entrance for my regular cafe runs to meet friends at downtown Denver bars and restaurants. This coincided rather unfortunately with a time in my life when I was imbibing heavily. Many evenings I would question my ability to manage the quick-handling Ducati on my routes home. As had been evidenced many times in my life, I was spared the horrible outcome that has befallen many other drunk drivers. Making a typically alcoholic decision—I ended up selling the bike—rather than address the issue of my drinking. It took me several years more address the underlying problem. One promise I made to myself was that I would own another bike once I reached my one-year sober anniversary.

On that date, I arrived at Erico Motorsports in uptown Denver, eager to get back to 2-wheel freedom. I chose a Triumph Thunderbird Storm. The World’s largest parallel twin powerplant at 1,700 CC, it was a blacked-out beast. This time, I bought two helmets, several leather jackets, boots, gloves, and Kevlar-lined blue jeans to accompany my new soulcycle. I immediately signed up for a safety class, required in Colorado to get your motorcycle license. My attitude and my learning curve were intentional. I was going to be a responsible member of the motorcycle riding community.

I found a group of sober riders in my recovery community. Inviting my close buddy Steve to join me one weeknight for a Rockies baseball game, I told him to meet me at my downtown office. Jump on the back of the bike and we’ll head over to Coors Field. Parking is free for motorcycles. He looked askance at me and half-kidding but not really, he replied, dude really? On the back? In my shorts? I mean if we were in the Caribbean, and we were riding a little scooter and going out to dinner…maybe. What if someone sees me?

I said, fine but then you’re paying the $30 bucks for parking. He relented and we bombed the 1-mile route to the stadium uneventfully. Two weeks later he purchased his own Harley V-Rod, which is kind of a Harley but not a Harley.

Much fun was had on Saturday and Sunday mornings. A group of us would leave the house early to beat traffic, and rat-race up one of the several canyons slicing up the front range mountains west of Denver. Coal Creek Canyon, Clear Creek, and others, which connect to the awesome Peak to Peak Highway running north and south between Black Hawk and Estes Park. My riding skills improved at pace.

Like all motorcyclists, I’ve had my share of close calls. Times where another driver has made a sudden, unpredictable move in front of or next to me. Riding a motorcycle requires a person’s full attention. This may sound weird, but it’s one of the most enjoyable aspects of it. In this world of more and more comfort and automation, riding a bike requires both hands, both feet, all your senses, and a quick, decisive mind. You develop a sixth sense, almost trying to read the mind of other drivers. Are they looking down at their phone? Texting? Paying attention? Yelling at their kids in the back seat? You begin to see hand movements, head movements, and the resulting car movements very clearly. Riding a bike demonstrates as clearly as anything else how distracted we humans are in our daily lives—minute by minute. And we are. Distracted.

Motorcycle riding is a combination of exhilaration, fear, relaxation, and pleasure that changes you forever. It’s physical & emotional pleasure, with a layer of anxiety & adrenaline. You see everything. You smell everything. You hear everything. Many riders use headphones or music within their helmets. I prefer the ambient sound of the pipes when you throttle up quickly, the sounds of braking, sirens, birds, booms, planes, copters, and the like. The visceral nature of having all of your senses immediately accessible is part of the exhilaration in my opinion—and part of safe riding.

So much of our automobile experience has become sanitized. Perfectly soft and quiet interiors, soft (or loud) music playing, automated lane control, acceleration, braking, radar, parking; it has all become so easy—so detached from the surroundings. Not so on a motorcycle. Here’s a moment:

I’m flying down a two-lane highway in the mountains.  I’m on my Triumph Storm and the parallel twin cylinders are putting out a hundred-plus horsepower directly to the road through an inch of rubber clinging to the asphalt front and back.  Nothing is more “in the moment” than rodeoing a large street bike.  My small group is doing what we call “bombing the canyons.”  We left Denver at dawn and made our way to State Highway 93 that runs from Golden to Boulder, connecting with Highway 36 on its way to Estes Park.  Coal Canyon, Peak to Peak Highway, Left Hand Canyon, back up and back down we go.  No one is on the roads except a few other riders like us.  Accelerate hard.  Lean forward.  Feel the bike roaring beneath.  See the yellow line up in the distance arcing around the turn and disappearing.  Coming in a little hot.  Whoa.  Stomp on the rear brake.  Let off the brake.  Downshift.  Push the handlebar forward.  Drop into the turn...hard.  Lean.  Harder.  See the asphalt.  Watch for sand.  Shift weight back up.  Rise out the turn.  Yank back on the throttle.  Feel the front end get light.  Lean forward.  Up shift.  Again.  Check my mirrors.  I see myself through the face shield of my helmet.  Huge fucking grin.  

I traded up for a different Triumph when I moved to Texas. I swapped the Storm for a Rocket III, the largest production engine made. 2300 CC of immediately available torque and acceleration. I love the retro look. The handling of a much smaller bike. The throaty roar is the same but on steroids. Power personified between my legs. I have developed my own set of road rules. I ride smaller roads, mostly 2-lanes. Interstates and long trips don’t appeal. The perfect ride is in the morning for a couple of hours, finishing with an outdoor lunch somewhere scenic, then the ride home. I don’t ride at night. There are lots of deer and other critters constantly crossing the Hill Country roads. It’s hard enough to see and dodge them during the day—I don’t need the additional stress. My bride Ann loves the experience. I’ve tried to get her onto her own bike, but she’d rather hang on tight and squeal. Riding together summons total concentration on the joy of the present moment, and washes clear the worries of the day with one twist of the throttle grip. As a gift to our relationship, I upgraded to the Indian a year ago. She now has a full—climate-controlled back seat, sissy bar, and saddlebags—you know for stuff. I have a fairing and a full-blown sound system. We are happy.

God willing and the crick don’t rise—We will continue. Sober, fast, and free.