Fair-Weather Riders

You should have seen this one coming. It was only a matter of time.

There are several people I work with who claim to be motorcycle riders. Every once in a while I'll start talking about one of my bikes, some new upgrade I'm planning, or some ride I just got back from, and before long somebody's pulling out their phone to show me pictures of their bike. Like proud parents, we end up standing there admiring each other's machines while talking about cams, paint, exhausts, suspension, and all the little things that make our motorcycles ours.

I fucking love that.

It's one of my favorite things about the motorcycle community. Doesn't matter whether you're talking to someone on a Sportster, a Gold Wing, a Road Glide, or some custom chopper they built in their garage. Ask them about their bike with genuine curiosity and watch what happens. Their whole demeanor changes. They light up. The hardest-looking one-percenter you've ever met will happily spend twenty minutes talking about his motorcycle if he knows you're actually interested. I've said it before, but it's worth repeating: bikers are some of the most accepting people I've ever met. Pull into the same gas station on two wheels and you've already got something in common.

But not all bikers are the same.

This is something I've talked about before, and it's something I still don't fully understand. Not everybody who rides is obsessed with riding.

I am.

There's a difference.

To me, riding isn't transportation. It isn't recreation. It isn't even really a hobby anymore. Riding is where I go to quiet my mind. It's where life makes sense again. It's where all the noise in my head gets carried away by the wind somewhere between Santa Fe and Los Alamos. Riding isn't the means to an end. Riding is the destination.

So when someone tells me they're a motorcycle rider, but I never actually see their bike in the parking garage at work, my brain just kind of... locks up.

It's seventy-five degrees outside.

Why are you driving?

I don't mean that as criticism. I genuinely don't understand it.

If there's no snow or ice, I'm riding. Rain? Fine. Cold? I'll throw on another layer. Wind? It wouldn't be New Mexico without it. Nyx came home with me at the end of January this year. It's only the beginning of July, and she's already somewhere around thirteen thousand miles. Assuming she quits inventing new electrical problems, she'll probably finish her first year somewhere around thirty thousand miles.

That's normal to me.

Apparently, it isn't normal to everyone else.

I'll jokingly call them fair-weather riders because, if I'm being honest, I'm kind of an asshole sometimes. But the older I get, the more I wonder if maybe I'm the strange one in this equation.

Maybe most people don't need motorcycles the way I do.

Maybe for them it's just something fun to do on a Saturday afternoon. Maybe they genuinely enjoy riding but don't feel compelled to throw a leg over every single chance they get. Maybe they don't need that rumble underneath them to reset their soul after a hard day.

I do.

Maybe that's the difference.

The funny thing is, despite all the grief I give fair-weather riders, I'm genuinely grateful they exist. They're the reason the used motorcycle market is full of beautiful bikes with hardly any miles on them. Somebody has to buy these things, keep them polished, ride them a thousand miles a year, and eventually trade them in.

God bless every one of them.

They're making sure there's always another nearly-new Harley waiting for obsessive weirdos like me.

So no, I still don't understand the rider who leaves their motorcycle in the garage on a perfect summer day.

I probably never will.

But then again, they probably don't understand why I look out the window every morning hoping for anything except snow.

I guess we're both a little weird.

I'm okay with that.