The Responsible Thing

A friend suggested the other day that I might be interested in a motorcycle her brother-in-law was selling. It was a familiar story. The guy had recently gotten married, had a kid, and decided the responsible thing to do was give up his motorcycle. She relayed the story with a certain amount of understanding, then followed it up with, "You know what I mean?"

No.

No, I fucking don't.

I never will.

To me, giving up something you genuinely love isn't some inevitable consequence of getting married or having children. And as I've said probably a thousand times across this blog, I don't believe riding a motorcycle is inherently reckless. Yes, there are idiots on the road doing idiotic things. There are distracted drivers staring at their fucking phones. There are people changing lanes without looking. There are people who couldn't identify a motorcycle in their mirrors if you painted the fucking thing fluorescent orange and set it on fire.

Maybe that's what people should be railing against when they feign concern for someone they love. Maybe instead of telling motorcyclists to stop riding, we should expect everyone else to become better fucking drivers.

But no, I didn't say any of that.

I wasn't in the mood for the argument. Because when someone nods along with the idea that giving up your motorcycle is simply the "responsible" thing to do, there's probably not a lot of fertile ground there for a philosophical discussion about risk, freedom, and actually fucking living. So I just nodded politely and let the conversation continue.

But know, dear reader, that I am fucking not in agreement.

If someone you love has something that genuinely lights their fucking fire, why would you ever want to take that away from them? I'm not talking about destructive behavior. I'm talking about the things that make someone unmistakably themselves. The things that bring a look to their face you don't see anywhere else. The things they can't stop talking about. The things that make them feel alive.

If you genuinely love someone, shouldn't seeing that joy make you happy too?

I know what riding does for me. I know what happens inside my head when I swing my leg over a motorcycle and disappear down the highway. I know the peace that comes from the wind, the throttle, and the complete concentration required to put a motorcycle exactly where I want it. Riding isn't something I happen to do. It's woven into who I fucking am.

Asking me to give that up wouldn't be asking me to abandon a hobby.

You'd be asking me to amputate part of myself.

Anyway, the conversation continued, and my friend told me that when she heard this motorcycle was going up for sale, I was the first person she thought of. Which was sweet, I suppose. Although she also supposedly rides, and I've never actually seen her motorcycle, so I have some suspicions about what the word "rides" means in this particular situation.

You know the type.

Seventy degrees. Clear blue sky. No chance of rain. Maybe five hundred or a thousand miles a year. Motorcycle comes out of the garage a few weekends every summer, gets polished afterward, and spends the rest of its existence hooked to a battery tender.

And that's fine.

Seriously.

Ride however the fuck you want.

I appreciate the steady supply of pristine, low-mileage motorcycles those people eventually dump onto the used market. They're doing the rest of us a valuable public service.

But we are not the fucking same.

If your soul doesn't occasionally demand time in the saddle, I don't know how to explain mine to you. If you don't wake up needing to ride, if you don't find yourself staring at the motorcycle in the garage after work thinking, Yeah, I could probably squeeze in another hundred miles before dark, then we experience motorcycles very differently.

I've arrived at hotels after riding all goddamned day through scorching desert heat, face sunburned, body sore, completely exhausted, checked into my room, dumped my shit on the bed...

And wanted to go for a ride.

That makes absolutely no fucking sense.

I know.

I don't care.

So eventually we got to the big reveal. The motorcycle she thought would make the perfect addition to my garage.

What was it?

A fucking Suzuki Boulevard.

Of course it was.

Now, she tried to sell me on the idea that maybe it could eventually be something Dawna could ride. Fair enough, except Dawna already knows what she wants. She's a Harley girl at heart. She has motorcycles she wants to work her way toward, and unless something has changed dramatically since the last time we talked about it, a Suzuki isn't anywhere on that fucking list.

And neither is it on mine.

My friend rides a Japanese sport-tourer herself, so I suppose from her perspective the suggestion makes perfect sense. It's a motorcycle. I like motorcycles. Therefore, I might want this motorcycle.

That's adorable.

But that's not really how this works.

Yes, I prefer to buy American when I can. But there's another part of the equation that's probably even more important to me.

I like muscle.

I like horsepower.

I like torque.

I like twisting the throttle and having the motorcycle respond with a very clear understanding that we're about to do something fucking stupid together.

That's one of the reasons I've gravitated toward Harleys. The motorcycle that leaves the factory doesn't have to be the motorcycle you own five years later. There's an enormous aftermarket built around turning these things into exactly what you want them to become. Engines. Cams. Heads. Exhaust. Fueling. Suspension. You can build something that's completely and unapologetically yours.

I've owned motorcycles where that wasn't nearly as easy. I learned that lesson with my Scout. It was a good motorcycle. I enjoyed it. But when I started wanting more out of it, I discovered pretty quickly that my options were much more limited than I wanted them to be.

Eventually, that bike became Aurora.

And Aurora makes a lot more sense to me.

She's American muscle distilled into two wheels. Loud, obnoxious, completely unnecessary, and increasingly ridiculous every time I decide she needs just a little more power.

That's my kind of motorcycle.

So yeah, when my friend offered to send me the information on the bike, I told her to send it over. I'll look at damn near any motorcycle. I like motorcycles. Maybe it's a screaming deal. Maybe somebody else I know is looking for exactly that bike. Maybe seeing it will somehow change my mind.

But let's be serious.

I gave up motorcycles for a huge chunk of my adult life because my ex-wife was terrified of them, and I capitulated. I rode some in high school, then spent decades away from the saddle. It took dying to remind me that maybe giving up the things that make you feel alive isn't such a great fucking strategy.

So when I finally came back to motorcycles, I didn't come back halfway. I discovered American muscle. I discovered horsepower and torque. I discovered that I could take a motorcycle and turn it into exactly the ridiculous fucking machine I wanted it to be.

And I'm not giving that up again.

There's American muscle sitting in my garage. There's more of it coming. I've already spent enough of my life letting fear (especially somebody else's fear) decide what I was allowed to love.

And somebody thinks I'm going to come home with a stock Suzuki Boulevard?

Come the fuck on.