Everyone is trying to kill me.
The above thought runs through my brain every time I get on two wheels. It’s the product of an ungodly number of motorcycle miles and the resulting brushes with death. I will likely die in a motorcycle accident. I know this. But I’d rather spend my remaining wheels riding, than a few more hiding behind a steel cage. It’s a likely trade off, and one that I eagerly make. Anyone who’s ridden for any length of time will probably agree.
The assumption can be made that I’m crazy. I’d be hard-pressed to present a valid argument to the contrary. Insane or not, I do so thoroughly enjoy the wind in my face, the rumble of the bike as it growls down the road, the freedom – despite the exposure. It can be a pain in the ass; the rain, the bugs, the cold, the heat, the lack of a mere trunk. But I’ve learned to live a Spartan lifestyle, and there’s a simplicity to that life that makes it vastly more enjoyable. A zen thing. Yeah, I’m probably just crazy.
On my eighth birthday, way back in 1974, I woke up to a brand-spanking new Honda MR-50. I had no idea the joy that stood before me. Aside from sex, it would singularly lead me to the most precious experiences of my life. Shiny, red, with that “new bike” smell (actually smelt like oil if I properly recall)- it would be the vehicle of my future childhood adventures. My parents, my father in particular, had known the biker lifestyle. The greatest gift they could give me, was right there, begging me to go play. I did. Oh yes, I most certainly did.
The following stories are intended to illuminate. I’m hoping that through my errors, I can save lives. Even if only one person escapes, this effort has been worth it.