Motorcycle Summer

Ah! Summertime in America. Such sweet sounds, smells, and feelings! Here in the modern US of A, we the people are treated to the joys of American summertime activities. We can sit and lounge around to the smell of blossoming flowers, buzzing honeybees, soft, gentle summer breezes…AND then we get the smell of engine oil, the sound of rumbling engines, and the breeze of… passing motorcycles. Hundreds, maybe thousands of motorcycles. The darn things are everywhere!

Yep. Summertime in America is rapidly becoming the season of the mega-motorcycle runs. Just what gives nowadays? It’s an epidemic (or “pandemic” if you read it in the news).

Ever try to take a nice, leisurely summer drive down to the local watering hole on a Sunday morning only to find yourself pulled over, or perhaps waved to a stop as hundreds of “dirty bikers” thunder past on their motorcycles, riding en masse to some party or other? And you wait, and you wait, AND you wait.

And they keep coming, guys and gals, guys, gals, guys and guys, gals and gals, solo or in pairs keep passing. Big motorcycles, little motorcycles, quiet motorcycles, loud motorcycles, three wheeled motorcycles (!) Custom motorcycles. Expensive motorcycles, old motorcycles held together with wire, new motorcycles resplendent in their debut. Red motorcycles, white motorcycles, motorcycles of every color under the rainbow roar past, tooting the horns and waving at anything that moves, or sometimes doesn't. I saw some riders waving to an empty pickup truck on the side of a road).

But the predominant color is black. Black motorcycles, black t-shirts, black leather outfits fly past in some orgy of dark rebellion, a joyous cacophony of noise and colors that just drives you crazy. And some cops tells you that you can’t do anything about it. (sigh!).

So whilst you’re sitting there fuming about just what is going on lately, about how this country is going to the dogs (was that a dog that went by on that motorcycle?) please pause to think of what drives normally respectable people to don crazy outfits, mount expensive, loud machines, and tie up your street for what seems like hours? What drives these people to drive? What is going on?

Well… each ride is different, and if you check the “motorcycle guy” web site, you’ll read about thousands of motorcycle runs, parades, shows, meets, and general gatherings from New York to Maine (and other parts of the country as well in their own regions). Each entry lists an event, starting time, cost of entry, and a person to contact. Besides most of these entries is a list of whatever charity is the beneficiary of the event.

Charity? Whoa! Hold on! Did I just cay “charity”? Yep. These “dirty bikers” all deck themselves out, gather on a hot summer weekend day and ride in huge groups for charity. Not for some nihilistic reason that one might suppose (had one not known better,) but for causes like Multiple Sclerosis, Diabetes, Domestic Violence, Children’s charities - heck there’s even rides for the Jerry Lewis Telethon. The ride I went on yesterday was for needy veterans. These people gather together, pay for their own gas and maintenance, pay admissions fees, etc., as a way of giving to charities. Who’d a thunk?

And these charities rake in big bucks. Consider that many things are donated to the run by local businesses, if you take the ten dollar per person cost to participate in the run, multiply it by a thousand bikes (a moderately large event), you get ten thousand dollars. Then try to figure out how many of these bikes carry passengers and add that amount. A lot of non-government funds goes to helping out society in these events, all provided by them “dirty bikers”. (Oh! And every dollar given to charity by these events, that’s one LESS dollar that the federal government will grab from your wallet at tax time.)

Now before the “ten percent-ers” decide top camp on my lawn, please let me point out a few facts about these “dirty bikers” who happen to have bigger hearts than most people recognize. Each major event has a ride pin, which many riders purchase and wear in their riding vests, jackets, or what have you. These vests, jackets, etc., are like a travelogue for that person. It shows where they have been, for how long, and often carries the logos and insignias of the various organizations that the rider supports. Mine is denim, but many are leather, and most are black - the unofficial color of motorcycle gear. While many don’t brag, most will take the time to explain their pins and patches to you, if you take the time to ask. It not only shows how serious he is at his sport, but how big his heart may be.

I’ve been riding to events since the 80’s and have yet to see riders fight amongst themselves. These “dirty bikers” are amongst the most polite and congenial folks I’ve ever had the pleasure to associate with. You can sit down at a table with complete strangers, and join in the conversation without angry stares or rudeness.

And these folks are respectful. During the opening of many of the rides I’ve attended, there has frequently been a singing of our National Anthem. If you go to any event, a ballgame, for example, there are always those people who ignore the anthem, talk, run about and generally disrespect our country’s anthem. Not at a bike run. Last Saturday you could have heard a pin drop during the singing. A person at our table said “the anthem!” and we all stood respectfully, hands over hearts, facing whatever flag we could perceive (there wasn’t a shortage), and listened. Try seeing that at the ballgame.

These folk are laborers, craftsmen, policemen, professors, lawyers, from every walk of life. Upper and lower class, they all come together for the event. Even the untrained eye can see the difference between the large, new, and expensive bikes and the older, smaller, less expensive economy models as they pass by. All kinds of people, doing their thing in peace helping the social condition of America. And yet some still call them “dirty bikers”

Oh, and speaking of “Dirty bikers”, one seldom sees litter at one of these events. Trash cans are used, and even smokers show courtesy to others.

But back to the event. Each event needs a meeting place large enough to hold the group, and the people who host these events have to get there early in order to be able to setup and take entrants like me who habitually arrive hours early - to check out the newest and fanciest bikes, and to socialize. The sponsors, often dozens of people working together, toil in the heart and noise for hours with no compensation other than that of a job well done, and the appreciation of all concerned. They prepare food, vend souvenirs, patrol the grounds for cleanup, collecting soda cans, etc., Many groups even provide little wooden platforms for the kickstand so the bike doesn’t sink into the ground and fall over. Some organizations provide water on hot days.

The organizers provide police and traffic control for major intersections, so that cars don’t try to break into the run, and so that the bikers can proceed safely. Many of these people volunteer their time without pay, and have to deal with irate motorists inconvenienced by the run. It is people like these who exemplify what is Good with America.

Routes have to be planned well in advance, local authorities must be involved and in accord with the event, and all this must be completed months before the actually event. Some events are advertised on various venues. Others are word of mouth, like the 7500 bike “Pappy’s Run” of Eastern Connecticut.

Food must be procured, prepared and served. Serving food can be a tedious process often involving standing in a hot, humid tent constantly ladling food into plates, trying not to overturn anybody’s meal. This can consume hours of time without break, yet these people do it year after year.

Parking must be directed, which involves standing and walking on the hot pavement for hours making sure people park correctly in order to maximize the quantity of motorcycles whilst minimizing the acreage required. Wearing heave, often plastic reflective vests help identify these folks.

Whilst many bikers love to “hoist the wee cup”, I have seen very little beer and other alcoholic drinks. Whilst some venues offer these, I have never seen a drunk biker on a run. I have seen drunk motorists try to cut into the run taking little regard for the life of the bikers, and of their family members. Seldom have I heard of violence resulting from this kind of dangerous car operation. Oh! And I have never ever seen any drug use whatsoever. So much for the stereotype.

And I see black and white bikers. And I see men ride, I see women ride. I see straight bikers and gay bikers, young bikers, old bikers, fat bikers, skinny bikers, you name it, it rides. And these people all come together and nobody judges anybody, nobody picks on anybody, everybody gets along and there is no social agenda. There is no need for one.

So if you happen to be driving about on some summer weekend in America and happen by one of these motorcycle parades, please consider a few things: These people are giving their time and money into the social fabric of this country, and are helping the needy in whatever venue they opt for. What you see may inconvenience you - heck it can take a hour just for all those bikes to go past - but what you are seeing is merely the tip of the iceberg of the commitment of these people to the cause. That these people are among the most respectful people you’ll ever meet. I’d rather my daughter hangs around these “dirty bikers” than a roomful of lawyers teachers or businessmen. I trust these folk more.

I remain grateful for those people who take the time to organize staff and support these runs. I cannot appreciate enough all the long hours, the behind-the-scenes planning and organizing that goes behind each and every one of these events. You toil hard and long for months for one big day, people like me come and go, but then you start again for next year. Thank you. You might be volunteers, but your reward will come.

I’m sorry if anyone is inconvenienced by these runs that are proliferating across the fruited plain, but I hope that you can understand that this is a simple show of support caring and empathy for those among us who cannot join the ride. I know that driving into a parade route is a drag, and takes time, but maybe if you shut off your engine, step outside and really look at the group passing by you’ll see families with their children, husbands and wives, friends and lovers of all different stripes coming together for one day to help support the betterment of our society.

But for all those motorists who are inconvenienced as the motorcycles pass by, and become understandably miffed at the delay, I for one appreciate your forbearance. I know that it must be a drag for some of you to have to wait whilst all those noisy, smelly things roar past, and I really appreciate your tolerance of the activities. Thank you all for being neighborly and amiable.

Children love motorcycles. It’s instinctual. And motorcyclists love children. The same can be said for the elderly, to whom this country owes so much. This is a fun event for them - can you see the joy? The promise in young hearts? The remembrance in wizened eyes? Maybe if you can really see what roars before you, then maybe you can understand why these folks spend five hours in the heat and humidity waiting for a one hour ride. And when you understand what those “dirty bikers” Are all about you can take pride in your fellow American - and wave back.

Well, you should know that ridin' a bike is not a simple matter. For instance, here is a story that was making the rounds last year about the "Freeper Banzai Kamakazi Squirrel"

(snip)

I never dreamed slowly cruising through a residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous! Studies have shown that motorcycling requires more decisions per second, and more sheer data processing than nearly any other common activity or sport. The reactions and accurate decision making abilities needed have been likened to the reactions of fighter pilots! The consequences of bad decisions or poor situational awareness are pretty much the same for both groups too.

Occasionally, as a rider I have caught myself starting to make bad or late decisions while riding. In flight training, my instructors called this being "behind the power curve". It is a mark of experience that when this begins to happen, the rider recognizes the situation, and more importantly, does something about it. A short break, a meal, or even a gas stop can set things right again as it gives the brain a chance to catch up.

Good, accurate, and timely decisions are essential when riding a motorcycle.at least if you want to remain among the living. In short, the brain needs to keep up with the machine.

I had been banging around the roads of east Texas and as I headed back into Dallas, found myself in very heavy, high-speed traffic on the freeways. Normally, this is not a problem, I commute in these conditions daily, but suddenly I was nearly run down by a cage (biker term for a car) that decided it needed my lane more than I did. This is not normally a big deal either, as it happens around here often, but usually I can accurately predict which drivers are not paying attention and avoid them before we are even close. This one I missed seeing until it was nearly too late, and as I took evasive action I nearly broadsided another car that I was not even aware was there!

Two bad decisions and insufficient situational awareness.all within seconds. I was behind the power curve. Time to get off the freeway. I hit the next exit, and as I was in an area I knew pretty well, headed through a few big residential neighborhoods as a new route home. As I turned onto the nearly empty streets I opened the visor on my full-face helmet to help get some air. I figured some slow riding through the quiet surface streets would give me time to relax, think, and regain that "edge" so frequently required when riding. Little did I suspect.

As I passed an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me. It was a squirrel, and must have been trying to run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it-it was that close.

I hate to run over animals.and I really hate it on a motorcycle, but a squirrel should pose no danger to me. I barely had time to brace for the impact.

Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels can take care of themselves!

Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on his hind legs and facing the oncoming Valkyrie with steadfast resolve in his little beady eyes. His mouth opened, and at the last possible second, he screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, "Banzai!" or maybe, "Die you gravy-sucking, heathen scum!" as the leap was spectacular and he flew over the windshield and impacted me squarely in the chest.

Instantly he set upon me. If I did not know better I would have sworn he brought twenty of his little buddies along for the attack. Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As I was dressed only in a light t-shirt, summer riding gloves, and jeans this was a bit of a cause for concern. This furry little tornado was doing some damage!

Picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and leather gloves puttering maybe 25mph down a quiet residential street.and in the fight of his life with a squirrel. And losing.

I grabbed for him with my left hand and managed to snag his tail. With all my strength I flung the evil rodent off the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I recoiled from the throw.

That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there. It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the pristinely kept yards and gone on about his business, and I could have headed home. No one would have been the wiser. But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary pissed-off squirrel. This was an evil attack squirrel of death!

Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands, and with the force of the throw swung around and with a resounding thump and an amazing impact he landed square on my back and resumed his rather anti-social and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my left glove with him!

The situation was not improved. Not improved at all. His attacks were continuing, and now I could not reach him. I was startled to say the least. The combination of the force of the throw, only having one hand (the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back unfortunately put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of a Valkyrie can only have one result. Torque. This is what the Valkyrie is made for, and she is very, very good at it. The engine roared as the front wheel left the pavement. The squirrel screamed in anger. The Valkyrie screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in, well, I just plain screamed.

Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a slightly squirrel torn t-shirt, and only one leather glove roaring at maybe 70mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet residential street.on one wheel and with a demonic squirrel on his back. The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder.

With the sudden acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back on the handlebars and try to get control of the bike. This was leaving the mutant squirrel to his own devices, but I really did not want to crash into somebody's tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured out how to release the throttle.my brain was just simply overloaded. I did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little affect against the massive power of the big cruiser.

About this time the squirrel decided that I was not paying sufficient attention to this very serious battle (maybe he is a Scottish attack squirrel of death), and he came around my neck and got IN my full-face helmet with me. As the faceplate closed partway and he began hissing in my face I am quite sure my screaming changed tone and intensity. It seemed to have little affect on the squirrel however. The rpm's on The Dragon maxed out (I was not concerned about shifting at the moment) and her front end started to drop. Now picture the large man on the huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a very ragged torn t-shirt, and wearing one leather glove, roaring at probably 80mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy squirrel's tail sticking out his mostly closed full-face helmet. By now the screams are probably getting a little hoarse.

Finally I got the upper hand.I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it worked.sort-of. Spectacularly sort-of, so to speak.

Picture the scene. You are a cop. You and your partner have pulled off on a quiet residential street and parked with your windows down to do some paperwork.

Suddenly a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a torn t-shirt flapping in the breeze, and wearing one leather glove, moving at probably 80mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder roars by and with all his strength throws a live squirrel grenade directly into your police car.

I heard screams. They weren't mine...

I managed to get the big motorcycle under directional control and dropped the front wheel to the ground. I then used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a cloud of tire smoke at the stop sign at a busy cross street.

I would have returned to fess up (and to get my glove back). I really would have. Really. But for two things. First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about me at the moment. One of them was on his back in the front yard of the house they had been parked in front of and was rapidly crabbing backwards away from the patrol car. The other was standing in the street and was training a riot shotgun on the police cruiser.

So the cops were not interested in me. They often insist to "let the professionals handle it" anyway. That was one thing. The other? Well, I swear I could see the squirrel, standing in the back window of the patrol car among shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery, and shaking his little fist at me. I think he was shooting me the finger. That is one dangerous squirrel.

And now he has a patrol car.

I took a deep breath, turned on my turn-signal, made an easy right turn, and sedately left the neighborhood. As for my easy and slow drive home? Screw it. Faced with a choice of 80mph cars and inattentive drivers, or the evil, demonic, attack squirrel of death...I'll take my chances with the freeway. Every time. And I'll buy myself a new pair of gloves

(snip)

Semper Fi!!

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