Every scratch, every scrape, every patch of dust and dirt on my bike is a love song.
Each scar, a testimony to adventure. Each new layer of dirt rides along, bringing its memories with it. “That,” I can say with a grin, “is from the time I went up Black Mountain and ended up vertical on the embankment.” “This one, Bee Effing Canyon, one of the most terrifying rides of my entire life.” “This is from the time I literally flipped over in the Mt. Helix parking lot.”
My bike is seldom clean, much to our club’s eternal chagrin. She typically bears “The Perfect GS Patina,” as our esteemed Mr. Dinslage (Scott the Elder, as some may call him – not me, surely, but “some”) has said with approval. “Wash this thing!” my poor, beleaguered Phil often laments, a furrow in his brow, shaking his head, aghast.
Oh, but my wonderful friend – This bike travels. This bike is keen for miles, not for baths. My bike and I are avid devotees of Hunter S. Thompson’s philosophy:
“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming “Wow! What a Ride!”
Forgive me lapsing back into my old language habits, but fuck yes. Yes. Yes, this.
Also, upon my arrival, broadside, in a cloud of smoke, I will run out of leg one last time and topple gracelessly to the ground in front of the gateway to the afterlife. I came into this life squirming, kicking, bloody, clueless, and yelling, so at least there will be parity.
The GS is not an attractive bike: Its lines do not beckon the casual passer-by. One does not gaze upon a GS for the first time and draw breath to still one’s beating heart. No. However. Once one has drunk the Kool-Aid (TM and so forth,) one will also drink in the totality of the bike and its possibilities and its capabilities and the times it has seen and they look upon it with the passion and reverence one might typically reserve for lovers.
To me, however – she is perfect. This bike and I are a team – a pair entangled on a quantum level now. We converse – sometimes with words, sometimes not. I am antsy when we are apart. I get cranky if more than a day or two lapses between rides, and, now that I have no car, that’s not so much a problem anymore. Bliss.
Were it not for this bike, I would not have seen some of the most beautiful views in my life. I would not feel the adrenaline rush and the pride of overcoming various levels of obstacles in dirt riding. I would not have met the phenomenal people who are my dirt-riding buddies. I would still think the FJ-09 was a perfectly capable platform for the kinds of road riding I wanted to do. I would also probably not have the excruciating back pain that’s been plaguing me for the last year, and I for-sure wouldn’t have two thumbs injured in the exact same way, but heck – if that’s the price, so be it. I place my faith in medical science, hallelujah.
Were it not for this bike, I would still be in the kiddie pool.
Like me, she’s seen some excessive wear and tear; not everything is functioning as it should, and my word, how could it with me at the helm? Even the Germans cannot withstand my chaos.
No well-preserved bodies for us, no thank you. We have no time for cosmetics – there are roads out there, friends – roads with vistas and twisties and cool-looking barns and weird people doing crazy stuff and was that a 65 Chevelle yes it was and there’s always that one zany goat climbing up the rock that makes me smile and these roads are leading who knows where – and we have the perfect motorcycles to explore them. “Where does that road go?” Yes.
We can experience the mystery, we can go largely wherever we damn well please (closed gates notwithstanding,) and we do go, secure in the knowledge that we are astride some of the best stinkin’ technology and workmanship on two wheels.
My 1973 Honda CB500 did not have cruise control. No, she had a throttle lock that was the equivalent of putting a brick on the accelerator pedal. Heated grips? Pff. This bike barely had cylinder pressure, let alone fancy shenanigans like “a windshield” or “rear disc brakes.”
Lucille was a good first bike, however; she reined in my twenty-six-year-old enthusiasm for adrenaline because she had no choice but to – it was her nature.
The GS lets me get into trouble. She might even encourage it from time to time.
The GS is an empty vessel, waiting to be filled with our purposes. Leisurely, two-up touring for weeks? No problem. Romping through the twisties at Mach II with your hair on fire? Completely fine. Insane charging down goat trails? Okeydokey. 100mph on the freeway all day, every day? Not much fun, but ok, why not.
One of my favorite comics (now disgraced and surly) said, “All drugs are, are a perfect solution to every problem you have right now. How do you beat that? Drugs are so fucking good that they’ll ruin your life. That’s how good they are.” Replace “drugs” with “motorcycles,” and there we are.
I should work, I really should – but motorcycle. I should clean the house – but stymied once again by motorcycle. I should try to save up some money for oh nope ok motorcycle. I don’t heal like I used to and I have no business careening around blind curves at supra-legal speeds but motorcycle.
I have loved motorcycles for many years, but never more than this.
So. To Phil, to Tom, to Edward, to everyone who nudged me and then clamored for me to just ride a damn GS already, would you — thank you. Thank you from the deepest depths of my bottomless heart.
You have radically changed my life for the better.