I bought a motorcycle the other week. It’s a Honda Shadow Spirit, an 1100 CC cycle with modified pipes that give a roar that would make a lion cower. There’s something almost hypnotic about hearing that roar and feeling the bike jump underneath me at nothing more than a slight downward turn of my wrist. The bike is, in one word, cool.
Maintaining that thought, it’s very, very hard not to feel insanely cool sitting on that black and chrome machine as it hurtles around a corner at speeds that mock prudence and all it stands for. Of course, the leather gloves and jacket help the whole motorized ego smartly along.
As someone who suffers from perpetual uncoolness, the artificial inflation of two wheeled motorized bad@$$iery was welcome for a time. I learned something though: You can’t outrun uncool. It’s faster than you, and it knows where you live.
Imagine, for a moment, a stretch of road the likes of which motorcyclists dream of: a quiet two-lane road that winds up a steep hill, twisting, curving, and wrapping around itself like a snake set to strike. Now imagine me riding my bike up this road, laughing superiorly at the posted 5 MPH recommended speed for these corners as I lean and turn through those hairpin turns, slowing and accelerating smoothly to the soundtrack of that ever-present roar. I almost felt like I was a part of my bike.
The leaning, roaring, turning, and traveling at speeds deemed by those sane to be reckless continued up the hill, around a corner, and down the other side only to intersect the original road at a stop sign. I sat there, waiting for my friend who was just behind me. I waited longer. And longer. I looked over my right shoulder, confused by two things: 1. Where was my friend? 2. Why did it feel like my bike was tipping under me?
The answers to both questions came soon enough. My friend was just a little way back, and my bike felt like it was tipping because it was tipping. He came around the corner just in time to see me, my bike, and my pride, fall to the right with what can only be described as the sound of angels crying. You see, when sitting at a stop on a road that slopes to the right, it is a poor idea to look over you right shoulder, thus shifting your center of gravity (and, by extension, the bike’s center of gravity) to the right.
Being a man of action, a cool man, a motorcyclist fully in control of his temporarily horizontal bike, I leapt up, grabbed my bike, and hefted the 550 pound beast back upright. The bike obediently allowed itself to be righted, knowing full well that it had displeased me. So there I stood, and there the bike stood. And we stood that way for many seconds: me sweaty and triumphant in my leather jacket on that ninety degree day and my bike sullen and silent. Then I realized that I had no way to actually get on the bike, being downhill and all. The bike, having also realized that there was no way for me to get back on, took it upon itself to solve the problem, and promptly fell over to the left.
The moral of this true (and how I hate to admit that it’s true) story is this: 1100 CCs and a leather jacket will not make you cool. Who you are will always find a way to surface, so you’d better learn to be happy with yourself.
The other moral of the story is this: I'm a bit of a gomer, and, should you see a man who looks completely out of control on a black motorcycle on the Olympic Peninsula, that's probably me and you should probably run for cover.
Maintaining that thought, it’s very, very hard not to feel insanely cool sitting on that black and chrome machine as it hurtles around a corner at speeds that mock prudence and all it stands for. Of course, the leather gloves and jacket help the whole motorized ego smartly along.
As someone who suffers from perpetual uncoolness, the artificial inflation of two wheeled motorized bad@$$iery was welcome for a time. I learned something though: You can’t outrun uncool. It’s faster than you, and it knows where you live.
Imagine, for a moment, a stretch of road the likes of which motorcyclists dream of: a quiet two-lane road that winds up a steep hill, twisting, curving, and wrapping around itself like a snake set to strike. Now imagine me riding my bike up this road, laughing superiorly at the posted 5 MPH recommended speed for these corners as I lean and turn through those hairpin turns, slowing and accelerating smoothly to the soundtrack of that ever-present roar. I almost felt like I was a part of my bike.
The leaning, roaring, turning, and traveling at speeds deemed by those sane to be reckless continued up the hill, around a corner, and down the other side only to intersect the original road at a stop sign. I sat there, waiting for my friend who was just behind me. I waited longer. And longer. I looked over my right shoulder, confused by two things: 1. Where was my friend? 2. Why did it feel like my bike was tipping under me?
The answers to both questions came soon enough. My friend was just a little way back, and my bike felt like it was tipping because it was tipping. He came around the corner just in time to see me, my bike, and my pride, fall to the right with what can only be described as the sound of angels crying. You see, when sitting at a stop on a road that slopes to the right, it is a poor idea to look over you right shoulder, thus shifting your center of gravity (and, by extension, the bike’s center of gravity) to the right.
Being a man of action, a cool man, a motorcyclist fully in control of his temporarily horizontal bike, I leapt up, grabbed my bike, and hefted the 550 pound beast back upright. The bike obediently allowed itself to be righted, knowing full well that it had displeased me. So there I stood, and there the bike stood. And we stood that way for many seconds: me sweaty and triumphant in my leather jacket on that ninety degree day and my bike sullen and silent. Then I realized that I had no way to actually get on the bike, being downhill and all. The bike, having also realized that there was no way for me to get back on, took it upon itself to solve the problem, and promptly fell over to the left.
The moral of this true (and how I hate to admit that it’s true) story is this: 1100 CCs and a leather jacket will not make you cool. Who you are will always find a way to surface, so you’d better learn to be happy with yourself.
The other moral of the story is this: I'm a bit of a gomer, and, should you see a man who looks completely out of control on a black motorcycle on the Olympic Peninsula, that's probably me and you should probably run for cover.
Comments
I get a little green watching you express yourself so easily, so look in the mirror and hug yourself.
I guess you should do the mirror-hugging thing too.