Riding on a motorcycle trip is very much like flying an airplane. Fly the plane, navigate and know how to communicate with others along the way. It’s a lot to do all at the same time, particularly when two out of those three are challenged. Our riding group was making way through the Gunnison National Forest having launched from Taos, New Mexico early that morning. Relying on paper maps stuffed in our leader’s tank bag, we were feeling our way along from stop to stop. We knew we’d have to stay overnight somewhere north of Gunnison to make the ride a two day loop. I wasn’t worried. Out front, Brett was our supremely confident General Douglas McArthur before the Philippine invasion.
These were guys I came to call the “Sport Bike Militia.” I’d met them a while back after a buying bike that could keep up. Finding myself in that era of sensible responsibility with a wife, kids and a mortgage, I needed their brand of edgy energy only speed brings. Could I keep up? That was the unspoken question. 20 years of mature responsibility had passed since my last hair raising experience on a motorcycle. I needed to see if I could find the grove again. Age has a way of enhancing memories like a T-shirt I’d seen that said, “The older I get, the faster I was…” I didn’t want to be the grandpa featured on a legendary Harley Davidson commercial who told his grandchildren he’d bought aluminum siding instead of the bike. The stories you write for yourself and tell others need the speedometer of truth.
Like fighter pilots, sport bike riders have an ego that says they can make it through the next corner or set the fastest lap time. I’m not talking about those who ride around with shorts, flip flops and their custom painted helmet hanging on the side of the bike for show. Brett got my attention when I saw his blood type stitched on the waist of his letter riding jacket. That’s a big help for emergency personal, not a death wish. No, these were real bikers who took their craft seriously. Even though their egos clashed among one another from time to time, I wanted to be like them.
There are those who are moved by expertly choreographed stage performances of classical ballets. Dancer’s moving in timed unison on the gravity defying tips of their toes are art in human motion. This trip was a Swan Lake performance among men and their machines whose choreography was no less gravity defying. Staged behind them, learning rhythms that suspend fear and cleanse the mind, I was living the dream again.
After one stirring scene of this ballet, we came to a T intersection of the mountainous two lane road near a lake a short walk away. Consulting the map with no guiding road signs or a GPS, we were lost. On the late side of afternoon, a wrong turn now could end our hopes of making the loop. Visions of ending up in a Motel 6 near an interstate highway without a well stocked bar came to mind. Having never ridden the route, none of us had a clue.
Fighter pilots don’t ask for directions. Being desperate though, we noticed a group of Harley riders gathered around an RV parked at the edge of the lake nearby. You have to understand that a sport bike rider asking for anything from Harley riders requires two things. First, humility because you likely had passed them earlier at warp speed as they rode in staggered formation. Where’s the decency? Second, let’s just say that the demographics and life perspectives are very different between these riding groups. In a weird twist, it’s like cowboys and Indians. Sport bikers are the Indians on horses from foreigner lands coming out of nowhere with disregard for the superior pedigree of American “big iron.” This is a twisted analogy I know, but roll with me.
A decision had to be made. Swallowing all of the aforementioned dynamics, Brett walks over to the group with his map, riding leathers and hat in hand. For a while, we see him talking, pointing and waving while being relieved that he’s our worthy emissary. For a sport biker, Brett can talk really good. When he comes back, we’re relieved to make the loop after all. That many Harley riders can’t be wrong. Explaining his encounter with another culture, Brett tells us that after saying “Hi,” then rolling right into his lengthy story of how we got lost and asked how to complete the loop complete with arm motions and everything. There was a long silence. With some reluctance one brave soul in the Harley group then blurted out, “Vee are German” in a thick Bavarian accent.
It’s amazing how those three words expose so many stereotypes. Harleys are designed to be easier to ride which is why they are available for rental. This group had flown over, rented bikes and an RV chase vehicle to explore just like us. There were no attitude differences. We were actually speaking the same two wheeled language. We just couldn’t put it into words. Riding on two wheels is an international code of connection.
Making a best guess on directions from there, we arrived in Delta, Colorado on the northern tip of the loop so we could return west along the famed “Million Dollar” highway. Better than a Motel 6, the place had a pool and a hot tub to relax our creaking backs from a hunched over riding position. Advantage Harley. Finding the hot tub, we also found our German friends doing their best Octoberfest impressions without the lederhosen and plenty of beer. They really knew how to have a good time.
The next day, Brett’s alter ego Gary, who rode the same newly designed Yamaha 1,000 cc YZF-R1, asked to switch bikes with me for the more comfortable seat on my Honda VFR750. I’d been craving a chance to ride either one of those pair of rockets the whole time. Playing it close, I said, “I don’t know Gary, the butt is a tender thing on a long ride.” I wanted him to be sure in case I wadded up his new bike with a handful of throttle. Noticing that I wasn’t wearing flip flops, he insisted and I accepted. Harkening back to my earlier need for speed, this would answer a lot of questions. Some say it’s about the bike. Some say it’s about the rider. This is yet another of life’s false choices. It’s about both.
Pulling away from our lunch stop on the first stretch of open road, I gave this horse full rein and spurs in the four throttle bodies. “Good Lord!!” It was like an F16 launching with full afterburner off the catapult of an aircraft carrier. It had a ride by wire system connected directly to my brain. At the speed of thought, the R1 does what you want with no fuss, force needed or delay. Right now.
Twisting that throttle was the answer to my 20 year question. I still had the nerve and desire to explore what a fast horse will do. No aluminum siding for me. Selling the VFR, I bought my own R1. Just looking at it bridged early in life feelings of reaching escape velocity from a world of worries. This was the Andy only the militia could see when the dance started. It might be what warriors and ballet dancers feel. I don’t know.
There was a larger story of translation at work here. Those Harley riding Octoberfest Germans kept coming to mind. Their infectious gusto in celebration of life with each other was a dance of its own. What I had really missed was fellowship among those of shared passion. The motorcycle is just a tool for making memories and the ballet shoes that let others in on the joy.
Getting lost is often how we find ourselves by unexpected guides along the way. I’m thankful for Brett’s humility, that’s the translation I needed.