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I read with interest the recent post of Jamie Beckett, my fellow Motorcycle Examiner: "In memory of bare bones bikes" (http://www.examiner.com/x-10876-Orlando-Motorcycle-Examiner~y2009m6d8-In-memory-of-bare-bones-bikes).
My primary reaction: "What? Are you kidding me?"
I, too, remember the old days when machines were far simpler, with far few gauges and automatic systems, when you could happily take a wrench or a screwdriver to your engine and really make a difference -- keep it running, or make it peppier.
I remember lubing my chain, adjusting my rear wheel, gapping my plugs and -- yes -- flipping the handle on the petcock to release the extra gallon or so in my "reserve" fuel supply.
I also remember cranking over the engine with my foot on the kick starter and trying to get that old four-banger to light without breaking my ankle.
(In fact, I recently made a light-hearted "silent" movie with my new wife in which I pretended to try and kickstart a motorcycle engine that wouldn't know a kickstarter from a handcrank. You can see it and have a good chuckle here: www.youtube.com/watch?v=19e4dcF_mvw,
or it might work if you just click here:
)
I also remember black-and-white TV, my favorite songs fading out to static on AM radio, and the days before the Internet and the World Wide Web. That doesn't mean I want to go back there.
These days, I'm riding a state-of-the-art high-tech motorcycle that can handle the sharpest curves and keep a stable line on the bumpiest roads, that can stop on a dime and give me nine cents change, that accelerates like a jet plane and can cover ground all day long like the cartoon Road Runner and yet leave me feeling comfortable and happy at the end of it.
Yes, I remember kinks in my kidneys after climbing off one of those vintage two-wheelers. I remember when riding even 50 or 100 miles took an act of will and a readiness to suffer some hurt on the order of Lance Armstrong deciding to "up the pace" on a mountain climb in order to win a stage of the Tour de France. I never did like pedaling up a hill.
Frankly, I'm much happier on my new machine, and I am perfectly content to let Jamie and those other motorcycle jockeys go styling along on their out-of-date machines until that smile is frozen on their face, along with all the bugs they've inhaled over the handlebars.
On my new bike, I can leave later, go faster, get there sooner, and feel a lot more like dancing when I arrive. To me, that's progress, and I'm all for it.
And by the way, my new ride comes standard with a center stand. So I haven't had to give up anything important!
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