The bike's passenger seat swept
up just enough that I could see over my father's shoulders.
That seat was my throne. My dad and I travelled many backroads
together...searching for the ones we had never found before.
Travelling these roads just to see where they went. Never in
a rush, just be home by supper.
I remember wandering down a backroad
with my father, sitting on my throne watching the trees whiz
by, feeling the rumble of our bike beneath us like a giant contented
cat. A motorcycle came over a hill towards us and as it went
by, my father threw up his clutch hand and gave a little wave.
The other bike waved back with the same friendly swing of his
left wrist.
I tapped my dad on the shoulder,
which was our signal that I wanted to say something. He cocked
his head back slightly while keeping his eyes ahead...
I yelled, "Did you know him?"
"What?"
"You waved at him...who was
that?"
"I don't know. Just another
guy on a bike....so I waved."
"How come?"
"You just do...it's important."
Later, when we had stopped for
ice cream, I asked him why it was so important to wave to other
bikers. My dad tried to explain how the wave demonstrated comradeship
and a mutual understanding of what it was to enjoy riding a
motorcycle. He looked for the words to describe how almost all
bikers struggled with the same things like cold, rain, heat,
wind, and drivers who didn't see them, but how riding remained
an almost pure pleasure.
I was young then and I am not sure
that I really understood what he was trying to get across, but
it was a beginning of something. Afterwards, I always waved
along with my dad whenever we passed other bikes.
I remember one cold October morning
when the clouds were heavy and dark, giving us another clue
that winter was heading in from just over the horizon. My dad
and I were warm inside our car as we headed to a friends house.
Rounding a corner, we saw a motorcycle parked on the shoulder
of the road. Past the bike, we saw the rider walking thru the
ditch, scouring along thru the tall grass, crowned with a touch
of frost. Dad pulled over and backed up to where the bike stood.
I asked Dad..."Who's that?"
"Don't know" he replied..."but
he seems to have lost something. Maybe we can give him a hand."
We left the car and wandered thru
the tall grass ditch to the biker. He said that he had been
pulling on his gloves as he rode, and that he had lost one.
The three of us spent some time combing the ditch, but all we
found were empty cans and bottles.
My dad then turned and headed back
to the car and opened the trunk. He rummaged thru various tools,
oil containers, and this and that until he found an old pair
of crumpled up leather gloves. He continued looking until he
found an old catalogue. I understood what he was doing with
the gloves....but I had no idea what he needed with the catalogue.
"Here's some gloves for you"
my dad said as he handed them to the rider..."and I brought
you a catalogue as well."
"Thanks"..I really appreciate
it." He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out an old
chain wallet.
"Lemme give you some money
for the gloves" he said.
"No thanx" dad replied
as he handed them to the rider. "They're not worth anything
and they're old anyway".
The biker smiled. "Thanx alot."
He pulled the old gloves on and
unzipped his jacket. I watched as my dad handed him the catalogue
and the biker slipped it inside his coat. He jostled it around,
positioning it up high, centered, and then zipped it up. I remembered
now making sense of why my dad had given him the catalogue.
It would keep him a bit warmer. After wishing the biker well,
my dad and I left him warming up his bike.
Two weeks later, the biker came
to our home and returned my father's gloves. He had found the
address on the catalogue. Neither my father nor the biker seemed
to think that my dad stopping at the side of the road for a
stranger and giving him a pair of gloves, and that the stranger
making sure that the gloves were returned, were events out of
the ordinary for people who rode motorcycles. For me, it was
another subtle lesson.
It was spring of the next year
when I was sitting high on my throne, watching the farm fields
slip by when I saw two bikes coming towards us. As they rumbled
past, my dad and I waved, but the other bikers kept their sunglasses
locked straight ahead and did not acknowledge us. I remember
thinking that they must have seen us because our waves were
too obvious to miss. Why didn't they wave back? I thought all
bikers waved at one another.....
I tapped my dad on the shoulder
and yelled..."How come they didn't wave back?"
"Don't know. Sometimes they
don't."
I remember feeling very puzzled.
Why wouldn't someone wave back?
The next summer, I was finally
old enough to learn to ride a motorcycle with a clutch. Many
an afternoon were spent on a country lane beside our home, kicking
and kicking to start my dad's old 1955 BSA. When it would finally
come to a sputtering start, my concentration would grow to a
sharp focus, as I tried to let out the clutch slowly enough,
and bring us to a smooth take off. More often than not, I would
lurch forward.....and begin to attempt to kickstart the motor
again.
Eventually, I got my own motorcycle
license, and began wandering the backroads on my own. I found
myself stopping along sideroads if I saw another biker alone,
just to check and see if he needed help.......and I continued
to wave at other riders.
But I remained focused as to why
some riders never waved back. It left me with almost a feeling
of rejection, as if I were reaching to shake someones hand,
but they kept their arm hanging by their side.
I began to canvass my friends about
waving. I talked with people at biker events, asking what they
thought. Most of the old riders told me they waved to other
bikers and often initiated the friendly air handshake as they
passed one another.
I did meet some riders tho, who
told me that they did not wave to other riders because they
felt that they were different from other bikers. They felt that
they were a "breed apart". One guy told me in rather
colorful language, that he did not "wave to no wussies".
He went on to say that his kind of bikers were tough, independent,
and they did not require or want the help of anyone, whether
they rode a bike or not.
I suspected that there were some
people who bought a bike because they wanted to purchase an
image of being tougher, more independent, a not-putting-up-with-anyone's-crap
kind of person, but I didn't think that this was typical of
most riders.
People buy bikes for different
reasons. Some will be quick to tell you what make it is, how
much they paid for it, or how fast it will go. Brand loyalty
is going to be strong for some people whether they have a Harley,
Ford, Sony, or whatever... Some people want to buy an image
and try to purchase another person's perception of them. But
it can't be done.
Still, there is a group of people
who ride bikes who truly are a breed apart. They appreciate
both the engineering and the artistry in the machines they ride.
Their bikes become part of who they are and how they define
themselves to themselves alone.
They don't care what other people think. They don't care if
anyone knows how much they paid for their bike or how fast it
goes. The bike means something to them that nothing else does.
They ride for themselves and not for anyone else. They don't
care whether anyone knows they have a bike. They may not be
able to find words to describe what it means to ride, but they
still know. They may not be able to describe what it means to
feel the smooth acceleration and the strength beneath them.
But they understand.
These are the riders who park their
bikes, begin to walk away and then stop. They turn and look
back. They see something when they look at their bikes that
you might not. Something more complex, something that is almost
secret, sensed rather than known. They see their passion. They
see a part of themselves.
These are the riders who understand
why they wave to other motorcyclists. They savour the wave.
It symbolizes connection between riders, and if they saw you
and your bike on the side of the road, they would stop to help
and might not ask your name. They understand what you are up
against every time you take your bike on the road.....the drivers
that don't see you, the ones that cut you off or tailgate you,
the potholes that lie in waiting. The rain. The cold.
I have been shivering and sweating
on a bike for more than 40 years. Most of the riders that pass
give me a supportive wave. I love it when I see a younger rider
on a "crotch rocket" scream past me and wave. New
riders carrying on the traditions.
I will continue in my attempts
to get every biker just a little closer to one another with
a simple wave. And if they do not wave back when I extend my
hand into the breeze as I pass them, I will smile a little more.
Maybe their just mistaken about who is a "breed apart."
