Up Front

UP FRONT

A QUESTION OF CHOICE

Allan Girdler

My friend the Desert Crazy is camped in my office, delivering another of his misinformed (but entertaining) lectures. He has the visitor chair tipped back against the wall and his feet are propped on my desk. “Your problem,” he says while doing a big-fish-got-away number with his hands to illustrate how big my problem is, “is that you haven’t made a choice.

“Look at the market figures. Average guy buys his first bike, he thinks he’ll ride to work, on Sunday afternoon, maybe explore the wilderness. He gets a dual-purpose bike and finds out he doesn’t like it out there in the woods, or the freeway scares him. He’s got a bike that doesn’t do both things very well. His second bike will be either a street bike or a dirt bike.

“Now look at you. Riding in the desert with rear-view mirror and license plate. Coming to work with knobby tires and a skid plate. You’ve got to be a road rider or a dirt rider. You’ve got to make a choice.”

I already have. Years ago I decided to have fun every chance I got.

Even without that, my entertaining friend is wrong. Our choice isn’t one thing or the other. We don’t have to choose, or we can choose from a limitless selection.

There’s a matter of riding as well as the motorcycle can be ridden. If Malcolm Smith and I traded bikes any place off pavement, there’s nothing he couldn’t do with mine and nothing I could do as well with his. Perhaps if I had a TZ750 and Ken Roberts had my 250 I could get around Daytona before he could, but I doubt it. Nor can I imagine the circumstances under which I would be able to ride any motorcycle better than the really good riders can ride any motorcycle. My potential skill is not going to waste, in short.

Nor is the bike’s potential. There are some situations, say a fine spring morning and a winding country road, sun shining down, flowers in bloom, all the traffic some place else, when just being on a bike in motion is enough to burst your heart with joy. Equally, a sudden hailstorm with rain and a twister lurking in the sky quickly makes any overpass or storm drain more appealing than any motorcycle.

Any place in between, there’s a constant variation in the importance of riding vs what you ride. This means that any bike you own, step-through 90 to full-dress Electra-Glide, is going to be perfect some of the time and out of place some of the time. The more specialized it is, the more chance it’ll be out of place.

I work in a hotbed of extremists. (You may have noticed this isa practiced argument I present here. Been through more rehearsals than I can count.) Every other man in this outfit owns a classic British Twin or a cafe special or fully rigged Bui or race-prepared Husky. Couple of them own combinations of the above. Henry Manney Esq. I don’t think even knows how many he has. Six, I believe, Triumphs to trialers.

These people who have made that choice described earlier, Henry excepted, have one other thing in common.

They don’t get to ride their specialties much. Can’t take a cafe racer to the woods. Can’t ride a Husky 400 to lunch. Not worth a five-minute session with ticklers and kick lever to take a three-minute spin to the store. What they end up doing is waiting for that special occasion, or they must buy a truck or van and flog through the Friday night/Sunday afternoon traffic for a few hours every time they want to get out in the woods and go faster than my bike will go in the dirt. So much for plans to save money with a motorcycle.

Now. Broaden this whole question: Where is it engraved in stone that a motorcycle enthusiast has to do only one thing? One of my favorite readers, a writer of good letters and one of the many I count on to keep this publication at full alert, is a highly ranked enduro rider in his home country. During the week he rides to and from work on a sporting Four. The other day I got a call from another reader. He was pleased with our advice in re which 750 he’d like for the open road. Now, what do we think of a certain new enduro bike? Love it, I said. What I didn’t do was remind him that he’s presumed to only enjoy one half of what is a complete sport in itself.

I like to travel our local Racer Road South of a Sunday. Keen road. A gathering spot and all that. I doubt there’s any sort of motorcycle you won’t see if you stand at the corner of the road leading to the mountains from the Interstate. On one occasion I shared a cup of coffee with two touring riders on 750s near the summit. Then I went 20 miles off the pavement and cadged lunch from some play bikers parked at the waterfall. Back on the highway and I lined up at the gas pumps with a, what, pack? squadron? of outlaws. They asked if the riding was good in the outback and I admired the workmanship displayed by their creations. Back in town I was flagged down by three men and two ladies on classic English club racers. Which way to the coast? I told them and we chatted about vertical Twins and stout-hearted Singles.

At no time during this particular day did> any of these riders see anything wrong or inferior about our choice of equipment. That we were all riding motorcycles made us instant friends with each other under those circumstances.

This distinction, this choice people talk about, is artificial. 1 think it’s time we let the thing die a natural death.

A friend of mine named Roger Hull, the Harley enthusiast whose mold they use to produce all Harley fans, edits and publishes a fine touring bike magazine name of Road Rider. A few issues back he interrupted his usual fare of good highways and how to tow a trailer behind your Guzzi, with a surprise. One of his contributors took a Yamaha XT500 on a trip. A long trip, off the asphalt and into the dirt.

The author had the time of his life. Never had he realized what fun it is to cruise along at 55 on a Single, self-contained, tent and such lashed to the back. He hadn’t known how many places you can go on trials tires, how much scenery and challenge you can find beyond the end of the road.

Last night I read the response. Nine to one for. The specialist audience for the best touring magazine enjoyed the article. Gave them ideas of their own. One man griped.

Finally, the practical aspects. We bike nuts and ORV nuts in general seem to have turned back the immediate threat to our use of public lands. What we aren't likely to do, assuming we wanted to, which we probably don't, is halt or resist the government’s efforts to conserve energy sources. In real life terms, that means higher prices for fuel. Driving 100 miles in a big truck to the open riding areas is gonna cost. Driving to work, likewise. The punchline isn’t needed, although I cannot resist saying that the other big outfits have noticed Yamaha’s success with the XT500.

Speaking as an (obvious) believer in and defender of the much-maligned dual-purpose motorcycle, I predict we’ll see more and better examples of the breed, with proper four-stroke engines and lots of wheel travel, before too long.

Meanwhile, I am going to ride to lunch with a Morini, a Suzuki GS550 and a Triumph Trophy Twin. This weekend I'll cross the Mojave Desert with an Ossa Super Pioneer and Bultaco Matador. Choice9 Sure. It's called taking all the fun you can get.