Across the Great Divide
ACROSS THE GREAT DIVIDE
UP FRONT
Allan Girdler
Reworking a phrase made famous by a former political person, I am not a kook. I own an admirably useful truck, with which I carry bikes and trash and furniture. I have a cherished car, the sort now forbidden by law ... which is to say it responds to the throttle and makes satisfying noises. Further, my wife runs an elegant sedan with real leather seats and electric everything and timeless good looks.
Despite all this I don’t like to drive anymore. I am no longer a driver. I have become, irrevocably I suspect, a rider.
Like most major changes, this caught me unawares and happened in tiny increments. I first became interested in motorcycles in my teens. Why, I don’t remember now but I read the magazines and followed the careers of heros like Leonard and Andres and Duke and Hailwood. I bought a ratty old bike when I could come up with the money. I rode it, sold it, bought another, gave that one away, and went along like that for years. Sometimes I had a bike, sometimes I didn’t. Motorcycles were fun but no more than that and my major goals were more like supporting my family and winning the Indy 500. (I went one for two, which under the circumstances isn’t all that bad.)
One fine summer day before the OPEC madness and the national speed limit imposition, I had pencilled in work on the race car and I found myself hesitant. I didn’t want to fool with the car, I wanted to ride my bike. So I spent the day riding in the woods and the next morning the car went on the block. Step One, I think now, was when motorcycles became my hobby.
I didn’t work here then, which takes care of that excuse. I progressed to riding to work, at an advertising agency where my eccentricity was already established, indeed was expected from those on the creative side of the business. Daily riding meant more equipment; heavy jacket, pair after pair of boots, padded jeans, etc., and the bike needed a bigger tank, better shocks, different bars; all the stuff most of us get at the slightest excuse.
Step Two was described here some time ago. I went on a long drive and nearly went crazy. It was boring. Borrrring. Just sitting there, strapped inside a box, nothing to do but fiddle with the radio dial. Terrible. How can people stand it?
When we, meaning biker and non-biker alike, talk about this we always build an equation. On one side, danger. On the other side, economy.
Both are valid. Neither tells the whole story.
Motorcycles are dangerous. Risky. There’s no need here to give details, save that I for one and you for another have accepted that and know that with proper care and concern we can bring the risk factor under control, just as the other people do for driving, skiing, riding on airplanes, smoking and the countless other things we do despite their being proven hazardous to our health.
Economy is not just saving money. As is well known, gloating at the gas pump is one of the things we do best. Also, the best
motorcycle in the world sells for the price of a dumb little car with the soul of a doorbell and the exclusivity of a Big Mac. But when you figure the tires, chains, riding suits and helmets, outrageous insurance and so forth, it calls for fancy bookkeeping and besides, the millions of people who don’t ride get along, somehow.
No. On the debit side of the equation, enter inconvenience. Riding motorcycles is a damned lot of bother. If I drive to work or play, I walk into the garage, sit down, turn the key and I'm off.
If I’m riding I look out the window and check the weather forecast. What’s it like out there? Equally, what will it be like when I get there, and where am I going? I may wear a jacket and bring along a cold weather suit, or wear the suit and bring the jacket or wear both and have bungee cords in case I need to peel off a layer. And don’t forget the rain suit, the Totes and glove covers, the spare face shields and/or shield cleaner.
We aren’t even out of the house yet. We must still climb into all those clothes, buckle and snap everything and get the engine running, by foot or battery. Last week we had an office party away from the office. One of the personnel people walked out the door at the same time I did. She whirled out of the parking lot while I was putting on my helmet. It was rush hour, so I passed her in the traffic. I was still taking things off when she parked and she was on her second drink before I found the bar. Drop in at the store on the way home from work and unless you have saddlebags and such, you finish the ride with shopping bags lashed to the tank, boxes of detergent stuffed under your jacket and two quarts of milk balanced in your lap. A former riding buddy once confessed that yes, he knew about the miles per gallon and the fun, it was that it was so much trouble getting ready to run errands, such a hassle> carrying or locking the helmet and packing the groceries that he wound up time after time taking his van and he didn% care about 14 mpg.
Two credits. One is sport. You don’t get to drive in the purist sense at all, or at least not without more effort than it takes to ride. A long day in a good car in the mountains, sure. Day to day, it’s simply not possible.
On the bike, it’s all sport. You hear the engine, use the gearbox, feel the suspension and you have something to do, at any speed, or you don’t ride for long.
Second, freedom. 1 know it’s a slogan but not all slogans are false. Motorcycles are so, well, so flexible. So small. So nim -ble, so willing to do your bidding.
My wife is a woman of remarkable understanding, a supportive person, capable of tolerance that amazes everybody who knows me. But she does have her worries and one of them is riding in the rain. Our deal is that I don’t ride in the rain on purpose. If I’m caught at the office, okay. But if it’s raining in the morning, I drive.
It makes sense. There I am in my truck, warm and dry. It’s got big tires and plentf of ground clearance. I can ford flooded streets and such. But I find myself behind the wheel, muttering: If there’s the slightest hint of a snarl, if a mudslide or a flood or a wreck or stalled car even vaguely threatens me with being caught, trapped in line with the other sheep, the devil take it. I’m going home to get my rain suit and waterproof boots and XJL with knobby tires. No traffic, no weather, nothing shy of the entire state falling into the ocean can stop me and my bike. Freedom.
Along about this stage, some manner of mental Step Three, riding is no longer an inconvenience. I don’t notice checking the weather forecast, I just do it. Putting on the helmet is as automatic as tieing my shoes, or it would be except that I now have seven pairs of boots and two pairs of shoes.
At the same time I cannot abide traffic. I have begun to pull rank, not to get the biggest and newest bike because I’m not choosy, but whenever and wherever we’re going, if we take the company truck one of the other guys steers and I look at motorcycles or search for likely dirt trails along the way.
But now—and my reason for putting aü this down—I have learned just how completely I have crossed the great divide from driver to biker.
I got into my truck, turned the key . . and sat there. Waiting. After a minute or so I wondered what I was doing and then it hit me:
I was waiting for the neutral light to come on.
