Up Front

UP FRONT

A good ride

David Edwards

SOMETIMES YOU CAN’T SEE THE FORest for the trees. And sometimes getting to the forest just seems like too darned much work.

For evidence, I offer myself and my good friend Charles Davis. Charles called me from Phoenix a couple of weeks ago to say that his wife and two young daughters had conscripted him to chauffeur them out to the coast for a visit to Disneyland, Knott’s Berry Farm, Universal Studios, et al. Charles agreed, on the condition that he’d be able to spend an afternoon riding with his friend the Editor of Cycle World. Great deal, I said, see you Friday.

Charles and I had been trying to get together for a ride for years, but either I was out of town on a story assignment, or Charles was busy with work, or one of life’s many emergencies always seemed to get in the way.

Our friendship, and our relationship with motorcycles, goes back about 12 years. I had returned to college after a less-than-successful attempt to become the world’s greatest motocross star, and had taken a parttime job as a real-estate photographer at the small-town newspaper where Charles was the chief photographer. Charles left soon after to become the photographer for the public-affairs office of North Texas State University. I, too, would make the move to NTSU, to continue my journalism studies, and Charles hired me as one of his student assistants. Charles taught me a lot about photography, and I taught him a little about motorcycles, courtesy of my rapid, little Yamaha RD400 Daytona Special.

Charles vacated his post—which I eventually inherited—to study for his M.B.A. degree. One day, I got a call from Albuquerque, where Charles was going to school: He was going to buy a used motorcycle, and wanted my learned advice. He called back a few weeks later to inform me that he was the proud and happy owner of a 1976 Honda 750F, and that I should haul my carcass to New Mexico for Spring Break, so that we could go for a shakedown run. As my RD was on the fritz, it was decided that we

would ride two-up on the Honda out to California, where my thengirlfriend was studying at UCLA.

The motorcycle that greeted me in Albuquerque was not the fine, sporting piece that I had envisioned. Instead, with its Windjammer fairing and Winnebago-worthy rear trunk, the Honda wore the trappings of a typical Mom-and-Pop tourer. At least it ran well, and it sure beat thumbing to Los Angeles.

The ride out was a real trial-by-fire for Charles, as we hit rain and cold after no more than an hour on the road. We straggled into Flagstaff, Arizona, before dark, and I, being in love, wanted to press on. But Charles, being almost frozen, balked. We checked into a cheap motel, where a bundled-up Charles kept feeding quarters to the Magic Fingers machine and kept asking me to turn up the heat. “Repeat after me,” I told him over and over, “motorcycles are fun.” Charles just mumbled something about God getting even for his recent misuse of guaranteed student loan money.

We made it to California late the next night, with me—fueled by overactive hormones—doing most of the throttle-twisting, and Charles doing most of the shivering.

Charles still has his Honda, tastefully modified to sporting specs, though it’s been apart for years now, awaiting an engine rebuild. He also owns one of my old bikes, a 1982 Yamaha Seca 650, the special European version that all the magazines of the day went ape over, but that nobody except me and a few other crazies actually purchased.

Charles doesn’t really ride the Seca that much these days, he was telling me as I gave him the 10-cent tour of the office just before we took off for our Friday-afternoon ride. In that, I suppose he is not unlike a lot of other motorcyclists. In his mid-30s, with a growing family and a demanding job in the aerospace industry, Charles finds it increasingly difficult to make time for motorcycling. Not too many of his friends ride, so the bike sits more and more, while weekends are taken up with family chores, garagedoor-opener installations or just plain resting-up from the work week.

A far cry from my situation, Charles intoned as we cut a Kawasaki ZX-6 and a Moto Guzzi 1000 from the herd of 20 or so bikes in the CW garage. But as we punched our way through traffic on the way to Ortega Highway and a lunch stop at the Lookout Roadhouse, I began to wonder. Sure, I log more miles on motorcycles than the average rider, and get to sample a lot more kinds of machines, but with the urgencies of the publishing business, with notes to be written, performance numbers to be recorded, photos to be taken, comparisons to be made and stories to be typed-up, well, sometimes the simple joy of riding a motorcycle gets lost in the shuffle.

Charles and I rode for about 150 miles that day, stopping several times to talk about bikes, old times, the future, before returning the bikes to the garage. As Charles walked back to his car to rejoin his family, we shook hands, both of us happy following an afternoon well spent. Of course, like almost anybody who’s ever ridden, both Charles and I were well aware of the many and varied pleasures of motorcycling. Sometimes, though, it’s nice to be reminded of them.

“Good ride,” said Charles, getting into his car.

Yeah, it was. We’ll have to do it again, real soon. 0