Rambling Roadblocks
Rambling roadblocks
LEANINGS
Peter Egan
ONE FINE SUMMER AFTERNOON A COUple of years ago, I was batting around the hills of southwestern Wisconsin on my old Harley FLHS when I suddenly realized the hour was growing late.
Turning up the wick a bit to get home in time for dinner, I came around a corner on a small country road to find myself at the back end of a long parade of very slow-moving cars and pickup trucks. Little old ladies with gray hairdos in vanillaplain sedans, farmers hauling milk cans, the usual rural mix.
“Okay,” I grumbled to myself, “who’s causing this log-jam in the middle of nowhere? Manure spreader? Com picker? Elderly farmer?”
Alas, I came around the comer and crested a hill to find the slowdown was caused by a long line of 35 or 40 motorcycles, all chuffing along at about 49 mph. A riding club of some kind, no doubt. The bikes were staggered down the road in perfect symmetry for at least half a mile.
The cars ahead of me, of course, were afraid to pass. They always are. First, it appears there’s no room to pass because it’s unclear whether any of the bikes have left a large enough gap to fit a car into the procession.
Second, people are afraid. They move out and take a look down that long column of motorcycles and can almost see the headline in the paper the next day: “Local man blunders into motorcycle gang; is badly beaten.” Or worse yet: “Grandmother accidentally kills 4 bikers out for peaceful Sunday ride.”
Both bad scenarios, and most people don’t want to cause trouble. So they drive 49 mph and wait for deliverance.
I, however, am an impatient person, so I simply put on my turnsignal, twisted the throttle to its stop and moved out to pass on a long, downhill stretch of straight road. Rather than hopscotch a few bikes at a time and risk disturbing the formation, I simply held it open and passed the group in one long swoop, waving to people as I cmised by.
On the following Monday morning, I stopped into a local bike dealership to buy an oil filter and overheard an interesting conversation.
“Yeah, it was a nice ride,” a customer was telling the clerk, “but on the way home, some jerk (this wasn’t the actual word he used) pulled out and passed the entire group.” He shook his head sadly. “No lane discipline...”
Could he have been talking about me? Maybe. On the other hand, he didn’t mention that his group was holding up a long line of cars and trucks, so maybe it was some other club.
As I stood at the counter, I said, “I passed a long line of bikes myself yesterday, but they were holding up traffic, and I had to get home.”
This news was met with silent stares. After a short, uneasy silence, commerce resumed. If we had been in the Long Branch Saloon, the piano player would have gone back to hammering out “Buffalo Gals.” No harm done.
There is probably a divergence of vision here as to what riding fun is all about. I have to admit that I have never been tempted to join one of these large group rides, except as part of some charity event or an officially organized parade-a mass ride to the track at Daytona or Elkhart Lake, with cops blocking the intersections and spectators waving from the roadside. And even then, I would rather watch than participate, because you get to see more bikes and watch the people go by.
Generally speaking, I don’t enjoy riding with more than four or five other bikes. I’ve found that beyond that number, you spend more time waiting at gas stations or watching your mirrors than you do riding. Two or three bikes is even better, and solo, many times, is best of all.
In truth, one of the things that attracts me to motorcycling is the very absence of “lane discipline,” or any other vaguely militaristic concept. I observe the usual rules when riding in groups-staggering bikes, making room for others who are passing, etc.-but it’s a long way from my favorite moral exercise. (Actually, I can’t think of a favorite moral exercise, but never mind that for now.)
The point here is not to portray myself as some free-spirited renegade, but only to say that riding seems more fun to me when it’s a little looser and you are free to make your own decisions.
A riding buddy of mine, who occasionally goes on these big Sunday rides, has pointed out that the reason these groups are often so slow is because it’s the road captain’s job to make sure no one is left behind. The group, therefore, travels at the speed of the slowest rider, and that rider is often a beginner.
A nice communal concept, and kindhearted at its core, but my own feeling is that a new rider who cannot maintain the speed limit should go off by himself or herself and practice awhile. No need to speed, but you shouldn’t be holding up a pickup truck full of haybales, either. Or the local Model-A club.
I don’t know what to suggest to these large riding clubs that would enable them to enjoy the scenery, have a laid-back ride and still let faster traffic through. Perhaps there is already some protocol in place, such as the periodic roadside stop, or a set of predetermined gaps in the flow of bikes, and I haven’t heard about it.
But something should be arranged. Blocking the flow of traffic gives motorcycling a bad name. The sport is popular now, but we are still in the minority and don’t need to be earning the enmity of ordinary motorists. Or even their sympathy.
One of my favorite Gary Larson cartoons is called “Charlie Parker in Hell.” It shows the famous alto sax jazz genius seated on a stool in an underground recording studio, surrounded by speakers. Nearby, the Devil is seated at the control panel, grinning to himself and putting a record on the PA system. “Let’s listen to a little more Guy Lombardo...” he says.
We all have our own personal versions of Hell, I guess, and one of mine would be an afterlife in which I am trapped in a perfectly staggered line of motorcycles, going 49 mph through eternity. With cars backed up behind me.
To paraphrase my old riding buddy Gil Nickel, if I ever find myself on a winding road, holding up a line of cars with a motorcycle, I will carry the shame to my grave.
And maybe beyond.
