First thing we did was head over to another buddy’s house to pick him up. Once our motley trio had converged (the SVX-R, the buzz saw, and a early 2000s R6) we meandered down to MotoSocial and took a walkabout.

There were cruisers, cafe racers, classic Ducatis and state of the art super sports. H2’s, decked out R1200 GSs, and bikes whose existence I didn’t even KNOW of. Everything and everything was present. It was lively, there was good food, and everyone was having a good time.

You know what the last car meet did not have? Any of that.

Last car meet I went to, there was no laughing. No intermingling of groups. If you showed up with your R33 group, you stuck with your R33 group. All of the rich dudes who showed up in Porsches? You all grabbed a coffee and talked about wife swapping. Any show even REMOTELY muscle car related, it’s either some old guy hilariously trying to relive his youth alongside his buddies who all have five identical GTO knock offs, or a bunch of Mustangs hunting for crowds. (What do you mean Frank is hiding in a tree?) Or even worse, all of the ‘professional’ photographers that were just a lot of sub-25 year olds whose parents got them a DSLR for Christmas and now have a “business” that is *last name* photography.

And every single one of these group pretty much refused to talk to each other. The kids photographers were just standing there waiting for shots of the 45th AC Cobra replica once the crowd moved. The AMG guys were laughing at anyone that was making less than 400WHP. The off-road guys were all trying to show off their crazy articulation that they use for running over curbs.

And it’s not just big car and coffee style meets that had this. The smaller car meet we attended that night was even worse – 20 cars, maybe, and they were split between four groups. One of which was vaping out of some dude’s minivan.

And no chatter. No lively-ness. No coffee. (Well, maybe a little coffee). It was absurd.

The last bike meet I went to had NOTHING of the sort. Maybe it’s because we can cram six bikes in the space you need for ONE car. But the whole thing felt much more tight knit. As you can see in the picture above, there was no ‘section’ – you parked where you had space. Ducatis parked with old Kawasakis. Big Bavarian adventure touring bikes within licking distance of the greatest super sport from Italy.

This was parked next to me when I decided it was crowded enough to leave my helmet next to my bike. I didn’t even know what the hell it was! A Harley motor in a sport bike frame (and no, it wasn’t a Buell).

And just how approachable people were there. Every bike had a story and everyone was willing to share. I had three different people buy ME a coffee while we chatted, and I bought a few rounds as well. Even the meanest, grumpiest member of the local gang was caught drooling over an MV Agusta dragster (and I don’t blame him!) and he was chatted up by the young lady who owned it. The Ducatistis were enamored by a vintage Honda that was leaking oil a few spots away from their priceless dry-clutch monsters. Some of the Harley guys were busy trying to help one of the sport bike guys with some electrical issues that left him with no lights, and when they failed, they escorted the guy home, using their headlights to help guide him.

I have never seen that kind of camaraderie in car people. Maybe it’s because we all know the risks of two wheels and it brings us together. Maybe it’s because we all like leather and think ourselves better then cagers. I don’t really know, to be honest with you. But riders just seem to be a much more inviting group of people to talk to and get into.

I am well aware that each group has their own set of assholes, and maybe I just ran into the worst of one group and the best of another.

But after talking with more of my car buddies, it seems to be the general thing around here. The track days and hill climb meets? Nothing like that. Everyone is friendly and helpful. But the regular car meets, cars and coffee and so on? Social wasteland.

And because of that, I think I will be giving up on cars as a hobby. Not that I’m leaving Oppositelock, god no. But the whole idea of going to meets, to ‘cruises’ (sure, lets go hang out with others for ten minutes, and then isolate ourselves in metal cages for three hours, only to meet for ten minutes again and then go home), well, it seems kind of dumb when its laid out like that, no?

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and track down motorcycle #8.

*Note: I started writing this piece way back on June the 3rd.

The last few winters I’ve had the joy and pains of daily driving a 1996 Jeep Cherokee. 4.0L straight six, 5 speed, 4WD, snow tires. Affectionately known as the Thunder Wagon due to a modified exhaust when I bought it. After years and years of having FWD hatchbacks to manage Worcester, MA blizzards and hills, I caved after the 2010/2011 winter and bought this. It’s been great, but the time has come for something new. I simply can’t keep up and deal with all of the little problems of a 20 year old vehicle. I mean, I have 3 bikes to work on, damn it! Also, I wanted something more modern, something… well… something made in this century.

I had one main requirement: a manual transmission. 4WD or AWD was another one, but I was willing to possibly do without (and I did). My dream vehicle was a slightly used Nissan Xterra, but I was also willing to consider a Subaru Crosstrek, or a Kia Soul because for some reason after renting one years ago I really like them. I’m weird, I know. My favorite Porsche is the 914. Again, I’m a bit odd. Long story short, I settled on the Kia Soul, because I found a 2011 with 18,000 miles for $8,300. That’s basically a brand new car (or trucklet, as I call it) for a third of the price of anything else I was considering. Were those other vehicles three times as good? No.

Now here’s the rub. My daily mode of transportation for months has been a Suzuki GSX1250FA. 1250cc, 100hp, 80 lb-ft of torque. The Kia is 1600cc, 120hp, 115 lb-ft of torque. Granted, the Suzuki is not a lightweight but I think you can imagine the Kia is much heavier. Let’s call the Suzuki 750lbs with fuel and rider, and the Kia 3000lbs with the same.

3000 lbs / 120hp = 25 lbs per hp
750 / 100 = 7.5 lbs per hp

For reference, the Kia has about the same power to weight ratio as a ten year old Ford Focus.

The Suzuki is about on par with a modern Nissan GT-R, a.k.a. Godzilla.

Imagine going from a GT-R to a ten year old Focus. That’s like an F1 driver going from their race car to a Fiat 500.

Oh wait… Many have done that. Heck, many still do. Even Vettel has one. It’s one of those age old questions: Is it more fun to drive a fast car slow or a slow car fast? The answer is, of course, if you can, to do both.

So that’s exactly what I’m doing. Not long ago I test rode the new SV650 from Suzuki, and while it had nowhere near the power of my bike, I was grinning like a little kid while tossing it around the streets. I missed that feeling. I miss having something underpowered that forces me to downshift before I pass instead of flicking a little more power on and being in triple digits. I miss having something that isn’t supposed to be fun, but is, because you are making it fun, willing it to be so. I miss making the most out of something instead of just basking in torque like it’s a yacht party in Monaco. I don’t miss 9,000 or 10,000 RPM redlines though. The Kia’s limiter kicks in pretty heavy at 6,500. That’s taking some getting used to.

Maybe it’s never easy downsizing from litre or liter (or ever leader) plus down in engine size. Some us can never fathom the concept. The power is all encompassing. I understand. Daily riding my 1250 has turned me into Alan Alda laughing at cars like they are Frank Burns. But still I understand the hollowness in that thought. Something ebbs away at you. I have seen others on 250s, I have seen them on 500s or 650s. They are having more fun and wringing their machines out more than most of us can comfortably fathom.

I will always want more, but for a little while, I want more with less.

There are two things I take away from watching this. One is how excellent riding skill can make an old bike go seriously fast. But the other is that a 1935 BMW isn’t exactly a slow bike to begin with. Like many riders I recently watched Harley and the Davidsons. If you haven’t, I recommend it – whether you love Harleys or hate them, it’s an important piece of American motorcycle history. While the bikes in the show were reproductions, it still amazes me just how fast old bikes were. It’s also scary, considering that at first they were basically bicycles modified to have an engine, rather than machines purpose built to handle the speeds they were ridden. Let’s not even talk about the complete lack of modern riding gear, which claimed many lives on those old, fast machines.

Still, amazing stuff.

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In the days leading up to our trip, those of us with old Hondas fiddled with setting points and static timing. We did last minute carb adjustments and oil changes to try and get our middle aged machines in the best shape possible for the 275 mile journey ahead. I spent hours in the shed behind the house dialing in the bike I built about a year earlier. It was a ’72 Honda CB350. I bought two bikes, one CL and on CB and combined them to make one bike. I built it in a café style with ace handle bars, a bump stop seat upholstered with a leather jacket and ludicrously loud mufflers. I poured a lot of heart and soul into this bike and it paid me back in kind with unforgettable memories.

With our bikes in the best condition that shade tree wrench twiddling could put them in, we waved goodbye to Clay and rolled out one man short. We selected a route that intentionally avoided the interstate. It would take longer, but would be easier on those of us with fewer cc’s to work with. We hadn’t even made it out of town when my shiny machine started acting up, spitting and popping when I approached 60 mph, making any greater speed impossible. The issue, a recurring one, was back with a vengeance. There was a mysterious air leak in my left hand carburetor that that was only remedied by nestling my knee against it. Otherwise, it would cause that cylinder to cough and sputter. (I didn’t learn until after I sold the bike that it was a throttle shaft seal.) I signaled for the guys to pull over. We hadn’t even made it out of town and I was already broken down. I fiddled with it, but nothing was obviously wrong. There /was a brief debate on whether to turn around or not and in the end I elected to just ride it all the way to Austin the way it was. I mean, how long could it take?

Thankfully, this was the last big issue with my bike. Hunter’s bike was another story, though. One thing after another had us pulling over. It was something like 10 times in the first hour. I think this ride was the first time he really tried his bike at speed. Before this, it was shakedown runs around the neighborhood and tuning the bike while on the mainstand. There were stops for timing issues. There were stops for carburetor issues. There was an ominous oil leak that began to grease the back half of his bike.

Stephen is a wonderful friend with loads of virtues to his credit, but patience isn’t really one of them. I’ve seen him explode with rage in a traffic jam. His bike was running flawlessly and it had the power and comfort to take the interstate. I kept looking at him during each unplanned stop expecting a meltdown. He displayed loads of patience which, frankly, I found a little unnerving. He later disclosed to me that he found a “really cool screwdriver” on the ground which pacified him.

We managed to make it to Grandbury, where we pulled into an Autozone next door to a Jack in the Box. Hunter went into the store while Stephen and I went to order fast food. We sat and ate while he searched. In the end, he couldn’t find what he needed. So, full of greasy tacos, we cranked up the bikes merged onto Highway 144 heading south.

Hunter’s mom lived a short twenty minute ride away, so we stopped by her garage to iron out the last of the issues with his bike. The sun was shining and the grass in the yard was green and inviting. Stephen stretched out under a tree as Hunter and I went to work on the Honda. When Hunter pulled out a drill and started going to town, I looked over to see an all-is-lost look in Stephen’s eyes. His patience was finally wearing thin and he was ready to leave Hunter and Glen Rose behind.

We managed to get the bike all buttoned up in about an hour. All we needed was one bolt to complete the repair. We stopped on the way out of town to scour the bolt bins at Ace Hardware. The only thing we could find to fit was a chrome plated Allen head bolt.  After installing it in the parking lot we joked that his bike was all blinged out and couldn’t possibly break down again.

At last! We finally felt like the last issues with Hunter’s bike were nailed down. The three of us blasted out of town as the sun was setting on our right. Stephen and Hunter rode side by side and I cautiously brought up the rear, waiting for the next thing break down. We cruised along the unlit roads at 65, all bundled up against the frigid night. All the bikes were running fine and we were in the groove riding in the left of the two southbound lanes.

I started feeling playful and thought I’d have a go at passing my buds. My Honda leapt forward as I weaved into the right lane and poured on the throttle. I was riding the dotted line when, in a flash, a huge deer corpse flew by me. She was lying in the center of the lane. Her big, white belly showed bright for a split second in my head light. I saw her black eyes staring at me from the other side, and her creepy front legs stretched out toward my bike as if to grab me. All this was over in a split second, like a single frame movie. I decided not to pass them after all and fell back behind my friends.

I missed that deer by a matter of inches. It rattled me down to my core. The rest of the trip to Austin was incident free, but I couldn’t shake the thought of instant death on the road and “What if I hit its belly?” We even ended up taking the interstate. We arrived at our friend Les’s apartment cold, numb fingered and weary. Les asked, “Did y’all plan to dress like that?” Apparently, we all put on matching clothes and only noticed when we got to Austin.

We went out to party on Sixth Street but nobody had the heart for it. That is, nobody but Hunter. He downed the margaritas like they were going to run out. We crashed on the couches and on the floor that night. The next day was spent resting, eating and preparing the bikes for the ride home.

The Ride Home: Misery In Funky Town

Stephen decided we were taking the highway home. It was a four hour high speed shot north on I-35 through Ft. Worth. I set the timing and looked my bike over one last time in the parking lot and we let out. My little 350 ran like a scalded cat up the interstate on-ramp and we were in business. We rode straight through, only stopping for gas and once to rest. The ride down was punctuated with frequent stops, so fatigue really wasn’t a factor for me. The ride back was a different story. Three hours in, my shoulders, back, wrists and posterior hurt from the riding position of my café. I had a full face helmet, but the wind noise was terrible and it was made worse by my outrageously loud exhaust that exited under my heels. It was like being screamed at for four hours, and I couldn’t slow down because doing so meant riding behind Hunter and the oil mist coming off his bike. By the time we got into Ft. Worth traffic I was ragged and still had 40 minutes ahead of me.

Eventually, we all made it home safe and sound. I had a greater respect for my bike. I learned a couple things on this trip. Being self sufficient is key to riding vintage bikes. If we couldn’t do our own work this trip would have ended a couple miles outside of town. Also, road trips like this are a crucible for your work. If you cut any corners it’ll show up out on the road. Finally, loud pipes may save lives but they’re also LOUD. That chopped down, slinky little bike that’s fun for blasting between bars scaring old ladies is a riot around town, but on a road trip it may be a different story.

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You may be thinking I’m crazy. Here I have a comfortable sport tourer which, despite a few hiccups, has been extremely reliable and low maintenance. There’s nothing wrong with it. So why change? I could say that it’s because it’s set up well for long distance touring, but I don’t do that these days and want something more appropriate for just putting around. That’s partly true, but the truth is that I’ve simply gotten bored with riding it. My quick test blasts on my wife’s Savage have left me wanting a more visceral experience while I’m riding. The Savage is too small for me, but it reminded me of the Harley Street Glide I rented in Florida. I was anti-Harley for a long time, an opinion I’ve changed after meeting a bunch of cool Harley riders and putting 500 miles on that Street Glide in two days. No, it wasn’t a corner carver. But it was quite comfortable, sounded awesome, and was generally quite cool. It put the cruiser bug in my ear.

I’ve been commuting regularly on my PC800, and it’s worked well for that. That’s what it was made to do. But it doesn’t give me the drama or the sensations that a cruiser does. It’s quite refined, especially for a design dating back to 1989. The exhaust note sounds more like George Jetson’s flying car than a motorcycle when I’m going down the road. Kate Murphy told me it sounds more like a TIE Fighter bombing down the front straight at Palmer, which is pretty cool, but that’s not what I hear. It also gets pretty warm behind that windshield on a hot summer day. It may have a vented Clearview windshield, but opening that vent all the way doesn’t seem to help.

I liked the Harley, but Harleys are expensive. I started looking at used metric cruisers. That was more like it. I was open to any of the Big Four – Honda, Kawasaki, Suzuki, or Yamaha – but I fell for the Honda Shadow ACE 1100. It’s about the most blatant Harley ripoff you can get, so much so that Harley Davidson actually sued Honda over it. The ACE variant even switched from the Shadow’s standard dual pin crank to a single pin to get the lopey Harley sound at the expense of 10hp. I don’t care – I’m not racing this thing. As long as I can squirt into traffic with a satisfying BRAAAAAAP, I’m happy. It’s big enough that I can take a passenger without a problem. Plus it has the speedometer on the handlebars, not on the tank like most cruisers. I hate how far you have to take your eyes off the road to look straight down to see it. Best of all, it looked like I could get one of the more basic, affordable Shadow ACEs for around the same price that I’m asking for my PC800. The idea was to turn one bike into another with little or no additional outlay of cash.

Then I found it on Craigslist – a black 1995 model, right at the top end of my price range but in there, and already equipped with more than all the accessories I’d want. Twenty-two pictures showed off all of these features – hard bags, removable windshield, driving lights, footboards, back rests… It seemed too good to be true, especially at that price, but there it was. She said that if I really wanted it, we could splurge for it out of savings and replenish the piggy bank when my PC800 sold. I have the best wife ever.

I went to look at it. I’d been holding myself back from truly falling in love with it. There will be other bikes, so if this one isn’t as good than the pics and the ad make it out to be, I can walk away and try again later. It wasn’t as good as in the pics – it was better. Nearly everything works perfectly. It looks great, sounds great, and feels great. The guy even let me take it down his quiet road and back. Test rides often aren’t an option when buying a bike, so of course I took him up on that.

The Mustang seat is extremely comfortable. The forward foot controls will take some getting used to. The handlebars and their controls were a bit too far away for my comfort, but that’s an easy adjustment. I didn’t let ‘er rip too much in the quiet neighborhood, but I gave it a couple of quick blasts and it responded well. The brakes, too, were surprisingly good after the lackluster reviews I’d read of them.

It’s not quite perfect. The stock rear turn signals disappeared when the hard bags were added by the owner before the seller. In their place is a license plate frame with two tiny amber strips on the sides, which weren’t working during my test ride. He’s been lucky to pass inspection with those. But that’s also cheap and easy to fix.

I’d rather have the hard bags than stock turn signals anyway. The irony of picking up this particular bike is that I haven’t given up my ability to tour after all. The bags are huge, and though there’s no top trunk, there’s a rack behind the sissy bar that I can strap stuff to. I’d just need to pack things a little differently than I have in the past and I can still go away for multiple days at a time if I have the chance to do that again someday.

So that does it. I’m a cruiser guy now. I think it’ll suit my more relaxed riding style better. The quick release windshield will keep the wind off me when I want to, but let me catch the breeze when the weather is warm. It needs a few adjustments, but nothing I can’t handle. The short wait to fix these issues and get this thing on the road legally will definitely seem longer than it is, but it’ll be worth it.

My PC800 is for sale, if you want it – $2,895.

Ever since I started riding, I’ve noticed just how much kids seem to love bikes. There could be many reasons why. Maybe it’s the chrome and the noise of a Harley with straight pipes. Maybe it’s because it’s a bigger, faster version of the bicycles most kids ride until they’re old enough for something powered by an engine. Or maybe there’s something they can sense about the feeling of freedom you get when you’re riding a motorcycle.

One of my earliest childhood memories is from when my dad had a Honda 450 of some kind in bright 1970s orange. That bike was cool. I remember the time my mom and I had to drive across town in her VW Super Beetle to go rescue him when he ran out of gas. But more than anything, I remember the time he sat me in front of him on the bike and took me for a couple of very slow laps around the house. There’s a lot I don’t remember from my childhood, but I remember that very clearly. That experience, plus watching way too many episodes of CHiPs at a young, impressionable age, convinced me for life that motorcycles are cool.

I’ve never really been one for kids, myself. I don’t hate them, but I’ve never been comfortable around them, either, and certainly never had any desire to have my own. I’m kind of like Star Trek‘s Captain Picard that way, only not as good looking. But as I’ve gotten older, more and more friends, then girlfriends, then finally the woman I married, have had kids of their own, so I’ve had to learn to deal with it. Which is perfectly fine, just as long as I can give them back to their parents afterward.

There were many kids at the apartment complex I used to live in. When I came home from a ride, they’d all flock over and start talking to me. Sometimes they’d ride their bicycles alongside me, trying to be as cool as me. On one occasion I even “raced” one of them across the parking lot. In reality I just gunned my engine a lot but calibrated my speed precisely so that the kid would beat me by a nose. He got a thrill out of that. The neighbors didn’t even complain.

My wife’s kids are no different. I’ve taken each of them for rides on the back of my bike a few times. This past summer, she bought them a Baja Warrior, a little 200cc minibike to go putt-putting around the yard on. I cleared enough brush next to the propane tank for them to do complete laps around the house. It wasn’t until I was writing this that it occurred to me the parallel between that and my dad taking me for a couple of laps around the house all those years ago.

Truth be told, I like the minibike too. Those wide knobby tires dig into the dirt without tearing up the lawn, except where it’s already so sandy that no grass will ever grow there anyway. If I’m lucky I can get a little bit of a slide going in those places with my monstrous 6hp engine. It’s all too easy for me to take that bike up to its maximum governed speed. I know I need to leave it alone for the kids, but sometimes I want to remove the governor and see what it can really do. Maybe the extra speed would let me catch some air off that bump between the back yard and the driveway. OK, so I become a bit of a kid on this thing, too. Full circle, just like those loops around the house.

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1. The pavement is a cheese grater

Yes, it’s true that if you’re the stereotypical Harley rider, wearing no helmet, a leather vest, and jeans – or the stereotypical squid, wearing a full face helmet, shorts, flip-flops, and nothing else – the road is going to do very nasty things to your body if you lay ‘er down and scrape across it. That’s why we ATGATT – all the gear, all the time. Decent gear will help prevent the cheese grater effect on your skin and bones. It could make the difference between riding your battered bike home, or taking a ride in Max’s ambulance instead.

2. Falling down hurts more than you think it does. Seriously. Especially at 65 mph.

Again, true. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never had the urge to fling myself out of a car flying down the road at 65 mph. I imagine the results would look very much like this.

3. Cars are extremely heavy, and the people who drive them are oblivious.

I can’t agree with Max enough on this one. That’s why it’s absolutely necessary to ride within your limits and maintain situational awareness. Just assume that ” the other guy” is going to do the stupidest thing they possibly can, and have a plan of action to avoid a crash. When – not if – they do, you won’t lose precious seconds panicking or figuring out what you should do.

4. Highway dividers

Just because highways are relatively safe doesn’t mean you’re free from the risk of a crash. I’ve seen pictures and X-rays of a friend just after she had a highway crash and bounced off the divider. Again, not all crashes are avoidable, but many are. You can make sure you don’t ride directly next to cars or trucks, particularly in their blind spots. You can keep your eyes open for debris on the road that might cause you problems. You can, and should, keep your bike in top condition so that you don’t get a flat tire on the highway, because that really really sucks. Ask me how I know. (Fortunately I didn’t crash. Either time.)

5. Animals are not your friends

Many of my best friends are animals, but you don’t want to run into them, literally, on the road. Even close to my home I’ve seen deer, moose, and even a bear. I’ve also hit a deer on the highway in a pickup truck. My radiator resembled a potato chip afterward and all the coolant leaked out, disabling it. You’d be disabled, too, if you hit one of these. Even a pre-squashed squirrel on the road could take you down. Sorry to be crude, but roadkill is slippery. But once again, you can usually avoid these types of crashes if you keep your eyes open and ride at a speed appropriate for the conditions.

We do accept a certain level of risk every time we get on a motorcycle. Though we try not to think about it, every time we head out on a bike, we may never come home again. The same is true of a car, but the chance is greater on a motorcycle.

But I’d hazard a guess that the cases that Max sees are mostly those who didn’t take every precaution they could. They weren’t wearing protective gear, or they went into a corner too hot, or they didn’t notice that patch of sand or the car turning left in front of them until it was too late. We choose to accept the risks of riding, but we can, and should, also choose to minimize those risks as much as possible so that we’ll make it back home, each time, every time.

While I have no doubt that the stories Max tells are true, I also think he’s talking about the worst scenarios he’s seen. If what he’s seen is enough to make him choose not to ride, that’s perfectly fine. He’s not willing to accept those risks, and that’s a choice every rider (or non-rider) has to make for themselves. But there are plenty of emergency service personnel who do choose to ride. We’ve all seen motorcycle cops, and perhaps been escorted or pulled over by them. The Red Knights are an international motorcycle club of firefighters. They have certainly seen what Max has seen in the line of duty, but they’re proud to ride despite the potential consequences that they know even better than we do. I won’t try to talk anyone into riding a motorcycle who hasn’t already decided that they’re interested, but I also won’t try to talk anyone out of it the way Max does.

And now, here are five wonderful reasons to ride a motorcycle, according to our own Andrew Fails:

They’re awesome.
Kids love them.
The slowest ones are still faster than 90% of cars on the road.
You’re actually doing something.
They’re awesome.

The Harley riders, meanwhile, were in it for the image, not the experience. It was middle aged men and women getting a midlife crisis cruiser so they could feel young and badass again. They’d buy anything they could get with a Harley logo on it, which is practically anything at all. They were the ones who pulled over at state lines between helmet law and no helmet law states to put on or remove their helmets as required. They wouldn’t wave at anyone wearing a helmet, or anyone who wasn’t riding a Harley. They weren’t real bikers. They didn’t get it.

When I decided to take myself someplace warm and ride a motorcycle for a couple of days one January, I was surprised to find that the least expensive rentals from EagleRider were Harleys. I didn’t expect that, since they’re so expensive compared to many other models, and especially the cheap old bikes I’m used to. So I figured why not see how the other half lives, and rented this Street Glide for two days. I proceeded to put over 500 miles on it. You can read about that trip here.

It wasn’t the bone shaking, oil spewing, terrible ride that the stereotypes had prepared me for. Sure, it loped and shook at idle, but it was designed to, because it’s a Harley. Once we actually got underway, it smoothed out instantly and was quite comfortable. It steered like a cow, but cruisers in general aren’t designed for corner carving, whether they’re Harleys, Indians, or Suzukis. In fact, the Street Glide turned out to be an excellent choice for the relaxed type of riding I was doing.

I started to meet more and more Harley riders who weren’t the stereotypical Harley riders I described above, but actual bikers who actually get it. They choose to ride Harleys instead of Hondas, but they respect the Hondas and BMWs and Triumphs. If you’re nice to me, I’ll be nice to you, and here were these Harley riders being nice to me, so cool.

The barriers were breaking down between the two communities, and not just in my own head. More and more, especially over the last few years, I’ve seen the motorcycle community become more inclusive of everybody. It doesn’t matter what you ride – it matters that you ride. The online biker groups I’ve been involved with lately welcome everyone, regardless of bike. The Northeast Vintage Moto Society bike nights welcome everyone, whether your bike is vintage or modern, regardless of make. I’ve seen a few Harleys there, among the Hondas like mine, the classic Triumphs, and a modern Gixxer. It doesn’t matter. And it’s not like I think any less of my old friend Bob because he rides a Harley now instead of the Shadow he learned to ride on.

I’m happy to see both groups coming together. And I’m glad I tried the Street Glide in Florida. I’m actually pondering swapping my PC800 for a cruiser these days, since I don’t do long tours anymore and I’m not one to drag a knee in the curves. Have I become the middle aged man who wants a midlife crisis cruiser to feel young and badass again? I don’t think so. I just want to try something different, and the more relaxed riding style of a cruiser appeals to me as something new to try. Though whatever I choose will probably be Japanese and used, rather than a Harley, to keep the price down, I’ve got nothing against Harleys anymore. I get it.

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The Cabot Trail is a 185 mile (or 298km, as they measure it there) loop around the northern part of Cape Breton Island. I’ve heard it called the Pacific Coast Highway of the east coast, and one of the most fun roads in the entire northeast corner of North America. It’s a pretty lofty claim, but I wanted to see for myself someday. In July, 2013, a somewhat expected loss of a job suddenly gave me a lot of time, and my planning for that loss gave me a fair bit of savings. On sort of a spur of the moment, I decided to take a trip to experience the Cabot Trail for myself before diving into the search for a new job, since I was unlikely to take a summer vacation after I started working again.

One If By Land, Two If By Sea

When I took my trip in 2013 there was no ferry service between Portland, ME and Yarmouth, NS as there had been in the past. Maine and Nova Scotia have had an on again, off again relationship with a couple of different service providers over the years, and this was one of those off times. But this year The CAT is back, which will drop you at the southwest corner of Nova Scotia for US$115 one way (slightly more for sidecars and trailers). This will let you explore the entire length of the province on your way to Cape Breton Island. I would’ve much preferred to do it this way, but since the ferry wasn’t an option at the time, I made the entire journey by land across Maine and New Brunswick.

If you go by land, there are two main routes you can take. You can superslab I-95 all the way to Houlton, ME, then take Trans-Canada Highway 2 across New Brunswick. The speed limit on I-95 has increased to 70mph through most of southern and central Maine, and 75mph north of Old Town (the canoe place just past Bangor). If you want to make fast time on deserted highways, this is the place to do it legally. It’s the highest speed limit in the US east of the Mississippi River.

Or, you can do what I did, which is take Route 9 out of Bangor through the middle of nowhere. Literally – many towns don’t even have names. This will lead you to Calais, which is pronounced “KAL-us” rather than “ka-LAY” just to irritate the French speakers. There are two border crossings to Saint Stephen, NB – a small, older one near the center of town, and a newer, larger one on the outskirts that handles all commercial traffic. I took the small one in and the large one out, and had no problems or delays in either direction.

From there, you can take secondary roads across NB. These roads are not in very good shape, though, so I eventually changed course toward T-Can 2 and took the superslab through Fredericton and Moncton. Then I turned onto NB 15, hung a left onto 955, and pulled into Murray Beach Provincial Park, my first overnight stop, just after 6pm. Check-in was a breeze since I registered online. The guy even called me by my name when I walked into the office. He must’ve seen the Massachusetts license plate on the bike as I parked – an unusual sight in these parts, I’m sure. He also gave me directions to nearby gas in one direction, and food in the other – a ramshackle food hut with a million dollar view.

It turned out that I hadn’t needed to worry about getting my tent up before dark at all. I crossed into the Atlantic time zone at the border, and sunset was at 9:15pm, much later than home. So I relaxed and enjoyed a beautiful sunset over the Northumberland Strait.

Simplify And Add Lightness

At my wife’s request, I removed the large saddlebags that came on the back of the ’01. I would’ve kept them, but she preferred the bike without them and this bike is for her, so I did as she asked. I also removed the windshield. She’s new to riding, and this will ensure that if she drops the bike she won’t break the windshield. When she’s feeling confident enough I’ll put it back on, then let her decide whether she prefers the bike with our without it. But for now, it’s just a plain ordinary Savage, with no adornments whatsoever.

It’s The Volts That Jolts

Having established that the ’01 Savage starts (off a booster pack), runs, idles, and all of the lights work, I bought a new battery. I installed it. It works. The bike can now start and run under its own power. I also replaced the fuse I blew when I accidentally hooked up the booster pack backwards. Whoops. Fortunately the Suzuki’s electrical system is smarter than I am, and didn’t self destruct in five seconds.

Test Ride

Now that the bike doesn’t need to be tethered to a booster pack anymore, it can move about on its own. The tires were soft after five years, but not flat, so I aired them up. I confirmed that the oil was at an adequate level. It was even fairly clean, meaning I shouldn’t have to change it immediately. I know exactly how few miles were put on the bike by the most recent owner, or I’d be inclined to change it anyway, but in this case I know what I’m working with.

The clutch feels good. It engaged first gear smoothly and got me rolling, at which point I immediately stopped. Yup, the brakes work – particularly the rear, which I accidentally locked. No biggie, I just have to work on my calibration to this bike, which I won’t be riding often anyway. I took some careful slow laps around the house and a couple of blasts up and down the driveway. On the second one I let ‘er rip through first and second gear with liberal doses of throttle. The bike took right off and ran great! No clogged carbs. Everything is functioning as it should.

But both tires were dry rotted. They hold air and were OK for putting around the yard, but they’ve lost some of their strength, and shouldn’t be trusted for street riding. The back tire was also bald in the center – clearly the previous rider wasn’t into attacking the twisties.

You may be thinking, I don’t have a sport bike, why would I pay any attention to track days?

Dear reader, you haven’t lived until you’ve whacked open the throttle on your daily rider on a track. As Tony’s Track Day stickers say, “No cops, no cars, no limits!”

It’s not just about going fast. It’s about learning to control your machine through a variety of twists and turns, where you know there won’t be any sand, or police patrols, or left-turning SUVs in your path.

I rode one of Tony’s Non-Sportbike Track Days (on my Super Tenere) and I had a seriously fantastic time — not just from the thrill of going faster than I’d ever dare to on the street, but from the feeling after the track day of knowing my motorcycle so much better.

Track days will make you a better rider. You don’t need a sport bike to participate.

From Ed Conde, the guru who is behind the New England Riders group, are some clues that you will very much benefit from signing up for a track day. Can you identify with more than two of these?

1) I like sweepers much more than twisties
2) The Cherohala is much better than the Dragon. The Dragon is too much work!
3) I have bad days riding and can not figure out why.
4) I sometimes go wide in turns and the only way that I know how to fix it is to go slow.
5) I sometimes have a line of cars backed up behind me. They are always so impatient!
6) I have a hard time visualizing the best line through a curve.
7) I sit upright on my bike and do not know how to lean with my bike to conserve lean angle and make steering easier.
8) I take longer to brake than I should.
9) I have trouble forcefully and consciously countersteering my bike in tighter turns.
10) I do not really know how to trail brake.
11) I am afraid to downshift when slowing from road speeds. My upshifts are also not smooth.
12) I am not sure what I should be doing with the throttle in a turn.

It’s always easier to go with people you know, and a track day buddy is the best. Are you a New Englander? Want to know more about track days? Ask away!

The Suzuki Savage, a.k.a. LS650, a.k.a. Boulevard S40, is a small cruiser – too small for me, to be honest. Yet it’s an excellent and popular choice for smaller riders, particularly new ones. It’s low enough for them to flat-foot, and light enough (381lbs wet) to not feel overwhelming after the small 125s and 250s of the MSF course. Yet unlike another short rider favorite, the Honda Rebel, the Savage’s 650cc single cylinder engine provides adequate power for all types of riding, including the highway. My old CM250 Custom, on which the Rebel is based, would have Scotty call me from the engine room and say “I’m givin’ ‘er all she’s got, Captain!” as I tried to maintain the speed limit on the interstate. It was for these reasons that a number of years ago my girlfriend at the time, Pam, bought a 1986 Savage off Craigslist.

She got it for a song because it was in non-running condition. The previous owner was completely honest about having run out of oil on the Maine Turnpike, and it had never run since. But the engine wasn’t seized, either, so we figured there was hope. The tires were old and dry rotted, so she replaced those. Because Pam had no motorcycle license when we started this adventure (she later took the MSF course, as all new riders should), she couldn’t get insurance for the bike to register it. That seems kind of backwards to me – how else are you supposed to get the experience to be a safe rider besides riding? But that’s the way it was. So we registered and insured it in my name instead. I already owned and insured my Honda Silverwing, so we just added it to my policy.

Meanwhile, I’d brought the Savage over to a nearby biker buddy’s house, who was convinced that we could rebuild it together in his garage. It’s like an oversized lawn mower single cylinder lawn mower engine. It’s so small that it fit in the trunk of my Miata for transport to the machine shop to get the cylinder rebored for a +1 size piston. How hard could it be?

We were only a couple of miles away from this place that the internet has made famous. Yes, Hussey’s General Store really exists in Windsor, Maine, where my friend lives. They have an excellent hardware section, which we raided more than once to replace rusted or busted bolts and such.

A year passed, consisting mostly of not working on the bike, and goofing off while we were. There was frequently cold beer involved (we were close to Hussey’s, after all). My friend also had a sweet R/C car track, which was a frequent distraction.

As you might expect, the work on the motorcycle (there was a motorcycle here?) was haphazard at best. Eventually, pretty much when my friend finally wanted that part of his garage back, we got it all back together again. And with a bit of cranking, it started, and it actually ran! Mission accomplished.

I broke down halfway home when the freshly rebuilt motor let the magic smoke out. A lot of smoke. It never ran again.

Three years ago this week I was exploring Cape Breton Island, NS and the Cabot Trail, but I haven’t ridden any significant distance since then. For that reason alone, a shakedown cruise for a shorter distance was in order to make sure the bike and I were up for the task. Additionally, I’ve never done particularly long stretches of highway riding, since I prefer scenic back roads and twisties. Would my PC800 be the next best thing to a Goldwing for gobbling up highway miles? Or would I cramp up and go numb after a couple of hours in the saddle? Finally, as RWT‘s Kate Murphy pointed out, I didn’t know my maximum possible fuel range, so I didn’t know how far I could stretch it between gas pumps. So I planned a trip to answer all of these questions. It would also end up answering a few questions I hadn’t yet asked.

Having taken care of what I needed to do in the morning, I planned an almost exclusively highway loop to try and simulate the conditions I’d be running under for a SaddleSore 1,000 – basically, long highway stints. The first part of the trip is actually the same route I’d take for the real thing – after a fuel stop to top the tank, I-190 to I-290 to I-90. But rather than follow I-90 all the way to the town of North East, PA, I’d hit I-91 north out of Chicopee, MA, and follow it all the way to White River Junction, VT. I’d then turn south on I-89, merge into I-93 in Concord, NH, and take back roads home from Nashua. At 305 miles it’s less than a third the distance of a SaddleSore 1,000, but it would give me the information I needed. I’ve done over 300 miles in a day before, so this would tell me if I still had it in me.

The Thrill Of Victory

My first stop was just a couple of miles from home, the gas station by the highway. I topped off the tank on the bike, as well as my secret weapon – a two gallon gas can that fit perfectly in one side of my trunk. With an extra two gallons on board, I could safely ride until the motor stopped running, find my maximum range, dump in a couple more gallons, and keep on going. Based on the averages I’d seen on Fuelly, I estimated I’d get around 44mpg, which would get me about 180 miles on a 4.2 gallon tank. I’d “run out of gas” near White River Junction, a very quiet portion of highway where I could pull over and refuel safely.

I put in my earplugs (it’s amazing how much they reduce fatigue on long superslab slogs), got underway, followed I-190 to Worcester, I-290 through Worcester, and hopped on I-90 west. Being a Sunday afternoon during July 4 weekend, traffic was minimal, which was part of the reason I was doing this when I did. My strategy was simple – maintain a steady 70mph when I could and make constant progress rather than top speed. I could squeeze the throttle a bit more to pass – I wasn’t hypermiling, but I wasn’t in heavy fast moving traffic on my way to work either. A relaxed steady riding style would be the key to eventually keeping the pace for 1,000 miles.

As I followed this strategy on my way to western Massachusetts, my mind kept wandering back to just how darn boring this was. Not even 100 miles in I was tired of this kind of riding. Do I really need to do a SaddleSore 1,000? What do I have to prove? Do I really need to prove myself to be among “the world’s toughest riders?” It all seemed like a waste of time. But, Kate’s point remained true about knowing my fuel range being an important data point, so for that, and for the sake of completing what I started, I pressed on.

Like this Civic driver. Quite clearly it was her lane that was ending, and she should’ve slowed slightly and tucked in behind the bike. Instead she decided she could just force her way over into him. The rider had some rather choice words to say about it, as any of us would do. She clearly doesn’t care and keeps honking at the rider who dared to already exist in the lane she moved into. But then, he became a hero.

He spotted a black-and-white in a parking lot, got his attention, and told him what happened. The cop tells him to follow as he hits the lights and chases down the perp. The video ends as they all pull over together, but I imagine the Civic driver got an education about how motorcycles are vehicles, and have just as much right to their place in a lane as cars do.

(h/t Highlander-There can be only one, still waiting for the quacking on Oppositelock)

I’d been floating from contract to contract gig for a few years, and in January 2014 I finally landed myself a full time job that paid me well. To celebrate – and because I wouldn’t have any time off for motorcycle trips for quite some time – I decided to take a week off between jobs and go someplace warm, because winter sucks. I also decided that someplace warm should involve a motorcycle, because as a New Englander who doesn’t deal well with cold, riding in January is a novel idea. I discovered EagleRider, who rents motorcycles the same way Enterprise rents cars. They have locations all over the country and the world. A combination of factors such as airline ticket prices, EagleRider locations, and the very specific chunk of time I had to take this trip led to me flying to Orlando, FL.

The trip was easy, with no waiting at the JetBlue counter and no trouble getting through security. I always breathe a little sigh of relief every time they let me through, which means I’m not on some No Fly list. Thanks to a shortwave radio reception report I once sent, I was on Radio Moscow’s mailing list for a few years before the fall of the Soviet Union, so I figure there must be an FBI file on me somewhere. Conspiracy theories aside, the flight was rather empty. I had an entire row to myself, and there was ample room for my long legs between my seat and the one in front of me, so it was very comfortable. We landed half an hour early, and my suitcase was one of the first ones down the conveyor. I got a cab, which cost twice as much as the online estimate, and checked into the Red Roof, which I chose based on my 20% AMA discount.

When I went for a walk – in pleasant 70 degree temperatures – to find dinner, I was pleasantly surprised to see “Orlando Ale House” staring at me in bright red letters directly across the street. I love a good microbrew, so I walked across the street, enjoyed dinner, and more than one beer from the extensive selection, since I wasn’t driving or riding anywhere. I ended up having dinner here each night of my stay.

I had trouble sleeping that night. This was no fault of Red Roof – I was too excited to begin my motorcycle adventure. It was raining when I got up that morning, which didn’t bode well. I checked the weather radar on my phone, and saw a line of precipitation stretching from the southwest to northeast. I had two loops planned, south and north of Orlando, and it looked like if I took the southern route as I’d planned to, I’d ride out of the scattered rain showers. So I packed my rain gear and took a cab to EagleRider. As soon as we pulled in I could see my bike for the next two days – a screaming yellow zonker Harley Davidson Street Glide.

This is NOT my usual kind of bike. I’d never ridden a Harley Davidson before. Of course I’ve met many diehard fans of them, as well as many diehard critics. Either you love them or you hate them, it seems. Since the least expensive rentals from EagleRider‘s Orlando location with any cargo space whatsoever were Harleys, I figured why not give it a try. I also got a 15% AMA discount on the rental. Seriously, with the discounts I got on this trip, my AMA membership more than paid for itself that year.

The folks at EagleRider were great to deal with. The required paperwork was kept to a minimum.  They went over the entire bike with me, particularly because I’d never ridden a Harley before. This was good, or I wouldn’t have known about the turn signal controls on both handlebars instead of just the left like every other bike I’ve ever ridden. My only disappointment was in the type of loaner helmets available – all half shell “brain buckets.” I certainly didn’t expect anything as nice as my Nolan modular helmet, but since it would’ve been a carry-on bag all by itself, I opted to take EagleRider up on their helmet that’s included with the rental. So be aware of this if you should choose to rent a bike through them. In the future, I’ll bring my own helmet despite the hassle.