“Not I, nor anyone else, can travel that road for you. You must travel it for yourself.” Walt Whitman

I am kind of relieved to write this story. I was pretty heavy for a while and experienced a dearth of acknowledgements. I know, I say I don’t care, but I do, at least to a certain degree. The best part is seeing there are people still reading my stories that I have given up on. However, I am not now nor will I ever pander just for the sake of an emoji.

What I did realize is that I haven’t written about me and motorcycles, which is, after all, in the title of the damn blog. While I continually write that my grandson has been my muse for this word addiction of mine, the motorcycle is definitely in the creative mix. Writing about it is almost a waste of time, like describing the precise moment of orgasm. Even knowing the futility doesn’t stop me from trying, which is why it occupies the place it does for me.

Before moving here around twenty-one years ago, my bike experience was limited. I can’t even say for sure why I wanted one in the first place. I was in the Army Reserves in the early seventies and one of the guys said he wanted to sell his bike. Now, back then, I was living on Avenue A and Fourth St, in the East Village. I finally moved out of my home after college, where I had to stay for an eternity, because I went to Queens College and it was just for city kids, who lived at home.

It was a very exciting time to be young and independent. I was working at NBC, wearing a suit by day and living in the land of Peace and Love by night. I lived in a seven room apartment, with a bunch of guys, who were a bit older than myself and experienced at being single and independent. I definitely felt torn between the life of predictable conformity versus a much freer life style. 

The idea of a motorcycle appealed to that nascent feeling of reckless abandon that bumped up hard against being a good boy and doing what was expected of me. God Bless my mother, her favorite mantra was, “What will the neighbors say?” I bought this 250cc. Honda and parked in front of the apartment building. I even got a basset hound and named him Feinstein. I rode that bike all over NYC, including through tunnels and over bridges. Feinstein and I were real pals. I’d race home after work, go up to the cave, which is what we called our place, and take him out for a walk. I was usually too late and had to deal with the consequences.

I tasted a life that took another twenty years to begin living, but it stayed with me until then. I sold the bike and found Feinstein a home on a farm in Delaware. I then proceeded to walk on the road most traveled, but motorcycles and dogs stayed still owned a piece of my longing.

After moving to Santa Fe, NM, picking up kind of where I left off all those years ago, I got a semi-broken down Honda that I rode around for a couple seasons, but never really learned to       appreciate a bike the way I do now. I think it was around 550cc., with a big front called a faring that made me uncomfortable. Had I known what I know now, I would have had a ball on some of incredible roads in that part of the country. I fared much better in canine land, having as many as three at one point, not to mention a hybrid wolf.

I am still traveling on the trajectory set in motion when I left NYC for the magical southwest. The suit guy never felt like me and I was always dogged by feeling uncomfortable in the role of successful adult, living a statistically appropriate life. I can’t tell you why I wanted a bike back in NYC or why it came at me in Santa Fe. I think it had a lot to do with feeling free and independent, pursuing dreams I hadn’t ever lived or believed possible.

When I came to Kauai, I had a very short list of things I needed to do as soon as possible and within a few months, I checked them off. I also can’t tell you where the hell this list came from. I needed a tattoo, which was unheard of in my world until that point. I got a Buddhist symbol, called the eternal knot, tattooed on my right shoulder. A completely unschooled boatsman, I bought a kayak to take out during whale season, which I did for years. Within a month, I got an orange 750 cc. Honda and fell in love with all of it, every bit of it. 

With the first two bikes, I really liked how it appealed to the loner in me. It made me feel like a knight, riding alone in Sherwood Forest, a two-wheeled magical experience. Coming to Kauai came with a vibe of sincerely wanting to be a part of the island and nothing has really changed in that regard. Within weeks of riding around, I was fortunate enough to be introduced to a group of bikers, who chose to adopt me and I have no idea why.

Up until a handful of months ago, I was a group rider and then decided it was time to ride alone. To me, the true joy of riding a motorcycle has always been it is just me and my bike. I think the whole biker thing has its roots in the cowboy subculture, at least in this country. You don’t have to watch many westerns to get the romance between horse and rider. I don’t regard Flaming Lips as some cold, metal machine. Every time I throw my leg over her and settle into the saddle, I am that knight, if only for a second or two.

As many of you know, I write a lot about aging on the vine, spiritually ripening, while the rest of me is trying not to fall off, splat on the ground. As I too frequently tell my grandson, “You never stop growing up. The brass ring is forever, just out of reach.” After writing for years about the joy of group camaraderie, the time had come to just ride. I am completely comfortable about being part of Kauai and there is nothing I feel compelled to do in order to make the point.

Writing and the motorcycle are inseparable to me. Each one is a solo effort now. The bike has caught up with my lonesome, word smithing and the joy is all mine. Hopefully, the longer you’re around, the better you get to unashamedly know yourself and enjoy being by yourself. It also makes you appreciate others, with an added richness, people like you. 

https://www.buzzsprout.com/1292459/episodes/14964535