Why do we name our bikes? Or for that matter, our cars, boats, or snowmobiles. You name the vehicle and someone has given it a name. My friend Merv, RIP, had an orange custom he called Tigger. All over Columbus people knew Tigger and knew that it was Merv’s scoot. I had a chance to ride Tigger once, and it was quite the experience, let me tell you. I miss Merv. Even though he’s been gone for a good many years now, he still lives on in my heart, along with memories of Tigger.
To those of us who eat, sleep, live and die with motorcycles, they are more than just machines. The don’t just take us from point A to B, they transport us away from the grind. When you throw a leg over your scoot, your soul relaxes. You begin to remember past rides and start planning new ones. A scoot is your friend and confidant. How in the world can it NOT have a name? It breathes in air and farts fire for chrissakes. It’s tamed and yet wild at the same time.
So, we name them. Ol’ Red. Tigger. Gray Ghost. Misty Blue. Or my current partner of the road, Dusty Rose. We name them because they become a part of us. We take pictures of them. Some of us get ink with their names or pictures. We wash them. We feed them. We talk to them, and they listen. We give them love, and in turn they give us the world.
They are family.
Gregor
First up is a kick-ass rockabilly self-titled album from a group called The Devil’s Daughters. Now the cats that make up this group ain’t new, in fact they all have been making killer tunes for quite some time. Their sound is pure rockabilly with a bluesy twist that really helps the miles on those boring freeway stretches fly by.
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