Why do we name our bikes?

 

Side view of motorcycleWhy 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. 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 tame 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

Ride With The Devil’s Daughters

I’m going to start up a new ‘feature’ of this blog. Earlier I posted my review of a Cardo Freecom 4+, so I figured I should force my musical tastes on y’all as well (grin).

The Devil's Daughters Album CoverFirst 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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Mystical Motorcycle Music

Couple of years ago I traded in my 2014 Street Glide for an ’18 Heritage Classic. Love the scoot and I’ll post a long overdue writeup soon. One of the things I missed, however, was my tunes. Man, I dig the sound of a big ol’ Harley motor as much as the next gear head, but for long rides nothing beats being able to bring my mystical motorcycle music along for the ride.

I looked into sound-bars, but didn’t care for the look. Speakers were an option, but where to mount the amp? Singing is always a possibility, but then I swallow too many bugs and get too full to eat my burger. What to do, what to do.

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A Biker Looks at 50

Let me start off with apologies to Jimmy Buffet for mucking with his song title. I love “A Pirate Looks at 40” and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he wrote that damn song about me. I’ve always been drawn to the ocean, I’ve made some money, and I’ve pissed it away pretty damn fast. Bottom line was, I never really meant to last. Never meant to last.

Now I’m on the threshold of turning 50. Forget 40 man, I’m flying into my 50’s so fast I need goggles to keep my eyes from tearing up. Victor Hugo once said that “Forty is the old age of youth; fifty the youth of old age.” I’m not sure if I like that or not. On one hand it points to the beginning of a new phase in ones life with certain benefits, AARP membership for one thing. On the other hand it points to… well hell, AARP membership. AARP man. My mom belongs to AARP and she’s old! Cripes. No offense Mom. (coughs)

Thing is, when I was in my 20’s and on the sub, we’d sit around behind the maneuvering room and talk about doing 30 years. We’d laugh and say, “Hell, we’ll all be dead by 40 man, why waste it on the Navy?” We’d laugh, but deep down I believed it. Hell, between the sub life itself, smoking, drinking, carousing, and riding scoots faster than a sane person should, I figured hitting 30 was a crap shoot, let alone 40. Continue reading “A Biker Looks at 50”