Commuter Chronicles

Originally published in On the Level, the magazine of the BMW Riders Association. They say if you find a job you love, you’ll never work a day in your life. I’ve had a bunch of jobs that I liked well enough, but I only loved them if I rode a motorcycle to get there.

I spent much of my 35-year working life commuting by motorcycle. I figure that represents about 150,000 miles in pursuit of filthy lucre. It was almost like being a professional rider, for someone who was never good enough to be a professional rider.

I commuted from my home near Santa Cruz, California, to a half dozen towns in the Silicon Valley; to Monterey; and to South San Francisco. Lucky me! There are dozens of delicious, twisty roads between all those places and my home on the coast. If I was late for dinner, my wife knew why. 

I once worked for a motorcycle company, which meant I got to commute on a different, new bike every day. It was as easy as checking a book out of the library—but more fun and without scary librarians and late fees.

The Daily Grind Meets the Daily Ride

It’s amazing how quickly a contentious meeting will recede in memory with a little flexion of the right wrist. There is no better salve for a tough day. One time, during the tumultuous dot.com era, I was summarily and surprisingly laid off, along with 100 other people. At that moment I was glad the motorcycle was parked outside, waiting patiently as I cleaned out my desk and turned in my laptop under the watchful eye of a creepy security guy. But the joke was on him. I had a lovely ride home, taking the long way along the ridgetops, remembering what was important in life. Hint: it was not work.

You could say motorcycle commuting combines things that are not alike: work (often unpleasant) and leisure (almost always fun). So why drag one of your favorite things into the province of something that is inherently un-fun? Because the one enriches the other. You need only look at the dopey grin I’m wearing when I sit down at my desk to realize what vehicle carried me there. If I’m ambling down the halls whistling like Jiminy Cricket, you know why.

On the other hand, it’s possible that arriving by motorcycle tainted me as a social outcast and inhibited my ascent of the greasy pole of employment. It’s also possible that, if motorcycling counted against me, it probably wasn’t a company I wanted to work for anyway. So there’s that.

Along the way I’ve made some enduring friendships with motorcycling colleagues. There’s that day when you arrive at work together, pull off your helmets, exchange a knowing glance, and start discussing important topics like the day’s tire pressure and the virtues of a light clutch in stop and go traffic. Pretty soon you’re going out for lunch together, and before you know it, you’re doing weekend sport rides and meeting at the local OHV park. On these occasions, you can bet the topics include everything but work.

Commuting also means you can justify lots of stuff that might otherwise set off budgetary alarms. After all, you’re doing it in the name of paying the mortgage and providing your family with responsible things like health care and groceries. This includes new tools, a hydraulic lift stand, sticky tires, new boots, Bluetooth communicators, and of course, a succession of new motorbikes. Worked for me, anyway. Your results may differ.

The Armaments of War

Commuting has prompted me to attain new heights (depths?) of ridiculousness in my attire. Where once I was stylishly adorned in black leather, I’m now festooned with so much reflective crap that I resemble a highway worker.  Such things used to matter, but not anymore. I want to be seen way more than I want to be cool. It’s quite possible that I was never cool, anyway.

Foremost among these armaments of war is my Aerostich Roadcrafter one-piece suit, which enables me to be in and out of full, weatherproof, protective gear in 20 seconds, with my work clothes underneath. My current suit has more than 100,000 miles—and it shows. I once provided an Aerostich suit demonstration in front of my motorcycle safety class, after which a smart-aleck student yelled from the back of the room: “Hey, you ever think about washing that thing?” The truth is, I have washed it, funny guy. Many times. The net result was that it smelled better, but looked just the same. I admit, the thing belongs on the Superfund list. But it works.

My motorcycle is just as ugly. I’ve got rows of auxiliary LED lights up front to awaken the dread left-turning cager, and flashing LED brake lights behind to help prevent me from becoming a motorcycle sandwich. The bike has a distinctly utilitarian look. Sometimes I even wash it.

I’ve installed a top case on every commuting bike I’ve ever owned. It’s just right for a laptop, puncture repair kit, first aid, cargo straps, glove covers, power adapters and cords, tool kit, water, and an energy bar or two. There’s probably other stuff in there, but honestly, I haven’t plumbed the depths of that thing in years. Hey, come to think of it, maybe that’s where I left my passport!

Then there is the matter of ABS. I fancy myself to be pretty good on the brakes, and I practice a lot. But there are those times when you’re suddenly presented with a sea of red lights in a rainstorm. You get on the binders, and feel that pulsation in the lever that tells you that maybe you’re not as good as you think you are. Congratulations! Mr. ABS just kept you out of the hospital.

There’s a piece of me that loves the cut and thrust of an urban commute. I may rue those words, but I find it rewarding to predict the bonehead move of the motorist in the next lane who starts moving over with no turn signal. That’s when you give them an earful of your loud, aftermarket horn, which hopefully causes them to 1) Drop their cell phone in their lap; and 2) Spill their coffee on top of it. Sweet revenge!

A lifetime of commuting has not been without mishaps. On one early December morning, on a twisty road I’d done a thousand times before, the front end stepped out, and time slowed as I slid toward the Armco on a sheet of black ice. Fortunately, nothing was hurt, other than plastic and pride—though I will say that I was not at my most attentive in meetings that day.

I live in a state that is benevolent to motorcycles, allowing us to use carpool lanes, and split lanes. I’ve cheerfully logged thousands of miles doing both, without a mishap (but with plenty of close calls).

I’ve commuted on four different BMWs, a Honda VFR, a Kawasaki KLR, and a Suzuki V-Strom 650. Truthfully, the latter was the best of the lot: light clutch, easy to handle, and plenty fast for dicing with cagers. The Strom was never anybody’s idea of a sexy motorcycle, but it checked a lot of boxes. I still miss that one. 

Once addicted to motorcycle commuting, I started to pursue all its logical extremes, like taking the motorcycle to offsite meetings (and having to rebuff the valet at the convention center), or on overnight business trips. And of course, these journeys merited a mileage credit from the company which, given the frugal gas consumption of most bikes, turned out to be a profitable enterprise. One more fragile justification for riding!

The Working (and Riding) Life

A few years ago, I pulled into the parking garage on my BMW R1200 RT just as my boss arrived in her aging Subaru wagon. As I pulled off my helmet, wearing the goofy grin that can only come from motorcycling, she asked: “Did you have a nice ride?”

“Always,” I said spontaneously. “I could be stuck in traffic in 85-degree heat, but as long as I’m on my motorcycle, I’m happy.”

She considered my statement for a second, smiled, and said: “It must be nice to enjoy something so much.”

You bet it is.