Days of Black Leather

I Used to be So Hip I Was Practically on Fire. Now I Look Like I’m Going to a Fire.

I’ve seen you on the corners and cafes, it seems.
Red hair and black leather, my favorite color scheme.

-Richard Thompson, 1952 Vincent Black Lightning

Originally published in “On the Level,” the official magazine of the BMW Riders Association.

The other day I ventured into my gear closet, that great black hole of things that remind me of halcyon days, but which you would really rather not smell. When I slid the door open, a haphazard and somewhat moldy time capsule of gear cascaded to the floor, supplying a glimpse into previous decades. Almost all of it was black leather, bearing names like Hein Gericke,  Fieldsheer, Alpinestars, and Triumph. Every single piece evoked another decade of riding motorcycles when I should have been doing something, well, productive.

There is loads o’ crap that now fits, uh, approximately. There are old leather boots, liners, an assortment of knee pucks, and the real prize, a set of leather gauntlet-style dirt bike gloves from the early ‘70s, with tiny rubber strips on the back of the fingers—yesteryear’s version of “armor.” The gear, and the guy, practically need carbon dating they’re so old. I even found a Grateful Dead ticket stub in one of the jackets. (No, there was no drug paraphernalia, so don’t ask.) Since my wife Meredith has ridden pillion for decades, I can attribute some of the pile to her (mostly items lacking scuff marks and bad smells). The rest should probably be subjected to fumigation.

When I drag all that stuff out of the closet of doom, the pile is notable for its height—and the fact that it is almost all black leather. You’d think I worked in a tannery. My karma has been deeply wounded through the death of so many cows.

Things are different now. Thanks to an assortment of fluorescent nylon and Cordura garments, I resemble a brightly festooned Christmas tree. Or a Roman candle. People see me and think: Where’s the emergency? I’m turning heads, as I did in my youth, but now it’s for all the wrong reasons.

When I go in a store, people leave me a wide swath, or simply flee, thinking that I’m part of a Hazmat team that’s come to address a propane leak. When we stop for coffee, my wife, who eschews such flamboyant gear, stands dutifully apart, as if claiming not to know me. I may be what my friend Andy Goldfine, founder of Aerostich, refers to as a “Road Grimed Astronaut.” I’ve never been quite sure what that means, but I’m pretty sure I am one.

Nonetheless, I can’t help but think something has been lost. It’s a little like when you sold your vintage muscle car for a minivan, or started to go to bed at 9 pm instead of working on that bottle of worry-be-gone with the boys until 1 am. I find myself using words like, “eminently practical,” a phrase that surely denotes the death of coolness.

It gets worse. A few months ago, I acquired an equally hideous, yellow air vest, which must be tethered to the bike, and which I routinely forget to undo when dismounting. My riding pals are eagerly taking bets on when I’m going to set the thing off and blow up like the Michelin Man in front of the assembled crowd at the café.

My friend Todd is 20 years my junior, both in age, and attitude. He dresses entirely in black leather, and rides nearly prostrate on a pre-unit Triton of his own making. The bike is impeccably fettled but lacks paint, and has plainly visible welds on the frame, which is all somehow quite perfect. His bike makes cool noises that reverberate through the neighborhood, announcing our arrival. He does 200-mile days with ease, finishing fresh while I’m tired despite heated gear, cruise control, and an aftermarket windshield on my BMW R1200GS that wraps me like a cocoon. When we ride together, I imagine people think I’m his enfeebled father. Guys with gray goatees on Boxers are practically a plague here in NorCal, and I’m in the club.

It’s all a far cry from my leather-clad days on old Triumphs. Not Hinckley Triumphs mind you, but Meriden Triumphs, the kind that leave endearing puddles on the garage floor. This included a ‘69 Trophy restored by my own hands, which caused small children to point and exclaim as I passed. Or at least, I imagine it did.

I secretly long to bask in the aura of famous wearers of cowhide like Elvis, Peter Fonda, and James Dean. When these guys donned black leather, women swooned, and men ached with envy. When people see me, they think some old guy made a wrong turn into a used clothes store and emerged with firefighting equipment.

Every so often, when I vainly seek to look cooler than I actually am, I put on the old stuff. Black leather is one of those things that will never quite be replaced, nor should it be. It ages well, as does the body inside—but only for a while. Eventually, the leather wins out, and the flesh proves its weakness.

It occurs to me that something has been lost—but something may also have been gained. My riding buddy Ken summed it up best. “I want to be riding in my 70s, and maybe longer,” he said. “If that means I have to ride a bit slower, and wear obnoxious gear, then so be it.”

He’s right, of course. So I’ll probably go on looking like a dweeb, hopefully for a long time. And, regardless of the gear I’m wearing, when surveying the landscape from behind the handlebars, everything still looks pretty much the same. Which is to say, awesome. The difference is I’m not setting the world on fire with my coolness anymore; instead, it looks like I’m going to put out a fire.

But when that final ride comes, I imagine my angels will wear the gear of my youth.  

“I see Angels on Ariels in leather and chrome,
Swoopin’ down from Heaven to carry me home….”