Musings from one who writes, and rides…
A while back, in a moment of delusion, I agreed to make motorcycles a zero-sum game: if I acquired one, another one had to go. Have I adhered to this diplomatic protocol? Of course not. Motorcycles seem to arrive, but none ever leave….
What’s happening to motorcycle shops? Gone, like points and condensers—victims of the pandemic, a fickle market, and more than a few bad decisions….
Carburetors, like clutches and cables, have become the earmarks of antiquity. There will soon come a time when exactly no one will know how to adjust or service these devices. Carbs and clutches will seem as weird as a wall jack….
Imagine a couple hundred codgers on BMWs sleeping in the dirt, drinking beer and traversing California for three days. But no one knows where the next day’s ride will go until they arrive at camp each night….
My bikes display a lack of cleanliness that has the singular advantage of serving as a theft deterrent. “Hey Bob, this one is unlocked, but honestly, who would want it? If we’re going to risk arrest we might as well go for something clean. Let’s move on….”
In the spring of 1966, it seemed almost anything was possible. They could have no way of knowing what the next few months would bring….
I’ve noticed that the more articles I have on a certain destination, the more likely I’ll actually go there. So here I am, a madman with scissors.
This week marked a new, low watermark for my already abysmally bad judgment in the buying and selling of old motorcycles. In an unusual spasm of practicality and good judgment, I sold my Honda CRF250L. Before the cash settled in my linty pocket, I handed it to a buddy selling a 1986 Honda TLR200 Reflex trials bike. One old crock sold, another purchased, in less than 24 hours.
Riding the interior roads of Maine is a little like one of those underground trains at the amusement park, where you go into dark and haunting interior spaces, then emerge in dazzling sunlight, the world resplendent and pure….
Just over the Santa Cruz mountains from my home on the Northern California coast, in the trendy little town of Los Gatos, there is a store that sells cupcakes. But twisty roads, it turns out, are not kind to cupcakes.