Why We Ride. Mark Barnes, PhD
or effective, it might still have been extremely entertaining. And motorcycles are used for entertainment at least as much as for any other purpose.
Objective data such as acceleration and braking numbers establish the superiority of the latest, greatest hardware, but not so with subjective factors. Who can say any particular motorcycle is more enjoyable, given that we each enjoy different things to differing degrees?
This brings me to the second event that sparked my interest in vintage bikes. My buddy Russ let me ride his 1976 Bonneville 750 on a spectacular autumn day. I’d heard Russ recount his travails with this bike in the past, and it misbehaved before we even left his driveway: the ticklers on both Amal carbs stuck open and gushed fuel! The cause remained mysterious, but they settled with more jiggling, and we didn’t wait around for something else to go wrong. I was apprehensive about the next mishap occurring with me in the saddle, but such thoughts vanished quickly as I succumbed to the old Triumph’s charms.
Although the Bonnie’s vibration far exceeded that of anything I’d ridden since adolescence, it was more amusing than offensive. Steering was startlingly crisp and light, as was the transmission. It even kicked over easily. The pegs seemed impossibly high in relation to the low, flat seat, but only at first, and the oddly swept bars felt surprisingly natural. Engine response was confusing. On one hand, revs built slowly and deliberately, and my initial impression was of laborious sloth. But I noticed considerable grunt was always on tap—very pleasing! The oxymoron “sporty tractor” came to mind and made me smile.
The whole was truly much more than the sum of its parts. Eventually, I realized that this was the most unique ride I’d been on in many years. Cliché or not, I’d been transported back in time. The soundtrack in my head was by Bob Dylan, Simon and Garfunkel, and other folksy artists from the ’60s and ’70s. Disco may have been ascendant when this bike was built, but the Bonneville sustained an earlier vibe. There was no hurrying to the next thing. That doomed the Meriden factory back in the day, but there’s a good reason these machines maintained a cult following despite their flaws and limitations and the marque’s temporary disappearance.
I cruised contentedly, without interest in performance envelopes or g-forces. The aura emanating from that sonorously thrumming collection of antique parts was plenty entertaining. By modern standards, Russ’s bike had pathetic brakes, a lazy paint-shaker motor, poor reliability, flimsy suspension, blah, blah, blah. All that just made its magical delivery of pleasure even more impressive.
Lately, I’ve been unexcited about spending the fortune required to put cutting-edge technology in my garage. Maybe my next bike won’t be from the future, but from the past. And, given the greatly enlarged range of possibilities, choosing an old bike may be more exciting than choosing a new one.
At the Track
First, I’ve never ventured onto a motocross or other type of off-road racetrack, so these are observations and experiences from road-racing circuits. Second, I’m not talking about watching a race, but rather a particular type of racetrack activity unknown to most people, probably even most motorcyclists. Some sport-riding clubs rent tracks for special events called “track days.” Members ride the course, honing their skills but not actually competing (at least not in any official way). Similarly, rider- and/or racer-training operations, often featuring famous ex-racers, hold riding schools at racetracks with varying levels of supervision, classroom instruction, and individual attention. Any of these events may last from one to several days. Facilities require whoever puts on an event to provide on-site medical services (e.g., one or more ambulances) and to staff the course with flag-bearing observers at key locations to signal riders on the track about emerging hazards; it’s not a matter of just letting a bunch of riders go crazy.
Ironically, racetracks may be the safest places I’ve ridden fast, and they can be quite beautiful. They’re certainly the places where I’ve learned the most in the least amount of time, though sometimes I would have learned even more if I hadn’t been so intent on racing my ego.
Wrecks
December 1996
What’s even better than spending time on a racetrack? Introducing your friends to the experience. Not only do you get to enjoy their exhilaration vicariously, but you also may be inspired by their fortitude, and you can celebrate their triumphs over trepidation and mishap.
My friend Bill went down. He ran wide exiting Turn Two, the wheels of his Honda Hawk GT slipping suddenly out from under him as gravel replaced tarmac beneath those precious tiny contact patches. It wasn’t a very dramatic crash; Bill was up and walking it off before the trotting corner workers reached the scene, and the bike sustained only mild cosmetic damage. The medical crew recommended a trip to the local hospital for x-rays, just to be safe, and Bill’s day of track practice was over after just thirty minutes of seat time. He returned later in the afternoon with the official news: he had a broken collarbone, but not so much as a bruise anywhere else. The worst of it was the goofy harness he would have to wear for the coming six weeks; it looked like backpack straps without the backpack. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief—me, most of all, because it had been my idea to get him out on the track.
After months of coaxing and cajoling, my two main riding partners finally agreed to join me for the Southeastern Sportbike Association’s track practice at Talladega Grand Prix Raceway (the road course, not the NASCAR oval). I had started making such pilgrimages the year before, visiting four different tracks in the process, and I came away from each experience a more enthusiastic and better rider. Bill, having just started riding a few years ago, resisted my urging to try out “the track” until this past spring, but after he got his first taste at the wonderfully winding circuit at Mid-Ohio, talking him into Talladega was actually pretty easy. Dave, on the other hand, was ambivalent up to the last moment. He’d only recently returned to riding after a lengthy hiatus, still had fresh memories of two street get-offs, and was trying very tentatively to get acquainted with a newly acquired pristine Ducati 750SS. Dave eventually surrendered to relentless persuasive efforts, his fate being decided by something like democratic process within our little riding trio.
About a dozen of my local riding buddies descended upon Talladega the night before practice, and we retold all of the usual riding stories over dinner. I might not have noticed, but Dave pointed out afterward that the vast majority of the tales told had to do with crashing. This conversational bias was not lost on a track virgin who was already apprehensive about losing his cherry-red Ducati (or more) in some riotous orgy of uninhibited speed. As I tried to come up with a verbal antidote for the queasiness Dave had contracted at dinner, it occurred to me he wasn’t the only one nervous about the next day’s potential for trauma. All of those stories he had just heard were actually attempts at inoculation.
Each rider had taken one of several approaches. The most popular tactic was to catalog all of one’s own errors, reviewing the lessons learned and reaffirming one’s own invincibility in the process. Another strategy was to tease fellow riders about all of their respective mishaps, with the implicit conviction that such disasters occur only in the lives of others. A third group paid their respects at the altar of famous racer crashes, thereby invoking some celestial blessing on their endeavors. It could have been the evening before a perilous expedition or the locker room before the big game. The details vary from one setting to the next, but, generally, human beings trying to manage collective anxiety tend to do so in these ways.
Dave went on to face the dreadful beast and conquer it; by midmorning, he was all grins after each practice session, despite his concern about Bill’s spill. By the end of the day, he was asking about how soon we could return. Bill, too, was undaunted by his fall. He said his greatest pain was the disappointment of having to end the day so early after riding quite well, at least up until his unplanned sampling of Alabama soil. He wanted to get back out and master that Turn Two exit! He had analyzed his mistake and couldn’t wait to try a different approach (no doubt we’ll hear more about this at the next pre-practice dinner). But, alas, we all must return to our workaday lives between motorcycling events. And it is there that we encounter another set of crash stories . . .
“How’d