Since then I’ve put about 2,500 miles on the bike, most of those on a single trip to the mountains of Western North Carolina and back at the end of July. It was a trip my brother Gene and I had been planning for the better part of a year. The genesis of it fuzzy today, hatched as it was after many beers sometime during the winter of 2006-2007, but in general we decided it would be fun to show up at our family reunion on bikes. There were just a couple of obstacles: neither of us owned a motorcycle or had a license to ride one.Gene had ridden for a time as a teenager, but had not sat on a motorcycle since the advent of fuel injection. I had one brief experience piloting a motorcycle, also in my teenage years. Riding my friend Spencer’s Yamaha Seca I traveled a distance of about 20 yards—down the curb-cut entrance to the gas station where he worked, across the street, over the far curb, across the sidewalk and into a clump of juniper bushes that served as a barrier between that sidewalk and the parking lot of the Abby’s Pizza. Fortunately for me, they also served as a barrier between the front wheel of the Yamaha and the front bumper of a pickup truck parked in the lot.
As it turned out I had not mastered, or even seriously contemplated, how to turn, stop, disengage the clutch or apply the brakes. I ended up spending $125 I didn’t have to buy Spencer a new set of handlebars.
Suffice it to say the Rider’s Edge course is designed for people just like me and after four days I was completely qualified to ride at 20 miles per hour in a large parking lot.
After passing the DMV course, which I took in the same parking lot where the Rider’s Edge course was offered, I went looking for a motorcycle. I knew I wanted a Harley and I knew I wanted a Sportster. After taking a cursory look at some Suzukis, Kawasakis, Hondas and Yamahas, I happened one weekend upon a Harley dealer test ride event. I proudly handed over my driver’s license, with its M-class endorsement, to the ladies in the test ride registration tent, confidently signed the waiver form and nervously waited for my turn on the 1200 Sportster Low they had available to ride. When the group of riders returned, I slung my leg over the Sporty and waited for the signal to start ‘em up. I tried to slow my racing mind so that I could remember the sequence for how to start the thing. “FINE-C,” I kept thinking over and over, which stands for Fuel, Ignition, Neutral, Engine, Choke—the correct procedure for starting a carbureted motorcycle. Of course, modern Harleys have fuel injection, so there’s no fuel petcock and no choke. So all I had to do was turn the key to “on,” make sure the bike was in neutral, flip the engine switch to “run” and hit “start.”
The Sportster is considered by Harley enthusiasts to be a “small” bike. Its engine, at 73 cubic inches (1200 cubic centimeters, hence the “1200” designation) of displacement, used to be considered big. Today most Harley models come standard with 96-cubic-inch engines (1573 cubic centimeters), and some of those are bored out to 104 cubic inches (1700 cc’s).
However “small” is a relative term when the biggest bike you’ve ever been on is one with a 500-cubic-centimeter engine. At the time it seemed like when I hit “start” the thing exploded in a cacophony of staccato blasts from the mufflers and intense shaking and vibrating such that my glasses were bouncing on my nose and the rear-view mirrors offered nothing more than a blurry idea of what was behind me.
Before I knew what was happening, the lead riders, all on Softail Customs, Road Kings, Electra Glides and Dynas, were pulling out of the lot. The rest of the ride was a white-knuckle affair. Since I had not anticipated riding that day, I did not have my helmet, gloves or jacket. My first-ever street ride was done in a fleece jacket with no helmet, no gloves and no eye protection. At 45 miles per hour, I was so terrified the wind would blow my eyeglasses off I couldn’t even find space in my mind to worry about crashing. My eyes were watering but the wind was blowing the tears back on my face. I was the last rider and badly lagged the group on the high-speed first leg of the two-mile ride. Later, when the ride entered a more residential area where I didn’t have to worry so much about wind speed, I caught up. We pulled back into the lot, I turned off the bike, thanked the organizers and went straight to my car, where I tried to bring my heart rate back under control.
But at that point I was hooked. There was no terror, only exhilaration. And all I could think about was when I’d be able to get on a bike again. I had to buy one as quickly as possible.
Next: What it’s like to ride.
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