Bikes To the Back of the Bus
UP FRONT
BIKES TO THE BACK OF THE BUS
Allan Girdler
What luck!” I said to myself as I rode out of the rain and up to the front door of the hotel. As suits one of the finer hotels in our area, this one has a marquee, an impressive structure all the way across the drive. Fine place to park in the rain and not only was there a sheltered bike-sized spot across from the front door, behind the spot was parked an older Corvette, which I recognized as belonging to a friend. He’s as careful of his car as I am of my bike, that is, I could park there without worrying about some klutz knocking the bike over.
I was at the hotel for a business meeting. As can be seen by the information printed at the bottom of the page, this magazine is part of a publishing company that’s part of one of the best-known companies in the world. The executives who direct our division are top-grade men. They deal with big numbers and do important work and they go first class, witness the hotel and its marquee.
No sooner had I stopped and begun backing the bike up against the curb than I was approached by the doorman, resplendent in more brass and braid than you’d see on the king of a Balkan monarchy. Could he help me? he asked. No thanks, I said, I can roll the ol’ scooter into place by myself.
Wrong. What he was there to do was help me move the bike. To the parking lot out back, which I found close to the sort of treatment another group of second class citizens used to get when directed to the back of the bus.
“Why can’t I park here?”
“The management doesn’t like motocycles here.”
As usual when I need a tart and telling remark, I didn’t have one. All I could think of was “My boss likes motorcycles.”
The big boss, that is. Naturally all the pëöpTewho wolrFoTTand fo rthism ag a z i ne like bikes. Wouldn’t be here if they didn’t. But the major boss, the one at the top back at headquarters, is not only a financial genius with uncanny good judgement in matters of business, he genuinely likes bikes. The day before this incident he’d hinted that next time we have a long road ride he’d appreciate an invitation, especially if we could snag a certain 80 cu. in. machine.
Cut no ice with the doorman, of course. I rode into the back lot, shielded from the street I guess so as not to offend passersby, and I trudged into the meeting.
Mad as Hell.
Why is this sort of thing still going on?
It’s been this way for generations. For reasons I don’t fully understand, motorcyclists are presumed to be different in some sort of not-nice way.
I remember the first time I went to the company that turns our words into type. I walked in with a late-breaking story in one hand, helmet in the other and the girl behind the reception desk said “Oh. You came on a motorcycle!”
Well, yes, I said. The truck magazine guys come in trucks, the car magazine guys come in cars, you expected the motorcycle magazine guys to use a sailboat?
Not quite. Turned out that while she knew vaguely that we are a motorcycle magazine and presumed that people actually read it, somehow because we sounded so, uh, normal on the telephone she didn’t think the people who put out the magazine actually ride around on the things.
Urn. No doubt we are different. I have said before and will happily say again, we are different. Motorcycle nuts are, I believe, more adventuresome and more skilful than non-nuts. We are not as conventional, we aren’t afraid of what the dreaded They will say about us. We travel through the world, rather than see the world from within a box and yes, I suspect we have? more fun.
But we aren’t that different. CW gets letters, which is mostly how I get to know what sort of people we are. We are all sorts. We hear from executives, mechanics, longhaul truckers, librarians, housewives, servicemen and students. Letters come ori engraved stationary, on plain white paper and yes, on the lined notebook paper that to me means homework is not being done during study hall.
Normal folks is what we are. While, thinking about this I made a list. The list of bike nuts includes at least one U.S. Sena-* tor. several top businessmen and a score of show biz types. The President’s sister rides and I seem to remember that the Vice President’s son races motocross.
Then I tore up the list. Did President Johnson’s brother know how to drive a car? Did the Kennedy sisters riefe bicycles? L don’t know. Nobody ever bothered to telF me. People who drive cars aren’t new» People who ride motorcycles are news, by definition something out of the normal. «
Dammit, we are at a time when motorcycles should be at their most popular. I know, we ride for fun and freedom, but as a letter writer said last month, if everybody in the U.S. rode we wouldn’t have a ga$, shortage. Our sport is our transportations our transportation makes more sense than any other form in current use and here we are, shoved off to the back of the parking lot.
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Back to the hotel. When our executives arrive, the hotel staff sees an impressive company name and meets some savvy men. leaders in their held. They don’t know that the man in front likes bikes.
And when we’re on the road, in helmets^ and leather jackets and baggy riding suits and army surplus ponchos, the general public doesn’t know we’re engineers and tool makers and pre-med students. At home I am vice president of my homeowners association and a retired umpire and groundskeeper for the Little League. Away from home my riding suit and mildmannered Twin mark me as a threat to civilized life.
Okay. What do we do about this?
There may not be an answer. Back when I started riding, bikes were really disliked. Actively. The neighbors complained. Park a motorcycle in the drive and there—back to second-class citizenship—went the neighborhood.
Then we had the motorcycle boom and the nicest people and the invention of the dirt bike and leisure time and motorcycles became almost acceptable.
We have progressed from outright dislike to mild resentment. We are more mobile, we don’t use as much fuel and we have more fun. Good enough reasons for us not to be popular.
True, we haven’t been our own best friends. If you wear a helmet you look like an alien and possibly hostile creature. If' you don't, you have no regard for your own safety. We have in the past made too much1 noise and the reckless element has been all too visible.
The rest of us haven't been visible enough. We are 2 percent of the traffic stream and we get knocked off because we aren't expected to be there.
The gas crunch may change some of that. As prices zoom, so will motorcycle usage, by us if not by newcomers, and we’ll be more obvious.
I like being different. I like knowing that just about any biker I meet on the road will lend a hand if asked. I doubt we’ll lose that sense of shared enjoyment if we become, say, 5 percent of the traffic stream.
Beyond that, we can get tough. I got a letter today from a man in Arkansas. The gas station where he’s been treated well as a driver was surly when he rode up on a bike. My business is going elsewhere, he said, and I second that motion.
Perhaps my big boss can find another hotel for our meetings.
Or—and he’ll go for this, I know—next visit he can ride up to the front door on the 80. Let’s see the doorman pull the back-ofthe-bus routine then. gj
