Up Front
UP FRONT
Allan Girdler
SOMEONE LIKE ME
Near the end of his letter, a man who likes old bikes, our stand on helmets and this magazine writes “You sound like my kind of biker.” Which is a nice thing to hear. And yet, I wonder if the credit shouldn’t be wider than that . . .
Friday afternoon, quitting time and I’m headed out of the industrial park where we have our modest shop. From behind the neighborhood exotic motorcycle store come two riders, young. I’d guess mechanics. One has a machine so modified with sissy bar, fat tire, stepped seat and kickedout forks that I can’t tell what it used to be. Honda CB350 is my guess.
The other guy has a clubman XL250, with low bars, dropped suspension, low pipe with SuperTrapp, and big Mikuni wearing a foam sock. As they roll up to the stop sign in front of me, he reaches down and fiddles the carb. Sounds fine from here. I like to think he reads all the tuning and engineering books he can find and that I’m looking at the Bill Werner of Tomorrow.
From the left, a copsickle, Kawasaki 1000 with floorboards and windshield. This intersection exerts some sort of lure and the motorcycle squad spends a lot of time here. I see him nearly every day. Once he was at the Kawasaki store when I was and he noticed that my registration had expired. Lucky we’re on private property, he said, or I’d have to write you up. Then he rode out of the place and turned right. I rode out, turned left and got my registration brought up to date. I don’t know him, he doesn’t know me. not by name, but I think of him as a friend.
In the righthand lane now, a Yamaha 650, that nice rich green color. Man looks young, or is it that I figure you gotta reach a certain age before you appreciate the classic simplicity of a Twin? Probably me.
Lotta bikes today. We are in the midst of a gas shortage and 50 mpg suddenly means getting to and from for several days on a fill-up. Two young riders on a. hey, an SL350. the Twin with high exhaust pipes. Is It A Dirt Bike? this magazine asked once. I don’t think we thought it was. but not many weeks ago I saw a rider in the desert, having a good time. Sometimes you’re better off not reading the magazines.
Nice shape, this one. I roll alongside and check out the paint and the, well, silly exhaust system. Always did like that engine. The rider looks over at me and I avert my eyes. I can signal the easy stuff; your turn signal is on. your rear tire looks low, you are about to shed your saddlebag and so forth, but I don’t have sign language for Neat of scooter, pal. I don’t want him to think I’m looking down at him.
The left lane is the fast lane as we reach the edge of town. Up from behind comes a BMW R80. Older man. Guess he must be an executive, because there’s a briefcase bungee-corded on the luggage rack. Small fairing, early Shoie I think. Crash-bars— strike that. So as not to hint at promises of safety they are formally known as case guards—and highway pegs. Huh. Well, why not? Better than putting your feet on the cylinders.
Man knows what he’s doing, riding in the right side of the left lane, ready to move away from whatever moves too close. I tuck in behind and to the other side of the lane and we move from the city street onto the interstate. Steady speed, in the slower lane as the crazies nail the gas and leap into the fast lane. This place is a pigeon shoot for the state troopers.
Another route change, from east to south and I follow at a safe distance while the BMW begins to work across the pattern. We enter from the right, against traffic that’s working to the right for the airport exit while we want to be on the left so we won’t get squeezed by the crowd leaving the airport.
Nicely done. The Beemer and I move left just before a gal in a little coupe moves into our path. She didn’t see us. Didn't look, even, but when you pay attention, which for a road rider is another way of saying Staying Alive, you come to sense these threats before they get serious.
Into the fast lane we go. keeping station with the BMW in the lead, in the left half of the lane and me in the right half. Gives me a better view. I think.
A twin. I mean a twin Twin, another CX500. I’d recognize that funny tank and washing-machine motor anywhere. Bike has a ’Jammer fairing and no luggage. Man must be so important an executive he doesn’t need to take his work home. Full helmet, silver riding suit. Wheels of Man maybe. Another rider who knows better than to trust that spring has come.
He’s in the middle lane so as I ease past—installed the Jardine mufflers, the turn-outs just yesterday —I pull in the clutch and give him a couple blasts of the pipes. He looks over, recognizes that what I’m saying is . . . Ain't the CX500 neat? And look at my new exhaust! He grins back.
Riding in the right of the left lane gives a good view, forward and back. There's a headlight growing in the right mirror. A> bike. I can tell because the one light moves back and forth, so it’s a motorcycle using the aisle. A big bike. A wide bike, big tires lots of bulk.
A few minutes later and there he comes.
Uh-/7i//i! It's the real thing, a genuine original Fat Bob. twin tanks and all. early shovel head motor. They tried when they brought out the revival, but it never has caught up with the 74s of the 60s.
Good shape, this one. no dings, no rust, the faint gleam that comes from not shining the paint all the time. Flow'd the hardcore road guys decide that polish was the sign of not riding enough. I wonder? Low pipes, kind of a staggered shotgun arrangement and no other changes I can see.
The rider is perfect. Looks like he was carved out of oak. Black open helmet, plaid jacket, jeans and boots. Sits with the easy slouch that comes naturally after your first half million miles. When I was a kid I'd have traded my letter sweater to sit a bike like that. Still have the sweater and I suspect I've never gotten the easy rider’s posture down pat.
I pull to the left as he comes up and he looks over and notes the CX. the pipes, the riding suit. Gives me a nod. one grown man to another.
Traffic is getting tighter as the highway begins to merge into another, and the cars slow down. In the city, the BMW used the space and broke lanes, but out here, he’s not. Okay, we each get to decide for ourselves.
The Harley breaks trail and I follow, but as the cars get closer and closer, they slow down. He doesn't and I do and the Fat Bob pulls away, rumbling through the mob with the assurance of long practice, all without effort. South bound and down, as the CB crowd says, and he fades into the distance.
Coming in from the right, an RD350. Young guy. Bike shines like a new' penny and it’s stock. Gee. I don’t remember seeing a well-kept stock RD for ever-solong. Seems they get ridden into the ground or turned into racers, real or imagined. Looks good and sounds good. Books on the back, so I make up an instant history. The RD rider is an engineering student, he believes in two-strokes and he knows to care for the machine. As if to make my theory come true, the RD runs w ith me for a couple miles and turns off on the exit that leads, yes. to the local junior college.
No more bikes in sight as I slant down into the canyon, downhill into the wind coming off the ocean—next week we get* the fairing installed!—and through town and home in time for dinner.
Not a bad sample for 25 miles. No two alike.
Best of all. we are all mv kind of biker.
