Note To Edgar

Note to Edgar

UP FRONT

David Edwards

A LESSON IN THE POWER OF THE PRESS, as delivered by a teenage gas-station attendant on the outskirts of El Paso, Texas. But first, a confession.

1 was on my way to Dallas for Christmas with my family, not on a motorcycle, but in a car. When Eve got the time. 1 like to take whatever touring bike is quartered in the CIV garage for my annual holiday trip home, though the December ride across half a continent invariably includes some inclement weather. Once, a complete failure of my heated riding gear combined with a record cold snap to reduce the latter portion of my journey to a series of quick bursts between Dairy Queens, examples of that particular brand of fast-food emporium thankfully never being more than 50 miles apart in the Lone Star State. Apparently unhappy with the single-digit temperatures I w'as subjecting it to, though, my Gold Wing had the good sense to pop a driveline seal. It covered the final hundred miles in the bed of a pickup, w'ith me w'edged up front in the nice, warm cab.

Tw'o years ago, 1 was on another Wing, the then-new GL1500 Six. It motored along wonderfully until we ran into two feet of fresh snow just outside Flagstaff, Arizona. The Honda spent the holidays dry-docked at a hotel while I continued via Greyhound bus and Continental jet. arriving late on Christmas day.

So this past Christmas, with but two days to get home and the weatherman promising an intrusion of frigid Canadian air, I was on four wheels instead of two. Which is how I came to be at the Unocal 76 truckstop on I-10 just east of El Paso. As I got out of the car and shrugged into a jacket to w'ard off the evening chill, the attendant, a young man of perhaps 18, spied the embroidered logo on the breast of my polo shirt.

“Cycle World eh? Do you work for them?”

I said that I did.

“Really? What’s your name?”

I told him.

“Yeah. You're the Editor. I read the magazine all the time.”

As he went about cleaning my windshield and checking my oil. I learned that the young man's name w'as Edgar and although he didn’t own a motorcycle, he w'as saving up for a 600. I asked what kind.

“A ZX-6 or an FZR.” Edgar replied with assurance, his eyes alight with enthusiasm.

I wondered if he had considered the new Honda CBR600.

“Yeah, the F2,” he said wistfully. Edgar had read CHCs preview and riding impression of the bike, but told me that his budget wouldn't allow a brand-new machine and that he w'as looking for a slightly used 600.

We talked a little more, me suggesting that he look at a new Kawasaki EX500 if he couldn’t find a good year-old middleweight, he asking which 600 I thought was the best. I gave him a synopsis of the 600cc shootout contained in this issue. He said he’d watch for it on the newsstands.

Edgar had more customers to attend to and I was still 600 miles from home, so we shook hands, said goodbye and I climbed back into the car. As the vast w'est Texas plains slid beneath my wheels, I wished Ed had more time to speak with Edgar. Perhaps it was because Ed recently turned 35, and. staring squarely into middle age, I w'as feeling a need to pass on the wisdom of my experiences. Perhaps I just wanted to make sure that a nice kid would get into motorcycling.

Ed have given Edgar the same advice I pass on to anyone who wants to start riding. Most of it revolves around being as good a rider as is humanly possible. A well-ridden motorcycle is a thing of beauty, a wonderful mixture of romance and technology, of adventure and energy efficiency. One operated by the careless and unskilled is a time bomb counting down.

While he w'as banking money towards his sportbike, Ed heartily suggest that Edgar buy an old dirtbike or dual-purpose machine and head for the trails. The first six months of any rider’s career are peppered with small miscues. Better to make those mistakes among puckerbushes and tree roots than car bumpers and curbstones. Every really good motorcycle rider I know has some kind of dirt experience.

Ed have recommended that Edgar sign up for an instruction class. The Motorcycle Safety Foundation runs programs all over the country, for both beginning and advanced riders, at reasonable cost. Call the MSF at 800/447-4700 (in California, it’s 800/227-4337) for information about the nearest instruction center. I took one of the classes a couple of years ago and came away with a few new realizations. Remember, you're never too old or too experienced to learn something. In fact, in motorcycling, if you find yourself thinking you know it all, be careful. That's when accidents happen.

I'd have also warned Edgar, without being too grandmotherly, that unless he knows some secret procedure that has heretofore been lost on the world's motorcyclists, he will at some time part company with his bike. Most falls are minor incidents, and the w'ay to keep them as inconsequential as possible is to dress for the part. Ell argue with anyone that mandatory helmet laws are evil, unAmerican things, but don’t bother me with silly talk that helmets are ineffective or cut peripheral vision or shut out too much noise. Simply stated, buy the best helmet your pocketbook will permit, then wear it. Ditto boots, gloves and a jacket. You're worth the added expense.

I hope Edgar picks up this issue and learns something from these words. I’d like to have him as a Cycle World reader for a very long time. At least until the ripe old age of 35. 0