Why I ride

A pull or two on the rope and the Briggs and Stratton motor came to life for the first
time. I could smell the new motor heat up and sat there grinning from ear to ear while
twisting the throttle. Adventure lay just ahead, and I couldn’t wait to show my friends.
My small world had just expanded by the distance two quarts of gasoline could carry
me . . . much to mother’s chagrin.

That summer I was free. Well, almost. I was free to explore wherever the bike
would take me, and as long as I told Mom. Hills, valleys, and even a small stream or two
were waiting. I was a rebel, a conqueror, a lone cowboy.

That summer was the first time my senses came to life. The sounds and smells
penetrated my being, forever lodging themselves in my mind to be awakened at some later time where memories lingered.

By the end of summer something was missing, something I could not explain nor
comprehend, a hunger or a thirst that could not be quenched. That little mini-bike had
done what a drug dealer does to an addict. I needed something more. More power and
more speed would feed that fix. I wanted a bigger high. I needed it and I would get it.
Whatever it would take. All my friends had bigger machines, and I could see their high as they would blast through the trails. I could feel their scorn and it hurt. But all I could do was ride home in shame. A real motorcycle was out of reach . . . for now. The little
machine in the garage now offered little of that earlier fun. “Someday,” I told myself,
and I turned and walked away.

Summer came to an all-too-early end. School was in session once again. But at
every opportunity I talked with friends of travels ventured on my machine and of
my new-found two-wheeled freedom. Somehow, I felt as though I had become a
man. I had a machine that I could control.

It was about this time that a new television show appeared that carried me
away. A modern-day cowboy was doing the very things I could only dream of doing.
He was soft spoken, humble, strong-willed, and he was riding a motorcycle across the
country. Although the show appeared on our TV in black and white, you somehow knew his bike was red, a red that revealed a different shade with every angle of the camera. I could tell by its sound his bike was powerful. It carried two duffel bags. One strapped to the sissy bar and the other strapped to the handlebars. There was a machine that could take me anywhere. That was a machine that could open the world to a new unbounded freedom. This man and his machine were the coolest. Someday I would be like him. Someday.

As the color of autumn gave way to the cold and bitterness of winter, Christmas
came and although “Santa Claus” had become a stolen childhood memory, I Secretly
hoped for a bigger machine under the tree. Of course, none was to be found and winter
seemed to drag on longer than most. Much of my time in school was spent staring out
the windows, impatiently waiting for spring to awaken.

In the meantime, I had to come up with a plan. I had to have a real motorcycle.
So, throughout the remaining days of winter I worked to unfold my devious plot. I did
odd jobs and left subtle hints of magazine adds laying around and used a kid’s strongest
weapon, constant nagging. All worked their way from a firm, “No!” to a softer, “We’ll
see.” With that, I knew there was hope.

All the while Wednesday nights became the most sacred and hallowed of the
week, and if I played my cards right I would be allowed to watch the man on his
motorcycle travel to new adventures meeting and helping others before riding off to
the next town.

Just as the first signs of spring appeared, I found myself with Dad at the local motor-cycle dealership. I had persuaded him into going there, “Just to look.” all the while
knowing we would see the bike I wanted. There were other trips to the shop, and
each time I went home disappointed, until the final visit. April 1 1971, and I had
my first real motorcycle. It wasn’t until much later that I learned, during all those trips,
that Dad had been dealing on the price of the bike.

That bike was a beautiful shade of red. It had to be red. Sadly, the TV show that
had stolen my heart was no longer on the air. Nevertheless, the wanderlust it had injected into my soul was to live with me for the rest of my life. But as I mounted my iron horse for the first time there was apprehension. It had a real transmission, and I didn’t even know how to use the clutch. Could I control the machine? Would I be able to ride and control it? If I wanted the respect of others I knew I would have to become as one with my red machine.

As I had watched the rider on TV do so many times, I swung the kick starter out,
stood up and slightly leaned the little bike to the left and gave the starter a kick. The
small, but powerful, engine fired to life for the first time.

Those first few days were spent learning to use the clutch. I was clumsy at first.
I would push the bike with my feet as I let out the clutch. Sometimes stalling the little motorcycle and sometimes jerking it into motion. Soon however, I had it down to
the point where I could actually start from a standing stop just by using the clutch alone.
Next, I had to learn the gearing by practicing when to shift up, when to shift down.

About this time my best friend bought a bike like mine. Our friendship was now
bonded by adventure and the beginning of a list of two wheeled machines that would solidify that relationship well into young adulthood when the choice of different roads would end our close ties and ultimately, my friend’s life.

For now, however, it was adventuring the two of us sought while riding our bikes.
The school year was about to end and the remaining days in the classroom were used for
the more important details of life than mere education. There were camping trips to plan
as most of the upcoming summer would be spent riding from sun up to sun down. There
were trails to be discovered that would lead to unknown regions of the vast woodlands
surrounding the town and county where we lived.

That summer seemed to last longer than any other . . . but sadly ended too soon. The
experiences of sights and sounds would live with us forever. Trails that had led us deep
into the woods still filled our senses. Like the smell of fresh morning dew on forest trees
and earth. We’d ride deep into the woods and stop to shut off the motors and simply
listen. No other human sound would be heard. Chipmunk chatter, perhaps the distant
tapping of a woodpecker searching for grubs, chickadees and crickets were all of
nature’s most beautiful symphony. The forest seemed to engulf us. You could feel the presence of The Keepers and we felt an uneasy peace, something strange and totally new. If my machine didn’t start or broke down It would be up to my buddy to go for help, for there were no cell phones in those days. If trouble arose of any kind, it was up to us to use our wits in order to get ourselves out.

Then there was the mud, beautiful and slimy. It could be fresh from a recent rain,
or it could be stale swampy mud, as foul smelling as one could imagine. It mattered not
to me or my buddy. It was nature’s playground for dirt bikes. I would ride through it
at blazing speed splashing myself and everything around me. I could set myself up just
right, gun the throttle and “pop” the clutch, spraying my buddy from head to toe in
glorious filth. Of course, this sort of thing always demanded retaliation, and for hours we
would play this most pitiful game. I can still smell the odor of mud baking on the exhaust
and cylinder head, a wonderful smell to a dirt rider, only to be appreciated by a dirt rider.

I can recall a time when we had been playing in one of those foul-smelling swamps when hunger struck. We rode to the nearest fast food joint covered head to toe, and gas tank to wheels, with the foul-smelling muck. After delivering our order the manager of the golden arches politely asked us if we would mind eating our meals outside. We told him that we understood and would oblige. We failed to mention that the slime we were wrapped in had dripped on the floor from our boots and would permeate the air around the patrons with a, not so subtle, bouquet of sulfur swamp.

After a day in the mud it was always a chuckle to go home and send my poor mother into a panic at the sight of what she hoped was still her son under all that mud. Strict orders were given to hose-off outside and to disrobe before entering the house. Despite having spent the day having the time of my life, all Mom could do was to wonder how she would ever get my clothes clean. And my Dad, I was always given strict orders by Dad to hose the bike off before putting it in the garage least I evoke, “The Stare”.

Each summer offered untold adventure, at least for a while. New and bigger bikes
became necessary. Once the addiction set in I had no choice. Bigger, more powerful
machines become a craving. I would never settle for anything less.

As each summer faded into winter I began to plot. What would my next bike be?
How about a certain make and model, or what of the one with more horsepower and
torque? I read all the bike magazines I could find and studied all the specs. But all the
research boiled down to the bottom line. I could buy only what I could afford. If I had
studied my school books as much as my bike specs I’d have been a straight “A” student.

Summer after summer, mud hole after mud hole, and hill climb after hill climb,
these things filled the void burning within from my addiction. The sights, sounds, and
smells are as fresh in my memory as if they were a part of yesterday and not almost half a century removed.

One day, many years later, I awakened to realize that my hunger could no longer be satisfied. I needed an adventure of a different kind. I remembered the TV show that had
inspired my dreams as a kid, and I could still see the character, his bike, and the freedom he had experienced. I now understood what he had felt. With a thundering motor beneath me and a vast expanse of highway leading to nowhere in particular but always stretching ahead, I grabbed the throttle in my right hand in a near death grip and brought my new bike into obedience. The engine responded with a roar I never before experienced.

Roads now disappear into the distance and in different directions. Each is the direction I want. I am a biker. On my bike I am free. On my bike I am at peace. On my bike there is no chaos. All pieces fit.

Copyright 2011 Rich Reddinger