Motorcycling

Most kids my age were tearing open G.I. Joe figures and footballs on Christmas morning.   Me? My brother and I got matching Harley-Davidson X90s (mine red; his black) – back when AMF owned the brand and you couldn’t tell whether you were getting a motorcycle or a bowling ball with wheels.   It was cold. Flurries danced through the air. Our father gave us a quick lesson in the driveway – basic throttle, clutch, “try not to die” type stuff – and off we went.   Straight into each other!   Despite having acres of Indiana farmland to ride on, we managed to collide head-on in front of the kitchen window.   Forks bent. Bikes bruised. Dad fuming. He wasn’t thrilled to spend Christmas afternoon fixing what was supposed to be a long-term investment in our freedom.   Early Miles, Farm Roads, and a Near Miss   After the rudimentary repairs by the part-time mechanic (dad) and as we got more confident, we started roaming the country roads. Out there it was more tractors and combines than cars. The wind in our hair, heads in helmets, the sound of engines and open air.   Until one day, I took a curve too wide.   A blind right turn + downhill speed + no center lines = me sliding under a pickup truck. I remember seeing the wide eyes of the driver and his wife just before boom – metal, road rash, and broken dreams.   The bike was toast. So was my liver (which turned a lovely shade of jaundice yellow). My mother arrived home to find me in bed, not at all pleased with my father’s decision to send me to my room to ‘think about it’ rushed me to the hospital. That generations answer of ‘rub some dirt on it and stop whining’…   A week later, I missed basketball tryouts my freshman year. No hoops. But that setback rerouted me- football became my new path.   The Summer of Freedom: 1982 Honda Nighthawk   Flash forward to high school graduation.   I was poking around an old dairy barn at the local Masonic Home and spotted two motorcycles under dust and cobwebs. One was blue. That was all I needed.   It was a 1982 Honda Nighthawk – and it was beautiful.   I tracked down the owner (a classmate’s dad), made the purchase, and suddenly had the keys to freedom. I rode it all over Indiana, cut-off shorts flapping in the breeze, tank top catching bugs, cool shades and Chuck Taylors gripping the pegs.   Helmet? Optional. Cool factor? Mandatory.   That bike carried me through college. I was the guy giving girls rides around campus and ferrying friends to late-night fast food runs. Then came graduation, and the start of the “adult job” phase. I sold the Nighthawk, moved to Maryland, and entered the corporate world.   But the call of the throttle never left.   Borrowed Bikes and Rental Harleys   Before marriage I borrowed a friend’s bike to revisit the thrill only to have a distracted driver run me off the road and cause me to lay it down to avoid a worse crash. I had to fix the dented tank, which was enough to put my short-lived desire for a bike on the back burner again.   In my early years of marriage, I scratched the itch by renting Harleys with a buddy. Local dealers had rental programs back then, and we took full advantage until Harley wised up and realized guys who rented weren’t buying new bikes.   So I went dormant again. Life, kids, responsibility.   Reigniting the Ride   Then in April 2021, I gave myself a birthday present—and maybe a bit of an escape plan. I bought a 2007 Harley Electra Glide Ultra Classic, in what I call Grizzly Cub Blue (in honor of my high school basketball team’s road jerseys and our epic state finals run in the late ‘70s).   That bike felt like freedom.   The following July, in an odd twist of nostalgia, I typed “1982 Nighthawk for sale” into Google… and wouldn’t you know it—one popped up in Grand Prairie, Alberta, Canada. Mint condition. Perfect color.   I drove over 2,600 miles one way to get it.   Because sometimes you can buy back a memory.   In April 2024, that same friend from the old Harley rentals introduced me to someone selling a 2006 Yamaha FJR1300 in pristine shape. Naturally, I added it to the stable.   Now I’ve got three steeds: The Nighthawk, the Harley, and the Yamaha. Each one a different kind of ride. Each one tied to a chapter in my story.   These Days…   You’ll find me ripping through the twisties of Maryland, Pennsylvania, Virginia, and West Virginia. I’ve ridden to Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, and upstate New York.   And I still find that same thrill I felt at age 10 – Christmas morning, snow falling, throttle open.   Only now I ALWAYS wear a helmet. A couple of LivinBestLife’s Motorcycle Must-Haves:   Final Thoughts   Motorcycling taught me freedom before I knew I needed it.   From cornfields to campus, hospital beds to Harley rentals, I’ve never stopped chasing that feeling. The wind therapy, the adrenaline, the bond with the machine—that’s the soul of the ride.   I may be older, wiser, and maybe a little more cautious (thanks to my liver), but I’m still that kid from the farm with bugs in his teeth and a glint in his eye.   See you on the road.   —BrianYour slightly sophisticated farm boy and Lambassador of the open highway