Easy Rider and Chopperguy

Because they could.

Fashion embodies a state of mind, a culture. But it is not that culture. An example of this can be seen in Harley Davidson driving lawyers in their 40s. Harley Davidson meant something because of what it was, and that became a shtick that was re-marketed to people that needed not an alternate form of transportation, but instead what Harley Davidson had come to “mean.” The bottom line here: we live in a culture where appearances count for a lot more than reality.

From JIVE Magazine.

The article is a good read, but that's the only bit about motorcycles.

Nice.

You can only get so wet. With four days of rain, I have yet to even come close to soaked. The riding is still awesome. Fair weather riders are missing out.

Someone left a comment on my Chopper Basics video that called my bike a nice bar hopper. So I replied

Bar hopper? This is my daily rider and I've been known to go a few hundred on the weekends.

I meant this as a good spirited if somewhat knee jerk reaction. Those who know me would recognize this. But most of my readers and viewers don't know me. Still, I'm leaving the reply up. It's true. Why not?

But the original poster of the comment was right in calling the chop a bar hopper. Its stylings are quintessential bar hopper. It's just that me, crazy fool that I am, don't ride her that way. Even today with the thunderstorm I was riding her into work because that's what I do. There are all these folks with shirts bearing the slogans 'Choppers for Life' and then there are those whose actions require no shirt professing that sentiment.

The very first day the chopper was road worthy it started to rain. I had already been riding for a couple of hours and as the rain came down and drenched me, I rode a couple more. Getting wet is just part of the lifestyle.

The lifestyle is not for everyone. Quite often I question my sanity in these matters. Fingers numb, back aching, drenched to the bone, and still I ride. While I'm not so devoted to riding that I'll brave the ice and snow, there is little else to stop me.

And I have taken her bar hopping.

It's been about ten years now since I started riding choppers. Since March of this year I have been riding just about every single day of the week. I've been riding so much that when I get in the truck it feels really weird.

Even stranger to me is how much fun I still have. Each night as I ride home I can't help but smile. It amazes me that the fun of it has never worn off.

There is one thing that I have done longer and still enjoy that much every time, but that requires a partner.

The old chop and I have had a great summer. Hopping on her every day for the past three months has been great. Her first day out I had that one problem where I lost the brand new kicker pedal. She seems to like the rat solution where I tapped the kicker swing and screwed in a shoulder bolt. Barring the regular maintenance of periodically tightening everything up, she has run like a champ.

Then last night as I got off of swing shift she had her first break-down of the season. I started her up (two kicks) and the headlight didn't turn on. So I did what any backyard mechanic would do and thumped it. The light came on. Then it went out again. Loose wire? All the externals seemed fine so I pulled her up under one of the parking lot lamps. Taking apart the headlight assembly, all the connections seemed fine. I gave them an extra push just to be sure. I started her back up (one kick) and the lamp came on. Then it went out. So I thumped it. It came on again. Then it went back off. Well screw this! Last day of work before the Labor Day holiday, I am going home.

So it came to be that I was driving down McLaughlin at 40 mph, hunched over my gas tank, periodically thumping my headlight as I saw the sheriff drive by. Thank goodness for drunks. The law has little interest in a guy who can handle his chopper on a pot holed road while simultaneously spanking his headlight. I would have saluted him, but my free hand was on the throttle.

Now it is Saturday and a trip to the auto parts store was inevitable. The burger joint next to the shop was having a drive-in car show. I had to stop and look. The usual cars built by people who dropped a lot of cash to have professionals do it right. One old Ford roadster done up in primer black. It looked light and fast. That's old school. There was also an old Cuda that looked pretty sweet.

Returning from my expedition with a new headlight and a set of plugs for the Bug in my ratty old backpack, I found myself at a stop light next to a Porsche. The middle aged man looked over at me and hit the gas a couple of times. Shoot, I usually just cruise on the chopper. A bike like mine has nothing to prove. Besides, the '73 is my power machine. But this was a middle aged guy in some off the show room floor piece of junk. I just couldn't let it slide. The light changed and we took off side by side. Fair enough. The Sportsters need to get the rpm's up before they reach the power zone. Still side by side, he shifts into second as I feel the vibrations start to kick in. Almost there... hold it... BOOM! The chopper, still in first gear, hits the sweet spot and lunges forward, nearly lifting the front wheel off the ground. Quite an accomplishment for such a stretched and lowered bike. By the time I hit second gear the Porsche is way back in my mirror. Since I am already at speed, I shift all the way up to fourth and cruise.

Good girl.