Copied and pasted from Hell for Leather:
An open letter to every person I meet who finds out I ride a motorcycle
Let me stop you right there, mmmm-kay? I can tell by that little intake
of breath what’s coming next. Thank you in advance, but I already know
that motorcycles are “dangerous.” After nearly twenty years of riding on
the streets, I am aware; telling me now will not be a revelation. It is
not an insight into my lifestyle that has remained hidden from me until
this, the moment of epiphany when you shine the light of outsider
wisdom on my foolhardy choices.
There are ways I can minimize
the risk — by riding defensively, riding sober, knowing my own and my
machine’s capabilities, etc. — but I also know there are some risks that
are simply beyond my control. But you know what? There a lots of risks
that are within my control. We’ve become so pathologically risk-averse
that for most people it is inconceivable to assume any additional risk
no matter how much joy you might get back in return.
You want
to know what’s truly dangerous? Not taking any risks. Hanging out with
like-minded middle-of-the-roaders. Absorbing the same brain-ossifying
shit from media factories every day. Jogging. Putting helmets, flotation
devices, and auto-deploy epi-pens on your kids every time they leave
the house. Passivity. Not paying attention to where your car, or your
life, or you country is going.
If you don’t get that, that’s
OK. I’m not trying to convert anybody, but here are a few tips to save
us both a little aggravation:
You don’t need to tell me the
horror story about your uncle’s buddy who wiped out his chopper while
drag racing at some hooligan rally. That just makes me wish I were
talking to your uncle’s buddy instead of you. He sounds pretty cool.
Do not — do NOT — tell me about the time you almost Sausage Creatured a
biker because you “couldn’t see him” or he “came out of nowhere.” I
have never known a bike to come out of nowhere, but I have seen plenty
of cars pull a Crazy Ivan and turn into a lane occupied by a biker or
make an impromptu unsignalled left turn in front of an oncoming me. If
you’re expecting me to share your outrage at the temerity of bikers to
be in the lane you want, you’re more deluded than a goldfish with a
passport. I can’t make you see bikes. I can’t make you hang up your
phone. They won’t let me mount a .50-caliber machine gun to my bike. So
really, there’s not much I can do to change the outcome of your
anecdote, so save it for your coreligionists who also have stick-figure
families and giant softball stickers with the name “Tailyr” or “Flynn”
or “Shyly” on their rear windows.
I do wear a helmet, as a
matter of fact, along with other protective gear. But, the fact that you
“certainly hope” I wear a helmet is so condescending it makes me want
to ride a tricycle completely naked doing doughnuts in your front yard
screaming Beastie Boys lyrics at midnight. Trust me, you do not want
that. My buttocks are extremely pale and unsightly, especially in
moonlight.
Please, do not complain about bikes parking in car
parking spaces. Where are we supposed to park? If they let us park up on
the curb like in Europe, we would totally do that, and precious few
parking lots have motorcycle parking areas. Most cops already have a
hard-on for bikes, so parking anywhere but in a designated spot is
asking to be impounded.
Yes, I know, some bikes have very loud
exhaust. Maybe it’s obnoxious, but at least you knew they were there,
didn’t you? They say loud pipes save lives. I don’t know if that’s true,
because there hasn’t been a serious comprehensive study of motorcycle
safety since 1981, the poetically named Hurt Report. And yes, I know, at
one point you probably saw some kid riding his 600cc sport bike at
100mph doing a wheelie down the freeway. He’s a squid, and he’ll either
grow up or just take care of himself. Some bikers do crazy things.
Anti-social things. Unsanctioned things. I don’t represent him and he
doesn’t represent me — that’s the great part of being a biker. I could
be a Lowbrow Weirdo or Antoine Predock or Lyle Lovett or just whatever I
want to be.
If you’re really so all-fire concerned about my
safety, don’t preach at me. Just do me this one favor: pay attention
when you’re driving. Keep your greasy fingers off your touch-screen, put
down your phone, use your turn signals and lay off the booze before you
get on the road with me. You take care of your part and I’ll take care
of mine.
But hang-gliding, man, that shit is crazy.
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