Adaptive Curmudgeon

I rolled along examining the ST1100 in front of me without finding a single thing, good or bad, that departed from the center of a motorcycling bell curve. How dull. I was a bit disappointed. I gave him some space and went back to pondering the scenery.

Five minutes later I spied another bike in my mirror. It was far behind but coming on hard. We went into another tight switchback and I heard an aggressive exhaust note against the rock walls. It was definitely a cruiser.

I presumed it was a riding partner to the unexciting ST1100 ahead. (I ride alone but most people don’t.) I was curious to see what kind of cruiser was hanging with the Ric Ocasek bike. The way it was closing distance I’d get a good look soon.

Two more switchbacks and the mystery cruiser had caught up with me, having closed the distance from far horizon to ten feet from my fender like a cruise missile. It was obviously a good (or at least fast) rider.

By now the canyon had closed in on us and we were rocketing though some wonderfully complex terrain. Bikers call this “canyon carving”. Nearly alongside me, the mystery bike was roaring like a monster. I hazarded a glance and got a flash of the front of the engine. It was the same exact make and model as my bike. Interesting!

My bike is plain and outfitted only for reliability, ergonomics, and long hauls. It’s not hopped up for performance and it’s deliberately not flashy. This bike, mechanically the twin to mine, was modified with an entirely different eye.

It wasn’t flashy. It was lurid!

Like anyone who loves his motorcycle I unfairly covet other motorcycles too. I particularly fancied Honda’s entry into the sport tourer category; the ST1100 (now upgraded to the ST1300). Comparing my beloved ratbike cruiser to the ST line was to compare a steam engine to a turbine. The ST1100 had everything right; more luggage capacity but not too much weight, more speed but not a riding position that’ll tire my back, more technology but not hopped up enough to risk unreliability, fairings, windshield, ABS, etc… It was simply a better bike than mine for the purposes I ride a bike.

Yet it lacked something. I couldn’t see myself on one of those fine machines. It was too smooth. Too calculated. Too precise. An ST1100 wouldn’t become a ratbike to match the rat riding it. The shiny fairings would look odd compared to me, unshaved and wearing rumpled unwashed clothes. I’m prone to taking occasional mid-day naps by laying in the dirt beneath a desert juniper. (Check for rattlesnakes first!) I’ve never seen anyone who owns a pricey sport tourer snoozing on the dirt.

I decided that the ST1100, a completely competent machine in all ways, was the Rick Ocasek of the motorcycle world. Absolutely ideal and surely superior to what I rode, but nothing to turn the dial to eleven. I couldn’t upgrade to a Rick Ocasek motorcycle because I can’t be like Ric Ocasek. I was too dusty, or backward, or colorful, or whatever you want to call it. The ST1100 was ideal but I couldn’t embrace it.

…

A Honda ST1100 and rider. Neither me nor my bike have ever been that clean and fashionable. Note: Ric Ocasek is not in this photo.

Soon I got to test my theories. Not twenty minutes after my musings that a Honda ST1100 was the uncool yet totally adequate Rick Ocasek of the motorcycle world, one pulled up behind me.

With proper turn signals and polite maneuvering he passed. This was no problem. I’m not some ego plagued git that needs to lead the pack. Conversely I’m not some leather clad poser that can’t get out of his own shadow. At least he wasn’t limping along like a bloated tourer.

I glanced at my speedometer. I was doing 80 MPH. Not too fast and not too slow. He was doing probably 85. Also not too fast and not too slow for his slightly superior machine. I decided it was a good chance to examine the Ric Ocasek motorcycle in it’s natural habitat.

We both swooped into a canyon and took a long sweeper of a turn. I got a good view of the ST1100 as its rear suspension compressed. We rolled through as if in formation. The ST1100 held the curve, apex to apex just like my bike. Neither better nor worse. It was the epitome of “average”. I’d half expected him to attack the curve like a “sport bike” and leave me in the dust. Conversely it wasn’t floundering it’s tonnage like a “tourer” either.

Nothing stood out in his outfitting. The rider had a synthetic road suit but nothing as flashy as the outfits favored by BMW sport tourers. (BMWs are the head of the pack in sport tourers.) BMW folks usually gear up in flawless new suits that match the exact wavelength of their bike’s spotless paint job. Their suits cost exactly what you’d expect from BMW brand and they have the brand emblem so you know they paid it. He had matching but not flashy riding boots and a matching but generic full face helmet.

By comparison my outfit was a mess. I looked as hard ridden as the desert. I had faded leather chaps, a synthetic mesh jacket, mismatched fingerless gloves, heavy work boots, and a randomly selected silver colored full face helmet. Such an outfit is sure to embarrass eagle emblazoned Harley riders and flashy race bike pilots alike. Nothing matched anything but it was all well broken in.

The ST1100’s styling was nothing special. It was dark blue, or grey, or some other unremarkable color. Nothing much in terms of chrome and no interesting aftermarket tweaks. It had fairings that were better at shedding wind than my exposed radiator but didn’t aggressively slice the air like a sportbike. His saddlebags might be loaded with a week’s gear or empty. The most average of all was the exhaust note. Not the high pitched fighter pilot whine of a raging sportbike and not the deep longwave rumbling of a cruiser.

Competent and forgettable. I decided an ST1100 was not for me.

Charitably I rolled off the throttle on the next sweeper so the guy wouldn’t have to monitor his rear view mirror for a desert rat who might be gaining on him. I’d made up my mind. There was nothing cool about an ST1100.

I was wrong.

Several years ago I was roaring across America on my motorcycle, which I’ve previously defined as a cruiser. I was contentedly climbing the western side of the Rocky Mountains on a winding two lane blacktop. I was bound for the Continental Divide. I was happy.

Over the last several days I’d had a great trip. A “perfect cruise” if you will. I’d crossed several states, taken a suitable break, and then started again by riding out of (fleeing from?) the stilted nanny state of political navel gazing and air pollution that is California’s San Joaquin Valley. Once I’d escaped the dirty heart of America’s straight jacketed left coast I skirted the southern tip of the Sierras, wandered through the blistering heat of Death Valley, charged through the libertarian emptiness of Nevada, and enjoyed a few indulgent side trips swooping among the canyons and vistas home to Utah’s Mormons. America is a great nation. The best way to see it is on a motorcycle.

There’s more to Utah than bad coffee and salt flats.

I was enjoying every minute on my machine. A cruiser is perfect for me. A Goldilocks mean. It’s not svelte like a “crotch rocket” and it’s not “huge” like a touring motorcycle (think Goldwing). I have great gobs of torque at my command but less engine than the biggest machines. This suits me fine. I have all the displacement I need and plenty left over and prefer extended fuel range over showy power. I bump into the rev limiter at just under triple digits but it keeps me from melting the engine in some remote desert backwater. Even the carburetors, which are technically inferior to fuel injection, are bulletproof simple and I never fret about fuel quality.

It was the thirteenth day of a two week road trip. My cruiser looks nothing like a shiny “weekend warrior”. You’ve seen them, waxed and clean and lined up on at parade rest on a sunny Saturday at a bar six miles from their suburban lair. Mine is a “desert ratbike”. It was coated with dust and reeked of adventure. It had no excess chrome but I’d mounted a small windshield, saddlebags, and my beloved axillary fuel tank (very handy!). A backpack and spare jacket were strapped down on the rear seat. A small weathered backpacking GPS clamped to the handlebars was my only electronic luxury. It’s a dirt simple, mostly stock, motorcycle; slightly shabby but tough and eager to travel.

Despite my pleasure, gear on a long trip always deserves careful consideration. I started thinking about cruisers and how most people don’t use them like I use mine.

A tourer (think Goldwing) will carry vastly more luggage than I’d managed to strap to my ratbike. I’d run out of clean underwear two days ago. Did I need to switch to a tourer? Certainly clean clothes are a plus.

I’d just rumbled straight through Death Valley. You know how many cruisers I’d seen out there? None. The true desert is a machine killing environment. Rolling long miles out there is not without risk; especially on a motorcycle. When you see a motorcycle out there it’s not a cruiser. Nor will it be grandpa on his massive Goldwing tourer. The only bikes out there are sport tourers.

For my kind of riding, sport tourers are mechanically superior to both cruisers and tourers. They’ve got fairings, more luggage capacity, and more speed, but without the bloat of a tourer. Indeed, I was riding where a sport tourer belonged. Wouldn’t it be wise to upgrade to a machine designed specifically for such trips?

In my next post I’ll explain why the Ric Ocasek bike was the logical alternative.

Motorcycles have personality. If you don’t ride motorcycles you’ve no idea. While most people complacently park their ass behind a car’s steering wheel, a motorcyclist saddles a dragon. If you’ve never ridden a motorcycle all I can say is that you should, if you can, but you probably can’t or you’d have already done it. The next time you’re commuting in a Subaru look out the window at the motorcycle roaring past and know, know deep in your heart, that he’s living life on a wavelength and depth that would make a Subaru weep.

The mechanics of motorcycles tend to cluster into groups seeking like minded experiences. Every bike is different but the stereotypes hint at their purpose. There are bikes for speed, for style, for distance, for tricks, for power, etc…

As with all things that are powered by the soul (you think motorcycles run on gasoline?) one selects a motorcycle based on their spiritual needs. I certainly did.

When it rains you get wet. When it’s cold you get cold. So what? It’s worth it!

A common motorcycle configuration is the cruiser. Painting with a broad swath, cruisers tend toward the heavy, loud, and chrome laden. This isn’t an insult. My motorcycle is a cruiser. It had to be black because, at least in my mind, that’s the proper color of a cruiser. Cruisers, regardless of their inner mechanics, look primitive. That’s part of their charm. You should look at a cruiser and see engine bits hanging in the wind. James Dean and The Fonz were not jetting around on bright blue, body cladded, motorized spaceships. They cruised.

Also cruisers tend to be slow. Of course they’re only slow compared to other motorcycles. They’re almost never as slow as a car. Read what I said about saddled dragons. (Because this is the Internet, some yoyo is already reaching for a keyboard to refute me with technical specs they’ve copied from Road and Track. Spare me. Yes, some cars are faster than some motorcycles just as occasionally a politician tells the truth. That’s not the normal situation and you’re pissing into the wind citing exceptions.)

In order for a cruiser to be a cruiser it’ll have a low revving, fat pistoned, rumbling, deep sounding engine because you want to feel the power. Most people think “Harley Davidson”. I’m a little less into show and much more into reliability. My cruiser is a Honda. It has as rock solid engine that has served me well. Yet Honda engineered in the requisite rumble. I’m sure this caused engineers to weep because a smoother engine is more efficient and simply better in all logical ways. Then again if it were all about efficiency and logic I’d be driving a mini-van.