New Member Recalls First Bike
by Dan/Vancouver

"Are you sure this isn't just a sexual affection?" 

"Aw, mom, of course not," I lied.  It was the summer of 1978.  I was nineteen and I had decided I wanted a motorcycle.  No matter that none of my friends could ride a bike, let alone owned one.  I wanted a bike.  I was recently out of the closet and determined to express my maleness in any way I could, and having something hot, hard, and throbbing between my legs seemed like a good idea at the time.

"Would you like us to buy you a car?" was the next attempt at deflecting the motorcycle.  It was too late; I was already enrolled in the B.C. safety council motorcycle course.  The course was my first time on a bike and my first time with a manual transmission.  The theory was easy, but the practice was not.  At the end of my first day, my elbow, wrist, and ego were scratched and bruised, but the need to assert my tenuous masculinity was as strong as ever.  I persevered and was able to get my class 6 license, in large part due to the exam being a road test instead of the parking lot pylon test.

I studied the motorcycle magazines to find the bike that was going to propel my new-found machismo.  I had a few dollars in my pocket from a Summer working at the public library, which had only reaffirmed my need to break away from my genteel surroundings.  The advertisement for the Suzuki GS550E caught my eye.  The bike had alloy wheels, disc brakes front and rear, and a twin cam engine.  What more could I need?

"D'you have a license to ride?"  The dealer sensed my eagerness for the shiny black bike on his lot, so I'm sure I paid more for it than I should have, but now I had my steed.

I was in love.  I rode and rode and rode.  I rode as the late summer turned to autumn and then to winter.  I rode in the rain, the hail, and the wind.  I rode on the ice, and even once or twice in the snow.  I bought rainsuit after rainsuit, each time to discover that while the amount of protection they gave was proportional to their cost, even the best could keep me dry for only an hour or so.   In my first year, I put on over 33,000 km (20,000).

I started developing a codependant relationship with the local neighborhood motorcycle mechanic.  He would maintain my motorcycle.  I would give him money.  In that first year, my bike went through two tires, a drive chain, brake pads, wheel bearings, valve shims, steering head bearings, swingarm bearings, and litres of oil.  I did the oil and filters myself, but everything else was done by the mechanic.  My motorcycle was by far my biggest expense in those days of going to the university and living at home.

The expense was worth it because my bike became my window to the world.   Weekend trips to the Zodiac in Seattle took place every two weeks in those wild days of the late seventies.  When classes seemed a little dull, I jumped on my bike and rode until I got to San Francisco, which took nineteen hours in the days of enforced 55 mph speed limits.  I would have about 36 hours in the City until it was time to leave the Boot Camp and the Handball Express and come back to chemistry, botany, and biology.

My most foolish trip was a weekend ride to Edmonton in October 1980.   It was so cold I held my heated handgrips so hard I burned the palms of my hands, and still they felt frozen.  Then it snowed on the way home through Banff.

I had heard of the Border Riders, the Zodiacs, and the Knights of Malta, but my desire was to be free and enencumbered by anything other than that grey ribbon of asphalt.  Still, the high cost of running my bike and its appetite for expensifve parts did make me reduce my annual milage to about 20,000 km (12,000 miles).

The years passed by.  By 1985, my bike had gone 113,000 km and it was starting to show its age.  The engine ran as well as ever, but the electrics were starting to be troublesome and the chassis and bodywork were rusting and failing.   Into my life came a young thug who worked mucking horseshit at the local stables.   He had no money, no car, and no luck, and I had no resistance.  I lent him the aging bike knowing that I was really giving it to him.  It only took a few weeks before he totaled it with a passenger on the back.  Fortunately, no permanent injuries were sustained.

Now I had a company car so the need to replace the bike didn't seem urgent and there were too many other demands on my income.  It wasn't until a few years later when I was calling on a customer who was a short, stout woman with sensible shoes that I started to think about riding again.  She was an avid motorcyclist and I was telling her my fond memories of riding.

That week I went into a Harley dealership and chose from the three bikes they had in stock.  I bought a Sportster 1200, Harley's lightest, fastest, roughest, crudest bike.  I had no idea a piece of machinery could vibrate that much and still stag together.  It was a worthy successor to the Suzuki and soon it was decorated with a small luggage rack, backrest, and a yellow, blue, pink, white, and candy apple red gas tank.  I called it Candida, named after that hot itchy red feeling between the legs.

I had turned into a fair weather rider, and the need to be solo was replaced with a desire to be social. In may 1992, I went to the Border Riders VD run where I was made to feel welcome by everyone.  I knew that this was a group worth knowing.   Any guys that would christen my bike by pissing on it had to be okay.

After a few years , I was invited to become a Border Rider.  I was delighted.  I am now able to share my passion with a great bunch of guys.  And nobody cares how masculine I am.