The Hiwayman Code

Y’know, lately there’s a helluva lot of discussion about RUBs. I don’t really get why everyone’s got their leathers in a twist about these guys…They’re basically harmless. Me? I’m not a RUB, but I’d take the R part of the thing if it was given to me.

They say “Money can’t buy happiness.” I’m a “show me” kinda guy. I want to learn my own lessons. Give me a store room full of 50s and let me figure out if it makes me happy or not.

I’m guessing a fist full o’ 50s will make me a lot happier than I would be standing on a highway median with a cardboard sign. But, I’m off the subject….

RUBs shouldn’t piss you off. You should feel sorry for them. Why? Because they don’t get it. They don’t feel the rush you get when you fire your baby up, and you first hear that deep-throated rumble thumping through you and the surrounding concrete on a cool, damp, spring morning. Your bike rumbles, warming to the task, while you’re making final adjustments to your gear. Anticipation! Nothing like it! And the ride, the smells, the noise. An open car window does not even approach what you feel when you’re being pulled through the wind on the back of your iron steed. RUBs don’t understand how, at the end of a long day of riding, you feel sticky, dirty, greasy, and absolutely rejuvenated. And sometimes, as grungy as you are, you just roll up in a blanket next to your ride, to wake up to a new day, ready to rock.

They don’t understand that special bond you have with your ride, because you’ve been through all kinds of weather, all kinds of roads, and all kinds of adventures together. They don’t know what it feels like to work on something to make it run better (or even run), bustin’ your knuckles and cussin’, only to feel that huge rush of satisfaction when you put everything back together, have no pieces left over (at least none you’ll admit to) and she fires up, ready for the next adventure. They don’t know what it feels like to help brother bikers with their bikes, ‘cause you know a little more about a particular part of a ride than they do, and to know that they’ll help you when you need it. What a loss, not be intimately familiar with your ride and every aspect. You know every scratch, every loose bolt and frayed wire.

You know the problems you haven’t addressed, and how to tune your ride so it runs best.

Though some people will tell you machinery doesn’t have a mind or a soul of its own, anyone who has owned and truly loved their bike knows different. A chopper is a living, breathing being, with a personality and moods. If you don’t treat your bike right, it’ll bite you on the leg just like any mistreated animal. A good bike isn’t some plodding cage, shuffling and mooing along with all the other beasts of burden. It's a wolf and a greyhound, fast, low and long, baying its song as it lopes down the highway, hot on the scent of new adventure. You’re just along for the ride, rider. You’re bike is, whether you realize it or not, taking you on its adventure, not yours. And when you roll back home and shut it down after a ride, you and I know, you always say a silent little “Thanks” to your ride before you walk away. Because it listens and it cares, and if you don’t show respect, you’ll hear about it one way or the other.

For those who have the money to buy a bike but don’t understand the excitement or the release from throwing a leg over your beast, you should only feel sadness. What a great loss not to understand what it is all about, that special bond between man and machine that is only created, when flesh and steel, come together to become, at least for a short time, a single being.

For those who put a bike in the same category as their Chevy, or their lawnmower or weed trimmer, to wait in the garage until the utilitarian need arises, I feel only sadness. It is their loss.

The next time you pass a guy towing a trailer, or you go by an open garage securing a dusty bike perched unattended in a corner, don’t get angry. Feel sad, because that owner is missing one of the greatest joys possible, the pure joy of wind in your face and pavement rushing passed a few inches from your heels. He's missing the freedom, and leaving all life's problems at the gas pump. The owner truly missed the point. Money can’t buy happiness. Buying a Harley won’t make you happy. Only riding it will…..

OK. I’m done.

Hiwayman
Norcal