When I was in about the second grade, dad had a cushman. We would take turns standing on the floorboards behind the fairing and touring around the block. We moved within the year and the scooter was left behind.
During the summer after the sixth grade, dad retired from the Air Force and we moved for what was supposed to be our last move. I met a kid from the other side of the block named Larry. Larry had a Honda Trail 70. Larry let me ride it. This ride was the most exciting, frightening, dramatic, awe-inspiring experience of my entire 12 years. The fire was lit.
Within the year, we moved yet again. Just before the move, dad acquired an old Montgomery-Ward 250. It never stayed running, but was at least fuel for the fire. However inert as it appeared, it somehow kept the fire burning. Mostly, we pushed the bike up the hill and just coasted down. Of course, all while dad was at work, and only till the muscles in our legs completely failed us. Then, dad found a man that wanted to trade a riding lawnmower for the bike. Since our new location was 2 1/2 acres of grass and I was the chief grass-cutter, and we only had a push mower... Well, the bike was gone.
Then I met Joey. Joey had a Honda CB125. We went everywhere! What freedom. Total abandon. We had not a care in the world. Except for finding gas money. (or dad's lawnmower gas) I bet we put a million miles on the thing and crashed at least twice a day. At the end of that summer, Joey's dad took the bike to the shop for repair of all the crashes. The repair estimates were higher than the cost of a new one.
Bikeless again.
But the fire would not die.
After selling my first car, I bought a Honda 125 Elsinore from a guy at school. Man, that bike was cool. (at least I thought so) As winter approached, I traded that bike for another car. I just couldn't afford both at the time.
I started pinching the pennies. It wasn't long before I bought a Kawasaki 400. It was a great bike. Sadly, it wasn't long before the bike's life was ended by a '53 Buick.
I went back to cars for a bit. It wasn't long, though, and I had acquired a Honda twinstar. A decent bike, but not a lot of balls.
It wasn't long, and I was looking to get married for the first time. Most of my worldly possessions had to go, the bike included. It was not a demand of the new bride, but a need for the cash to set up housekeeping.
The fire never died, but the grown-up responsibilities just wouldn't make allowance for a bike. But I lusted and longed. Ten years later, the marriage went down the shitter. Oh well.
Not nearly enough time had passed when I made probably the biggest error in judgement ever. I got married again. It wasn't the institution of marriage that was the error, but the choice of partner. Life began to really suck.
I longed for the carefree, reckless abandon of my youth. I longed for that feeling of freedom. I longed for what motorcycles had always given me.
I bought an old, used, not running, spray-painted black, skanked 1983 Honda GL650...cheap. After a lot of work, I had a great bike. I had returned.
It wasn't long and marriage number two went up in a mushroom cloud. On a positive note, the bike stayed and I rode. I couldn't afford anything else, but it didn't matter. I rode.
Finances eventually improved slightly. I sold the GL650 and bought a GL1200. Barcalounger on wheels. But I loved it anyway. It is what I was riding when I met who is now my third and final wife. She loved riding that bike, too.
Bikes bring out the promiscuous side of me. I am never satisfied with what I have. I am always looking and wondering. One day, after taking the boy for a Doctor check-up, we struck out for Atlanta just to see what an FJR looked like. While there, the cell phone rang. It was the wife.
"Where are you at?" she asked.
Shit, I was busted. So, I confessed. I was in a motorcycle dealership in Atlanta, looking at bikes.
"Do they have the one you've been lusting for on the internet?" she queried.
Uh, yep. Just one. The last one.
"Well, tell them to load it up in the truck and bring it home." she said.
What? Uh...okay, you talked me into it!
Enter 2005 FJR. The only new bike I had ever had. (at that time)
That fire...was now a raging inferno. Burn, baby, burn.
Of course, this past June I killed that bike and nearly killed myself. But, what I didn't kill was the fire. While still on a frikkin' walker, I had the wife drive me to D & H to buy a couple new bikes. I had to get two this time. It seems the fire had spread to my wife. She wanted one too.
Enter my current ride: the FZ6 and its stable mate, the wife's Vulcan 500.
I don't see the fire fading anytime soon. Bikes are a different freedom for a free man. Bikes are therapy. Bikes are a disease for which I seek no cure.