The other day a small group of out-of-state friends was on a five-day ride, passing not far from my particular neck of the woods. I said I’d meet them for lunch, and ride with them for a bit. Good grub, and these guys had sensibly organized contributions to a kitty so that only one person took care of the bill.
Nine of them, all long-time riders, were in the gang, but each with very different approaches to the road. A third of them liked a brisk pace, the others did not, which meant two groups. Since they were unfamiliar with the roads there would be catch-ups at the intersections.
This is all well and good, and a lot of people like to ride this way, treating the whole thing as a social occasion with a little riding between breaks. Filling up at a gas station can be a longish affair, and some want to have a smoke stop. There are those who want to head straight for the next hotel, others want to dawdle on the back roads. These friends have known each other and ridden together for years, and they put up with each other’s foibles quite happily.
But that is just not my style. I’m a loner. Sure, I like company, like to ride with friends, but I have no problem taking off on a trip across country on my own. I actually prefer this, as I selfishly do not have to concern myself with anybody but myself. I’ve probably done 20 or more ocean-to-ocean voyages, each of them always alone. Yes, sometimes it would be nice to have a buddy along, particularly when suffering a flat tire or empty gas tank, but help always comes.
A psychologist acquaintance was explaining all this love of aloneness to me by asking how many schools I had been to from first grade through high school graduation. A quick count came up with eight, and the shrink said that obviously this had a lot to do with it, as I never had the chance to bond with a group. However, I do seem to keep friends for a long time. I just had phone calls from a half dozen fellows who were in my high-school class, trying to get me to go back for a reunion. One long-term friend that I’ve known since we were six years old, and with whom I’ve been riding most every year for the past 50, was recently out here from Boston borrowing a bike of mine so he could go to Death Valley.
I often travel with one or two friends, maybe on a two- or three-day trip. These are wingmen I am familiar with, who have my same attitude towards riding. We like to go fast, but not foolishly. We like early starts, and quit well before dusk. We tolerate seedy motels and boring food, not because we necessarily like patched sheets or frozen strip steak, but because we are more interested in where we are riding than in sleeping or eating.
I’ve been on some seriously “big” rides, like going out to Wisconsin for the 100th along the southwest route, which was a nice ride. There was not an overly large clump of riders, as people were getting on the road promptly between six and noon. The roads did not get crowded until we were within 100 miles of Milwaukee. The biggest “pack” I have ever ridden with was about 20 years ago when the annual HOG party was in Phoenix and several thousand of us met up the evening before in Palm Springs, California, about 270 miles to the east. Willie G. Davidson was the host. Gas stops are few and far between while crossing the Mojave Desert, and when 2,000 bikes travel together, it can get real lengthy at the fuel pumps. Here and there the occasional Sportster with a peanut tank would sputter to the side of I-10. But everyone was enjoying themselves, and that was the point of the exercise.
Being on the multi-lane freeway things weren’t too bad with traffic, because most of us had enough sense to stay in the right lane and let faster vehicles— motorcycle, car, or 18-wheeler—go past. However, I have seen groups of motorcyclists, and Harley riders are especially guilty, do the elephant walk on two-lane roads in a nice staggered formation that would look good on a parade ground, but not good on a small road. I know of several instances where riders have been killed because a quad tried to pass, oncoming traffic forced the overtaker to pull in, and the bikers did not give him enough room. Sad but true.
I genuinely do not understand the need for this semi-military staggered formation, unless it is a funeral cortege that has a police escort. Unfortunately some clubs have taken it upon themselves to block intersecting roads when out on a ride, a club member shooting ahead and veering off to position himself to stop any citizen from interfering with the parade. This riding style led to an incident last year wherein a biker was blocking an on-ramp to a freeway and an elderly lady, looking around to see where all that loud noise was coming from, ran right over him. Dead. If he had had flashing red and blue lights she probably would have seen him.
I live 15 miles from the coast on a pleasantly twisty two-lane road that goes over a low-range of coastal hills. A couple of Sundays ago I got caught up behind a few cars that were behind half a dozen bikers, going up hill at a leisurely 45 in a 55 zone. Soon I had cars behind me; I pulled off at a little national forest campground and spent five minutes contemplating life, death and frustration before getting on a now-empty road.
Lone wolfing has its positive payback. First off, I meet a lot more people when traveling alone. If I’m with a friend we’ll talk to each other when we stop for a meal and locals won’t intrude. But if I pull up alone in a small diner in Seneca, Kansas, for a mid-morning breakfast and I’m the stranger in town, someone can bring the news from the outside world.
The good old boys inside will ask me where I’m from, where I’m going, and how they’ve heard that new Harleys are a helluva lot better than the old ones. And the waitress asks if my wife doesn’t get concerned when I’m out on the road, with all those loose-living women everywhere.
Yup, the Twin Cam is a pretty reliable machine, and with tubeless tires I don’t worry much about flats, so traveling alone is not a cause for worry...and The Wife and I trust each other, which is why we’ve been married for nearly 20 years.
I find some undeniable pleasure in not having to deal with anyone but myself. Most of my trips would probably never have taken place if I had to coordinate with others. Put some clothes in one saddlebag, raingear and tire fix-it in the other, kiss The Wife, and I’m away. Eat when I’m hungry, sleep when I’m tired, and now with the 6-gallon tank on the Glides, I hope I’ll never run out of gas again.
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