The Beauty of an Ugly Bike

I love New York City. It’s a huge, wonderful playground for 20-somethings with more interesting places to eat, sights to see, and things to do than one could experience in two lifetimes. It also has the best public transportation system I’ve ever used. You can get from one end to the other of the sprawling 5 boroughs for $2.25 and be drunk while doing it. As a result, car and motorcycle ownership is relegated to a luxury, at least in Manhattan.  

It can certainly be fun to dice it up with the cabbies, trucks, and delivery guys. I love weaving through a somewhat crowded street, particularly on a summer night when the air is cool and the lights flashing by add to the sensation of speed. Unfortunately, the day-to-day realities of owning a bike aren't always so poetic. 

I’m poor, so I park on the street. Because of how tight parking is in NYC, sights like this are not uncommon.

My bike gets knocked over about once a month and the dents, scrapes, and a broken front fender tell the tale. Knowing it’ll get violated again in a few weeks, I’m not inclined to fix the cosmetic issues with my bike, so it starts falling into ‘streetfighter/rat bike’ territory. Don’t get me wrong, I love my little SV. It’s the perfect city bike and it has served me very well. I'm meticulous about maintenance, but I can’t justify repairing it to a point that I’d be proud at a bike night. As much as I love it, I don't think many others could appreciate what I see in my beloved ugly bike.

We often compare our bikes to beautiful women. We give them female names, talk about their voluptuous curves, and can be as protective of them as of a pretty girlfriend. I know I've been guilty of referring to a bike as 'my baby' and I've been told by girls that they felt like there was another woman in the relationship (not knowing they were the other woman). Half of the print motorcycle magazines have women on the cover, and the other half are soft-core porn *cough* Easy Rider *cough*. 

As with women, it's the pretty bikes that get on the cover of magazines. They are the ones that turn peoples' heads on the street and get all the attention at parties. Coveted by many, they turn their owners into Gollum-like creatures of lust. We save our exotic, finicky, and specialized toys for those perfect summer days when we can blast up a coast road or show them off at a bar. Spending slightly outside our means to buy the newest, hottest model, we love them dearly and loathe to park them out of sight, lest some miscreant molest or steal our precious.

There's a good chance, though, that your first bike was an ugly bike. You were 19 and you wanted something cheap and not too intimidating to learn on. It was supposed to be a summer fling. Once you had cut your teeth, you were supposed to move on to something newer, better looking, and more powerful. The truth is that no one ever forgets their first and, regardless of how good or bad it was, it will always have a special place in your heart. In spite of all your plans, here you are years later and you can't bring yourself to get rid of your old friend. 

This type of bike is beautiful in a different, more faithful way. Like an old dog with half an ear missing and a bit of a limp, they don't have broad appeal. They aren't the most impressive to show up to a party with, but will always be by your side. You love bikes like this, not because of the way they look, but for what they do for you and what they mean to you. Sure, you've been bitten once or twice, but you can move past the time they left you stranded in the rain because the good times you've had are far more important. 

You've aged together, both gaining scars and scrapes along the way and rising again tougher than before. Every broken part is a reason to upgrade and every close call is a lesson. You know that spending more than the original purchase price on better parts is a losing proposition. You know that you should just bite the bullet, sell your old friend, and buy a new bike. You don't, though, because if you pulled emotion out of the equation, you'd be driving a Prius. 

Bikes like this don’t even have to be cheap. This Ducati was not a cheap bike when it was new a few years ago. Judging by the rash on the bar and tank along with the lack of side plastics, it has been down at least once. Rather than simply repairing it, this owner made the bike his own, resale value and public opinion be damned. The frame has been painted, and there are numerous upgrades. Sure, the chain is a little rusty, but that suggests the owner is forced to park it outside, giving me the image of the owner rebuilding his baby in the living room of his apartment. Despite being wrecked, rashed, and a little bit ugly, this bike is clearly loved.

Well-loved bikes age better than most. Their lifetime of use gives them a reassuring, weathered feel, akin to the callused, leathern hand of a lifetime laborer. Like a well-worn boot, they fit perfectly; not because they were engineered to be perfect from the factory, but because over time both you and the bike have molded to fit each other. An identical bike owned by another would feel foreign. 

Ugly bikes are also freedom. They are freedom to park wherever you want without worrying about someone sitting on it, scratching the fairing or knocking it over when parking.  They are freedom from worry about it being stolen, because even thieves appreciate a well worn but well maintained bike. These fears allayed, you can ride to interesting new places, leave the bike parked in an unfamiliar and shady neighborhood, and be confident that it will still be there when you return. It doesn't have the same value in someone else's eyes. The prospect of my SV being stolen when I park it in the Bronx about the same as someone stealing a guard dog: theoretically possible, but who would want to.

Being a motorcycle guy in a city can be hard. Because we can’t just lock the bike up safe and sound in a garage or driveway, our bikes take additional abuse.  Occasionally, I forget why I push the damn ugly thing across the street every other day for alternate side of the street parking and have to keep my plate in my pocket, but it all comes back to me when I ride. Motorcycles move me, and once on the road it doesn't matter if my tank is dented or my seat is ripped.

Here's to having a beer with your old friend rather than buying a drink for the hot girl at the bar. 

8/18/12 Saturday Stroll

Went for a walk this morning before heading to do some car stuff. Luckily I've been reunited with AY's old DSLR.

Plus a hint of what's to come with my car.

8/14/12 Getting Out

I love New York City. It’s a wonderful city with more interesting places to eat, see, and things to do than one could experience in two lifetimes. It also has the best public transportation system I’ve ever used. You can get from one end to the other of the sprawling 5 boroughs for $2.25. As a result, car and motorcycle ownership is relegated to a luxury, at least in Manhattan. I’ve been stubborn enough to keep a car in Manhattan for an extended period, but soon grew frustrated enough to retain only the motorcycle.

The other problem is that in NYC, motorcycles can very easily be brought down to pure utility vehicles. Lately I’ve ridden the motorcycle more for practical reasons rather than for the pure enjoyment of riding itself. There are a few causes of this.

Because I’m poor, I park on the street. This means my bike gets knocked over about once a month and, as a result, I’ve got little dents and scrapes and a broken front fender. Knowing it’ll get knocked over again in a few weeks, I’m not inclined to fix the cosmetic issues with my bike, so it starts falling into the ‘streetfighter/rat bike’ territory. Don’t get me wrong, I love my little SV. It’s the perfect city bike and it has served me very well. I’ve even upgraded the suspension and brakes, things that are unlikely to get ruined by someone parking by feel, but I can’t justify repairing it to a point that I’d be proud of it at a bike night.

Another problem is created by the nature of traffic in NYC. It can certainly be fun to dice it up with the cabbies, trucks, and delivery guys on electric bikes. I love weaving through a somewhat crowded street, particularly on a summer night when the air is cool and the lights flashing by add to the sensation of speed. The problem is that, while you get a great traffic sense and grow eyes on the back of your head, you really never get a chance to explore the limits of the bike. I might get wide open throttle for a total of two seconds at a time, and that’s on a relatively underpowered bike. A liter bike would never be able to use its power in the city, unless on one of the highways.

The real problem, though, is that there is no way to do any serious cornering. The traffic and roads are simply too unpredictable to ride anywhere near 7/10ths, let alone higher. Swing around a corner with a knee down, and your likely to be rewarded with a cab stopped to pick up a patron or a slick steel plate covering a recently cut hole in the earth.

Knowing I needed to exercise myself and my bike, I planned a trip into the country to visit Kevin in upstate NY. Kevin recently bought and restored an old bolt-action shotgun and was itching to try it out. I was a little late on the way up, so I took the Taconic Parkway. It’s pretty boring until you get to the Fahnestock State park, which has some great, higher speed corners that are fun if traffic is light. It was nice to get out on the open road and stretch the legs of the bike, though. The SV, being naked with GSXR clip-ons, isn’t the best highway tourer in the world, but the windblast was welcome after spending so much time in stop and go traffic.

Kevin and I spent a few hours walking around in the woods ostensibly hunting turkey, but in actuality we shot a great deal more tin cans than birds. There is something very satisfying about a big, heavy, bolt-action weapon. I have the same appreciation for old guns as I do for old machine tools. There was a time when things were built to last forever. Cases and parts were made out of cast iron rather than thin stamped steel. Sure they were heavy and cumbersome, but they still work long after their original owners have passed on. My mill and lathe are from the 1940’s and they still work incredibly well. Somehow I don’t think the lightweight mills coming out of China now will manage the same feat, but I digress…

After I had topped off both the SV’s and my body’s fluids, it was time to do some more hunting, this time for corners. Rather than take the straight shot down the Taconic, I took Rt.84 to the Western shore of the Hudson where I picked up 9W going South. 9W, being a river road that follows some mild mountains, tends to have great twists and turns. It also is much less populated than the Taconic, allowing for some faster riding. Having scoured my iPhone map for windy roads, I also spotted this little section of 202 back on the east side of the river. Unlike similar roads in Harriman state park, there was no traffic whatsoever on this road when I was riding on a Sunday afternoon, and the corners were tight enough to give me a great workout. I will absolutely be returning here soon.

Cruising back into Manhattan, I remembered why I love riding so much. When I got off the bike and sat on the couch with a well-deserved beer, it felt like the volume on everything else in the world was turned down three notches. I wasn’t dreading going back to work on Monday as much as usual, and my goals for the week seemed to be much clearer and easier to achieve.

Being a motorcycle guy in the city can be hard. Because we can’t just lock the bike up safe and sound in a garage, we deal with more negatives during the off-season than most riders. I know I’ve spent more time in the past year wrenching on my bikes than riding for pure pleasure. Occasionally, I forget why I push the damn thing across the street every other day for alternate side of the street parking.

Mercifully, all it takes is clear weather and a good road to bring it all back.