It seems every time someone posts a picture of some incredibly ugly,overly complex, or just plain weird motorcycle or variant, Baron has a dissenting opinion. Amid a chorus of comments that include “ugly”, “bizarre”, “WTF?” , “Is this for real?”, or “Why would anyone do that?”, you can always find Baron’s “Well it looks kind of neat to me.”, or “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
Well Baron, we’re starting to develop a picture here, and I’m not sure… well, I won’t go there.
Anyway, here’s the most incredibly ugly motorcycle I could find. Do your worst best.
(By the way, this particular bike weighs 400 pounds, produces a whopping 1.6 horsepower, and has a top speed of 20 mph.)
You know you’re in trouble when your leg gets all hot and wet and the oil light comes on. Doubly so when you’re in the middle of nowhere (well not really nowhere, just close to nowhere – northern Michigan), on a country road picked because it leads more or less eastward, and cell phones haven’t yet been invented. Of course I didn’t know that last bit at the time otherwise I would have invented them myself and be living in the lap of luxury today instructing one of my peeps to write this for me. But I digress.
The 550 Honda had done yeoman’s service over the past few weeks, carrying the two of us and enough gear to ensure basic survival across Canada to Victoria, B.C. and (almost) back home. With more than 10,000 miles behind us we were tired and the bike was tired, but being only two days from home we, like the proverbial horse, could already “smell the barn”. Perhaps that’s why I was pushing a bit harder than the old girl could stand with all the weight she was carrying on her back. So she finally said, “Enough!” and blew out the oil filter gasket and all her oil miles from the nearest town.
As we sat at the side of the road having a smoke (it was still socially acceptable then) and trying to figure out what to do next the first car we’d seen in over half an hour pulls up. My first thought was that I had accidentally clicked my heels together and Toto and I were suddenly in Kansas – er, Texas. The white Cadillac convertible had Texas plates and a set of steer horns embellishing the hood. The driver was a huge man, suitably attired in a Stetson and (I assume) the requisite cowboy boots, smoking a cigar the size of an Oscar-Meyer wiener.
As he was coming from the direction we were headed, he pulled up on the other side of the road and called across. “How y’all doing?” His voice matched the rest of the package – big and booming.
“Not so good. Blew an oil seal.”
“Y’all need some tools?” Now the offer was nice, but I didn’t think he’d be carrying too many metric wrenches in his trunk. Besides, I had tools. I even had a spare O-ring.
“No thanks. I have the tools and the parts I need, but I have no oil.”
“Well jump in. There was a station a ways back. We’ll go get y’all some oil.” He pronounced it “erl”. Now that was the best offer I’d had in a while, so I shouted “Thanks”, and he executed a 6-point turn to come over to our side of the road. Miz Liz decided to stay with the bike and all our gear, so I got in, being very careful to not get oil all over the white interior, and we headed back down the highway.
It turned out that “a ways back” was about 30 miles – 30 very comfortable miles. After days on a hard saddle, floating down the highway at 90, sitting on soft white leather, and smoking a good cigar (he was a very generous man) was a little bit of heaven on earth. Almost time-warpish. (“And with a jump to the left…”)
Soon enough we were back at the bike with fresh oil (and an extra quart as a spare). He stuck around while I made the repairs and topped up the oil, “just to make sure everything is okay”. An offer to pay for his time and gas was dismissed out of hand as totally unnecessary, and then with a wave and a hearty “Good luck” he was on his way.
I only hope that if he ever needed help someone was there for him. He deserved it.
A couple of days ago I blogged about a rider near Lanark who hit a bear on the road. Well that prompted one reader to send this link along, which I just had to share.
As the story goes, this encounter occurred on the Needles Highway near Sturgis during the 2007 rally.
I’m sitting here with my annual Harley Owners Group renewal papers in front of me, trying to decide whether to spring the $60 for another year’s membership.
I’m not much of a joiner and I’m not big on the group ride thing, so the camaraderie part of HOG membership is not a huge selling point for me. And frankly I don’t ever anticipate riding into a strange city and tracking down a HOG meeting like an alcoholic looking for AA. Call me antisocial, but that’s not in my genes.
Sure there are other benefits such as the roadside assistance (which duplicates what I already have with CAA) and preferred rates for motorcycle shipping, but in reality the only value I’d get out of renewing is a few issues of a thinly disguised Harley marketing magazine and the odd pin when I do happen to attend a signature event (which ends up in a box in a drawer with all the other assorted pins and badges collected over decades of riding).
Then I got thinking about what HOG would have to do so rejoining was a no-brainer. In my opinion, the biggest benefit an organization like HOG can bring to its members is to be an advocate for motorcyclists with politicians and business leaders who all, at various times, take advantage of bikers because we are a small community who rarely speak with a common voice.
Places to start.
Motorcycle insurance is a largely unregulated business and consequently rates are often excessive, arbitrarily applied, and wildly inconsistent between companies. Having an organization like HOG use the power of its numbers to sort through the chaff and identify the true motorcycle-friendly insurance companies out there, and perhaps negotiate group rates, would have me back in the fold, pronto.
Legislators of all political stripes, and at all levels, seem to spend an inordinate amount of time coming up with creative ways to unfairly and unreasonably target the motorcycling community. Bill 117 here in Ontario that would prevent a parent from offering a ride to their under-14 son or daughter is but one example of many. An organization representing thousands of voices (and voters) has better access to the corridors of power than any single rider.
A very few jurisdictions take motorcycle awareness seriously. If HOG and others were more active in encouraging states and provinces to use (for example) electronic highway signage to increase motorcycle awareness among the driving public, or even to advise motorcyclists themselves of highway conditions that may be extra dangerous to two-wheelers, our safety would be improved significantly.
Certainly there’s a place for rallies and social clubs, but in my opinion we, the riding public, would be better served if our organizations spent more time tackling issues that are limiting access to our sport and our safety on the roads.
So let’s see now… how much bling can I get for that $60 I just saved?
Now that was the best offer I’d had in a while, so I shouted “Thanks”, and he executed a 6-point turn to come over to our side of the road. Miz Liz decided to stay with the bike and all our gear, so I got in, being very careful to not get oil all over the white interior, and we headed back down the highway.
A couple of days ago I blogged about a rider near Lanark who hit a bear on the road. Well that prompted one reader to send this link along, which I just had to share.
I’m not much of a joiner and I’m not big on the group ride thing, so the camaraderie part of HOG membership is not a huge selling point for me. And frankly I don’t ever anticipate riding into a strange city and tracking down a HOG meeting like an alcoholic looking for AA. Call me antisocial, but that’s not in my genes.
