|
Years back I wa sitting in a eatery in Haines Junction, inside Kluane National Park, on my way to Alaska. I was riding solo, and though only two hours out of Whitehorse, had rode the last half hour in a mix of rain and snow. I had been sitting for about an hour, nursing my Kluane Burger (damn, it was good) and stretching out my Coke, waiting for the weather to lift a bit.
A small group of non-colour-flying outlaws on a road trip from California blew in, and stopped to escape the driving rain. I had parked my Honda facing backward outside the door, and one by one the bikers pedalled their HD's in next to my "Rice-grindin' horse."
Before long, we were all sitting at a couple tables, swapping road stories. The smallest fellow was the obvious "leader" and his name was Roman. Yeah, like the Romans. We debated the merits of helmets and laughed about Rubbies on Gold Wings. They had seen a group that was followed by a full size van carrying luggage.
The sun started to peek out, and everyone reached for bike keys. I went to pay my bill, and Roman snatched it up. He gave me a hearty handshake a told me to "make 'er a good one."
They were headed south, and I was going north. As we pulled out of the lot, they gave me one last wave, and thundered off. As I took the Honda through her gears I grinned from ear to ear.
If you don't understand why, don't buy a bike. If you have one, sell it, or better yet, give it away to someone that has bike blood but can't afford a scoot.
If a 250 Rebel is all you can afford or mange, go for it. If a FatBoy is your ride, then I'm envious, but you're no better than the guy on the 250.
I said it before, but I'll say it again,
Live to Ride, Ride to Live.
|