So, I have been writing some essays as of late. All motorcycle related. Some works may end up getting published, which would be neat.
I know Im a relative "new guy" here, but I would really like to know what you think.
This is an early one, that has already been re"printed" on some other sites/blogs with my blessing.
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Why is it that we feel the need to do the things we do? Can someone truly explain why it is that we give into these urges to cut, weld, and modify a perfectly functional piece of equipment? Its counter intuitive. It’s downright silly even. The majority of these motorcycles were truly revolutionary and record breaking machines in their day. It’s like taking a saw to your nicest piece of furniture because you just didn’t think it was “right” the way you bought it for no other reason than a feeling you had.
There have been dozens of theories put forth here. Some say it’s because many of us have a certain respect for days gone by, and through our personal machines, we attempt to pay some homage to them. Others believe that it’s simply a way for us to display our particular and specific brands of creativity to the world. A few even may take the path towards custom motorcycle building as a loud and recognizable way to disassociate themselves from the cultural cesspool that gurgles outside their window or on their television. I put forth another thought though.
Could it be possible that those of us who feel this call towards the abnormal, dangerous, and downright un-rational life of greasy jeans, and spent paychecks do it for a much more internal reason? Is it so far-fetched to believe that we as a whole are simple “wired” differently, or even somehow in tune with a force we don’t understand?
I pose this question, not in the simple manor of saying that we mostly like and are attached to ideals outside of the generally accepted “norm”, but that perhaps, we as a whole see the world in its entirety in a very different way. The shockingly different everyday lives we all live, has brought me to this conclusion. We have doctors, engineers, artists, office workers, pilots, secretaries, teachers, farmers, and numerous other professions represented amongst our ranks. There are men and women here that span decades in age, and vast expanses in social standing. The differences that are apparent between us are much greater than the similarities.
That said, we all see beauty in the rough castings of a carburetor body, and feel a spiritual connection to the sound of a finely tuned engine (of any make) resonating off of fresh asphalt. We all have found solace in difficult times through the simple and mostly forgotten by the world skills that our passion requires. To me, it seems as if the narrow thread that binds us together is somehow stronger than the walls that separate us.
My question is still though, why? Where and when was this passion born in our minds? What is the unknown drive that lies beneath our need to toil in this way, and specifically on these machines? Many here have shared an early experience, in which a loved one or neighbor seemingly also had the “bug” and perhaps somehow imprinted it upon them. Others have stated that though they were unaware of this world until recently, once realizing it they instantly felt a pull so strong it couldn’t be ignored.
All these thoughts put forth, I suggest a slightly different theory. Perhaps it is not our souls or minds that need this as much as it is the souls of the machines that draw us near. It’s the ghost of that sixteen year old kid, who worked all summer to buy that used RD250 and rode that bike everyday he could. He shared some of his greatest memories with that machine. He may have met his first girlfriend on it. He may have ridden it to college for his first time away from home. The sound of that purring engine, and the feel of the cool breeze in his face may have been the only respite from his pain as he rode home from the funeral of a friend.
The stories our bikes could tell would certainly be worth hearing, every last one of them. And that my friends may be the point. It’s not us that need to spend these months fine tuning every aspect of our machine. It’s not our story that is being told through new hardware, clean metal, and fresh paint. It’s the machine itself that begs to live and breathe the fresh night air again. Its our motorcycle that makes us feel alive, and sings to the world every time it comes to life. Not the other way around.
We have been chosen to resurrect history by, history itself. The same goes for those who see antique furniture, or a hundred year old house that most pass by without any thought. They cannot forget the details of that broken piece of our past. It imbeds itself in their brain, and refuses to disappear. These people didn’t choose the avenue of their passion, the recipient of the passion chose them.
We have all been given a key to the rebirth of another life, another time, another world. A rehashing of that sixteen year olds greatest, and possibly worst moments is ours to put forth. It wont look the same, or feel anywhere near similar to us, but you can be guaranteed that somewhere in the world a man who once rode a ratty used Yamaha will feel something every time you start that bike. At the moment you twist that throttle and feel the pressures of the world slip quietly away, he will also feel something. Though he may not know what that feeling is, you do. It’s the thread that bonds us all, gently tugging at the sixteen year old soul inside him.
Do not disappoint that boy my friends. Someday, when you have moved on to another bike, or a different passion, you too will feel a random twinge. And when you do, it will brighten a dark day perhaps, or simply make the corner of your mouth turn upwards for a brief second. At that moment you will know that you have been graced with a moment that is bound to all others before. A moment that your machine gave you.
