Why do YOU ride?

[beegshot]

Hmmm, my reason isn't in the list...

I bought my first bike because motorcycles had the best parking on Clemson University campus. Driving a car I had to walk 1/2 mile from the parking lot to my classes. That sucked!!! The motorcycles were right in front of the building. Of course, being in the Northeast corner of SC had a lot to do with it, too.

[Gyrogearloose]

Hmmm. Well, at 65 y.o., I feel a little like the rebel I used to be when I ride. I like the power and the thrill of gettin' it on. I wear rebel garb (camo cargos, shiny black lockstep boots, denim jacket with rebel logo T or sweatshirt underneath, black leather gloves, and white helmet with flames. It says: "BOHICA"...(Bend Over, Here It Comes Again.) Ha. ...this may be only my perception.

[Geezer]

It still boils down to; if you have to ask, you won't understand.

Geezer

[saddle up]

Why do you ride?

Because I can. lol It's all about the power. Life or death with the twist of the wrist.

[SanDiegoMike]

I was able to talk my parents into letting me get a bike my senior year of high school. My dad was an easier sell than my mom, since he had a Vincent Black Shadow when he was my age. I love the freedom, the lack of traffic problems, and the camaraderie bikers have. Hard to describe to those who don't ride...

[threebanger]

Somebody had just posted this on another forumI am on. I have seen it before somewhere, but it sums things up pretty well...'specially since it's getting cooler.


Cold On A Motorcycle

There is cold, and there is cold on a motorcycle. Cold on a motorcycle is like being beaten with cold hammers while being kicked with cold boots, a bone bruising cold. The wind's big hands squeeze the heat out of my body and whisk it away; caught in a cold October rain, the drops don't even feel like water. They feel like shards of bone fallen from the skies of Hell to pock my face. I expect to arrive with my cheeks and forehead streaked with blood, but that's just an illusion, just the misery of nerves not designed for highway speeds.

Despite this, it's hard to give up my motorcycle in the fall and I rush to get it on the road again in the spring; lapses of sanity like this are common among motorcyclists. When you let a motorcycle into your life you're changed forever. The letters "MC" are stamped on your driver's license right next to your sex and weight as if "motorcycle" was just another of your physical characteristics, or maybe a mental condition. But when warm weather finally does come around all those cold snaps and rainstorms are paid in full because a motorcycle summer is worth any price.

A motorcycle is not just a two-wheeled car; the difference between driving a car and climbing onto a motorcycle is the difference between watching TV and actually living your life. We spend all our time sealed in boxes and cars are just the rolling boxes that shuffle us languidly from home-box to work-box to store-box and back, the whole time, entombed in stale air, temperature regulated, sound insulated, and smelling of carpets.

On a motorcycle I know I'm alive. When I ride, even the familiar seems strange and glorious. The air has weight and substance as I push through it and its touch is as intimate as water to a swimmer. I feel the cool wells of air that pool under trees and the warm spokes of sunlight that fall through them. I can see everything in a sweeping 360 degrees, up, down and around, wider than Pana-Vision and higher than IMAX and unrestricted by ceiling or dashboard. Sometimes I even hear music. It's like hearing phantom telephones in the shower or false doorbells when vacuuming; the pattern-loving brain, seeking signals in the noise, raises acoustic ghosts out of the wind's roar. But on a motorcycle I hear whole songs: rock 'n roll, dark orchestras, women's voices, all hidden in the air and released by speed. At 30 miles per hour and up, smells become uncannily vivid. All the individual tree-smells and flower-smells and grass-smells flit by like chemical notes in a great plant symphony. Sometimes the smells evoke memories so strongly that it's as though the past hangs invisible in the air around me, wanting only the most casual of rumbling time machines to unlock it. A ride on a summer afternoon can border on the rapturous. The sheer volume and variety of stimuli is like a bath for my nervous system, an electrical massage for my brain, a systems check for my soul. It tears smiles out of me. A minute ago I was dour, depressed, apathetic, numb. But now, on two wheels, big, ragged, windy smiles flap against the side of my face, billowing out of me like air from a decompressing plane.

Transportation is only a secondary function. A motorcycle is a joy machine. It's a machine of wonders, a metal bird, a motorized prosthetic. It's light and dark and shiny and dirty and warm and cold lapping over each other; it's a conduit of grace, it's a catalyst for bonding the gritty and the holy. I've had dozens of bikes over the years and slept under my share of bridges. I wouldn't trade one second of either the good times or the misery. Deciding to live my life on two wheels is one of the best things I've done.

Cars lie to us and tell us we're safe, powerful, and in control. The air-conditioning fans murmur empty assurances and whisper, "Sleep, sleep." Motorcycles tell us a more useful truth: we are small and exposed, and probably moving too fast for our own good, but that's no reason not to enjoy every minute of the ride.

[saddle up]

Good one Threebanger....

Some people think they are Bikers. Others know they are. If I had to explain.....lol

[service writer]

Because I want to.

Not knowing when I'm going to die, it was something I had to do.

Don't know that I would say I'm a biker today...well see next year. It really is a drug.

[martialstax]

Because I don't like myself when I don't ride.

[STEPPENWOLF]

http://video.aol.com/video-detail/lo...way/3686022575

If this goes thru....us old timers remember the tv series...the original into to Then Came Bronson got booted.