The garages in the homes I grew up in were full of motorcycles. Yamahas. Hondas. Kawasakis. Suzukis. All brands that I struggled to spell but enjoyed to ride. My brother Steve relished riding, too, but he also liked working on them, which was great because several were in a continual state of disrepair, and I had — and still have — the mechanical aptitude of a monkey.
My mother even owned a motorcycle. It was an orange 1974 Suzuki GT 185. To most, this was more of a mini-bike than a motorcycle, but it was in high demand for those seeking to take the driving test to acquire a motorcycle license, as it was easy to maneuver and balance. To our neighbors’ chagrin, it was also ridden up and down an alley near our home in attempts to teach others how to ride. I also rode that motorcycle to the hog farms I worked on during the summers — keeping that all-too-familiar manure stench out of my car.
Looking back at some home movies shot on Dad’s Super 8, there is tape of my brother Brian on his motorcycle going back and forth in our front yard — with no helmet and no shirt — while riding wheelies. Yes, we were those neighbors.
While in college in the mid-to-late 1980s, motorcycles were aplenty. My roommate during my freshman year arrived a few weeks late, as he was healing from a motorcycle accident — and he had the scars on his back and shoulders to prove it. My sophomore year, two of my friends had a serious collision with a car that sent them sailing in the air, hospitalizing both. I had my share of spills as well, none as serious as those. Fortunately, we all lived. A college professor called our preferred form of transportation “murdercycles.” Admittedly, the margin for error is slim, and the match with the not-yet-fully formed brains of teenage boys probably isn’t a great mix.
Fresh out of college with some money burning a hole in my pocket, I purchased a Honda Interceptor, one of a style of motorcycles commonly referred to as “crotch rockets.” My traditional motorcycle-riding family members and friends cringed. For those who don’t know, there is a division among motorcyclists between those on cruisers and those on crotch rockets. Just watch the customary wave among those on cruisers and the snub of those who aren’t.
I am now older and hopefully wiser. I still ride, but I am less concerned with speed and more focused on comfort. Seeing as how I wave the American flag and drive American-made vehicles, most assume I own a Harley Davidson. I reply that I plan to someday, but I am not old enough yet. When I was younger, that drew a laugh. Today, not so much.
So if you see me on the road on my Kawasaki Vulcan, be sure to give the customary wave. If you are not on a crotch rocket, I might even wave back.
Have a marvelous Monday, and thanks for reading.
Shane Goodman
President and Publisher
Big Green Umbrella Media
shane@dmcityview.com
515-953-4822, ext. 305 | 
