I feel sorry for those who will never be able to experience the joy of riding a motorcycle. Never will they be able to share in the heart-throbbing exhilaration of hitting a snow squall on a deserted stretch of highway, wet flakes frosting their face shields like wedding cakes. And speaking of face shields, never will cagers share in the spine-tingling excitement of watching a hornet crawl across the inside of their face shields while streaming down an interstate at 80 mph. And speaking of interstates, never will drivers feel the invigorating blast of a straight-line wind, driving them perilously close to guard rails.

Yeah, not being a rider really sucks.

However, there are certain unfortunate consequences of being a motorcycle enthusiast, certain occupational hazards that have nothing to do with the physical aspects of flying down the highway. I’m talking about social consequences. Say you, the lifelong rider, are at a neighborhood cocktail party. Mingling over your rum and coke, you decide to bring up some intriguing tidbits of information you picked up from recently reading a short history of Bing carburetors. Your audience blinks, searching for a connection to their ongoing discussion of in-ground sprinkler systems. You drift away to another cluster, and spotting Dino, the dinosaur in an antique Sinclair Oil sign above your host’s basement bar, you launch into a summary of the various schools of thought on the origin of the BMW roundel. Your discourse is worthy of a freshman research paper (complete with citations), but… crickets.

Somehow, knowing the name of Robert Pirsig’s dog, or the incredible run of ‘60s era BMW sidecar victories turns out to be, socially, the equivalent of having breath that smells like a bucket of walleye guts… after three days… in the sun.

”

THIS, THEN, IS THE MOTO-ENTHUSIAST'S CURSE: FORCED TO STIFLE OUR WEALTH OF ROAD STORIES AND ENCYCLOPEDIC MOTORCYCLE KNOWLEDGE

and knuckle under the social pressure to speak of children/pets, weather, and the latest cat video gone viral.

ron davis

AUTHOR, motorcycle enthusiast

And at the family dinner table? I’d recommend avoiding bringing up your opinions on trail braking and delayed apexes, at least unless you want your brood to pick up their plates and migrate into the living room to watch reruns of Say Yes to the Dress. Even in the car with your spouse, you may find she or he franticly cranks the radio’s volume knob to hear the latest on pork belly futures when you try to point out an example of upside-down front forks. And the coup de grace liable to bring any social encounter to a panic stop is a red-faced tirade on cell phones that blames their use on everything from distracted driving to climate change.   

This, then, is the moto-enthusiast’s curse: forced to stifle our wealth of road stories and encyclopedic motorcycle knowledge and knuckle under the social pressure to speak of children/pets, weather, and the latest cat video gone viral. But there is shelter from the storm: rallies, get-togethers at hamburger joints like Bucknuckles Bar & Grill (near Fountain City, specifically S1501 Highway 88, Alma) and club gatherings. There, you can mention, to approving nods, the classically elegant lines of the 1957 Harley-Davidson Sportster XL or commiserate over the entire generation that has never viewed On Any Sunday.

Of course, occasionally, serendipity does smile on us when we randomly meet someone who shares a history with bikes. I can hardly think of a time when I’ve stopped for gas for my bike and haven’t been approached by a stranger with their own moto story to tell.

Ron Davis, author, pictured.

Just the other day, I met a 92-year-old former Uniroyal worker who told me a story about the Harley he had in the '40s: “It was just after WWII, needed new pistons for my Flathead. My dad took me to see a buddy who ran a little machine shop on Water Street. After lookin’ through a big, greasy parts book on the counter, the guy put down his cigar, said he figured he had some from a ’39 Mercury V-8 that’d work. Turned out, the piston skirts were too long, so he cut ‘em down and dug up some rings. They slid in like they was born there, compression just about doubled — wow, did that baby go! 'Course I still got a scar down here on my leg from where the kickstarter snapped back...” Great story, much better than hearing how Precious, your neighbor’s Lhapsa Apso, chased a chipmunk.

There’s no doubt about it, we’re outliers… or is it possible we’re the chosen few, those who have been transported, on two wheels, to the transcendent clarity of the promised land? Through eyes crusted with grit and insect parts, perhaps we are the ones who see through all the mindless, mundane minutia. Maybe they, the less fortunate, mock and shun us because it’s easier than admitting that we ride the twisty road of enlightenment while they drive the soporific, soul-less slab… That must be it! What a relief!

Now, where did I set my rum and coke?

Ron Davis is the author of Shiny Side Up and Rubber Side Down, available at The Local Store (205 N. Dewey St., Eau Claire), and through most online book sellers.