Guest Post: "Late Bloomer"

All readers welcome

(Please welcome Dave Ryan and his story about finding his way on two wheels — jb)

There have been a few discussions about motorcycles here, but I don’t sense there are many in the group that ride (hopefully, I’m wrong). This is not an attempt to convince anyone to start, it’s just the story of how I became a motorcycle enthusiast—in my thirties. There are countless tales of someone having a motorcyclist in the family, often “good old dad” passing along the passion. They recount riding dirt bikes together; or maybe hours wrenching on an old project bike. Then there are those that had to hide their first bike as the family wasn’t keen on their child riding such a dangerous contraption. Usually, a friend was the catalyst in this case. Maybe just seeing a stranger ride past, the sound and the sight putting their hooks in deep. These were the beginnings of a lifetime on two wheels, starting at an early age (teens at the latest). All rather romantic. inspiring, and certainly worth hearing. Mine-- not romantic. Up to you to decide if it fits either of the other two.

As a child I became intensely interested in cars. At first it was probably just the fascination with mobility and wanting to be at the helm. My dad used to say I could accurately name the brand and model of most cars on the road at about four or five years old (parental exaggeration?). Soon performance was the thing that really got me. I was born in 1961, so I was coming of age during maturation of the first widespread performance boom; along with the marketing that went with it. I started getting interested in racing, and dad obliged. He took me to local dirt track and drag races. (Worth noting that my father was interested in cars, probably more than the average guy—but he certainly was not a gearhead.) Car Craft and Hot Rod magazine subscriptions and model cars followed.

During this time, there were four guys on our street that had full dress Harleys. “Baggers” in the current parlance. While I thought they were cool, I was really in love with an old drag racing Pontiac Tempest that lived on the street. (Probably not one of these — jb) I found out later that the old man secretly admired those Harleys and wanted one. He did say, once or twice, that he thought about buying one of those “little Hondas”. He thought they looked like fun. He worked in consumer credit at the time. Always complained about the “deadbeats” he had to deal with. Maybe he wanted to meet some of the “nicest people”.

As I got older, Car and Driver and Road & Track started showing up at the house. The objects of my (automotive) desires started shifting to imports. This was when I really started to part company with my father on what to buy. I remember him wanting me to buy a used second-generation Camaro during my college years (my salary was naturally small, befitting my entry level job status). I ended up with a one owner Saab Sonett III. He wasn’t impressed.

Once I got to the point in my life that I was established in my career and my finances were such that I could afford a nice daily driver—I wanted a toy. This was early ‘90’s and my thoughts centered on either a new Miata or a used Vette. My dad was living in Dallas at the time. During a visit I mentioned what I was contemplating. We went to a local shop specializing in used Corvettes and made a stop at a Mazda dealership. Something fun to do while I was there. He suggested a trip to the Harley store. Why not? He immediately was drawn to the Road King—essentially the same bike he secretly wanted all those years ago. I went straight to the Sportster. Something about the elemental look just captured me. I had heard Harleys forever, somehow the sound tugged a little more at me that day. Suddenly a monkey wrench was thrown into my plans. Maybe a motorcycle? The influence of my dad was pulling me. I knew about an uncle that rode and that my grandfather was an Indian guy. Listening to my father talk about that stuff that day—really talk about it, was powerful. Maybe I should give it a try? My (at the time) future wife was not thrilled, but we don’t dictate to each other.

I signed up for a rider course, and it was over at that point. Why? What is it about riding? “If I have to explain, you wouldn’t understand” sounds like a cop out. There are the old bromides about freedom (hard to feel free with speed limits and distracted drivers in rolling roadblocks), about feeling “one with the machine” (perhaps the genesis of those goofy half man/half bike commercials). That it is the closest thing to flying (being neither a pilot nor a bird I’m not in a position to answer). I’ve repeated the old saw, “you never see a motorcycle parked in front of a psychiatrists office” (but I have seen some pretty crazy things done on a bike). I don’t know. It’s a skill. Like any skill the better you are at it the better it feels. Braking for a corner, altering your body position, dropping down a gear or two, hearing the growl of engine braking after matching the revs (especially on one of my Ducatis), tipping it in as you trail off the brakes, picking up the throttle as you continue to look through the corner, accelerating out as you pick the bike up…then repeat! What an unbelievable feast for the senses. I can tell you that it does free your mind of extraneous nonsense. It better, not paying attention is a recipe for disaster. Complete safety all the time saps the life out of you. I’m far from a daredevil or adrenaline junkie; but there is something exhilarating about being out there piloting a machine that others are afraid of.

So, thanks Dad. My enthusiasm took a path that he didn’t really agree with, but it strangely was awakened by him in an unorthodox fashion. Coming full circle, it struck me to thank him in a public way a couple of years ago when he was in the hospital. My passion for Ducati resulted in (among other things) purchasing an example of the first motorcycle they ever made. Which further resulted in my annoyance over the amount of inaccuracy regarding the story of those bikes. I ended up writing an article to set the record straight. I told him about it, and he was proud it was going to be published. He fell ill during the process. Right before it went to print, I asked if it would be possible to add a dedication—done. I didn’t mention it, wanted him to see it in print. Well, I got a call that he was in bad shape. He was still alive when I got there; but wasn’t responsive. I stayed with him, told him of the dedication on the article. No way to know if he heard me, he passed within about 10 minutes. When I got home, five advance copies of the magazine were in my mailbox. With the dedication to John C. Ryan right there, under the byline.