My final words on this subject… for now…

One would think I’ve prattled on about this subject long enough, but there were a few issues left dangling– at least in my mind– that beg to be addressed. Hopefully there were a few of you left with the same thoughts. Maybe this’ll clear it up.

There are trikes…

The class of these machines can cause confusion. They may have started as a motorcycles, possibly in someone’s garage prior to being converted, or were built in a motorcycle factory, but they’re not “bikes”, and there’s no way you can call ’em that. You just can’t. Yet, many of these machines are piloted by folks who also started as motorcyclists, but either due to age or infirmity, have had to give up on two wheels, but aren’t ready to settle into a recliner and wait for death. So they continue to strike out , relying on an extra wheel as a means of staying on the road for as many years as they can. I know two such gentleman, and they’ve got over 100 years between them on motorcycles. There’s no room in our world for not showing respect to this legacy. When I encounter these particular machines, I wave without reservation. Actually, it’s almost impossible not to wave anyhow. More often than not, they’ve got a passenger, typically a wife of 30 plus years or a lifelong girlfriend. And, more often than not, the passenger’s been assigned wave duty, and take that task very seriously. Mostly they’ll employ the traditional, demure drop of the arm, being veterans of the road as well. Some, however get a bit carried away and wave at everything and everybody. These women are most likely second (or even third… fourth?) wives or new girlfriends, and aren’t familiar with the routine. However, their joy is all consuming. They’re delight is such in rolling along on what is essentially a motorized love seat that they can’t contain it. Everybody loves to see someone having a good time, and to not acknowledge that fact is almost criminal. I wave to them too, and since I wear a full face helmet, I can even grin without getting caught.

…and then there’s this…

Then there are the “two wheels forward, one wheel back.” This is the basis of my confusion, at least, and I have mixed feelings about such contraptions. Sure, they can also be operated by folks who may have a physical reliance on three wheels, but most of the people I’ve seen operating these things don’t look too gimped up to me. On the contrary. Most of these guys look too healthy to use that as an excuse, and many of them dress as if they’re racing liter bikes. I hate to be judgemental, but these folks bear some scrutiny.

Can-Am, which used make one bad-ass dirt bike, but now have created something… I hesitate to say it– but will say it anyway– something of a monstrosity. And they advertise it as a motorcycle. My opinion but, to me, that’s almost begging to be disparaged. It’s a trike. An ass-backwards trike to boot. I’ve yet to encounter one on the road, but my gut tells me when I do I’ll keep my hands on the bars.

and, finally, this.

The… Slingshot. It’s a car. It’s a three wheeled car. It’s comes with seatbelts, a roof, and you can put doors on it. No… fuck no.

Hey, it’s got two wheels and a motor!

This is as close to a crisis moment I’ll ever have when it comes to waving. Is it okay to wave at a school girl riding as close to the curb as she can get, power by 50 cc’s of whining power? I am truly torn. In all honesty, it’s almost too much to think about. Are they building up to a real motorcycle? You can’t argue the skills don’t translate. While it’s not a liter bike, or a bagger, you still have to countersteer, lean into curves, and you won’t hear me say it’s not as easy to get killed on a scooter as it is on a GSX 600. In my line of work, I’ve seen it happen. You can also argue that a scooter is ever more invisible than a motorcycle. And I mentioned there are some snobs in our midst, I firmly believe everybody on a motorcycle feels a little snobbish when they encounter a 30 something guy weaving in and out of traffic in a full face helmet, wearing a suit with a briefcase bungeed to his pillion seat. How can you not? However, he may just have 250cc’s encased in that sporty plastic, and that’s as big as a real bike. Hell, I’ve borne witness to a guy riding one on the FREEWAY. Probably not the smartest move, but you can’t argue this young man didn’t sport a pair of cojones. This would trigger a wave on looks alone.

And how could you possibly ignore this?

The top one, though modern, looks enough like a classic– the hideous color is certainly a tip o’ the hat to the past. The one below is so outrageous– rail frame and a mono-shock? — you’ve got to offer a positive signal on the audacity of its design alone.

And think of this: A motorcycle in the US is a toy, for the most part. An indulgence we are certainly thankful for, but most folks don’t rely on their bikes for daily transportation. A lot of scooter owners actually do. When a guy buys a bike and tells you “it’s to save gas money” you know he’s telling the most popular fib bike owners tell. If gas money was a concern, why has the guy got aftermarket exhaust and a fancy, one off paint job on his tank? He’s simply clawing at straws to justify ownership. A scooter owner may need his machine to get to work every day, get groceries home (you don’t need bags or bungees, you can store two twelve packs under the seat!), he or she can even take their dates to movies– if it’s not raining. So, while we can brag to our buddies and “getting 300 miles in” just by driving around to absorb some scenery and look at pastured cows, they’re hoping they have enough gas to get through the work-week. So, if conditions are right, I’ll wave.

I’ll confess, I sometimes do it just to check out they’re reaction. Sometimes they’re so stunned, they don’t know how to react, and often do with comical results. I know it might be a bit mean, but it can be fun. However, if they look a bit intimidated in traffic, or are so focused on what they’re doing that to wave might add an inconvenient distraction, I’ll save it for another time, or maybe just offer a nod.

And finally…

Electric machines are supposedly the future. I’ll probably be dead before they make one that can get over 60mph and travel farther than 30 miles before needing an extension cord. I have nothing against going green, but don’t try shaming me onto an electric motorcycle. My bike gets over sixty miles to a gallon, my pickup gets a whopping nineteen– combining highway and “in town”, of course. If I take my bike to work, that’s green enough for me. No, I’m not a “climate change” denier, and I do my bit with household recycling, but I’m probably never in my lifetime going to enjoy re-connecting with the Earth Our Mother astride a vehicle that whirrs like a Roomba. Especially not if I can’t take anywhere where you have to travel as if you’re driving in a 25 mile long school zone. You might well have my bike whipped in the torque department, but putting a speaker on it just to pacify my need for a throaty growl will not convert me. And, while cruising around at 25 mph can be just as enjoyable as going 70, it’s awful nice to spend an hour at 55mph, miles away from the nearest outlet.

Okay, but do you wave when you see one? Not sure, as I’ve yet to encounter an electric bike, neither in the city, nor out in the wide open country. I’ve decided to make that decision should I ever cross paths with a person on an evironmentally superior machine to my own. I’ll certainly wave at such an encounter, but if it gets answered with a lecture on the evils of fossil fuel, I’ll reserve the right change my mind about the “next time.”

Hail! Fellow traveler!

You don’t just wave at everybody on two-wheels. I must confess, when I first re-entered the motorcycling community, I was bursting with enthusiasm, and perhaps a bit overeager to declare my return. I was only two days back-in-the-saddle when I encountered a machine coming straight at me. Keep in mind, this was only the second week of April in Minnesota, and most guys had their bikes in the garage or storage, as the weather was a might brisk. Barely sixty degrees and cloudy, my primary goal was to take advantage of streets still a bit thinned out by COVID and get “re-familiarized.” I also wanted to get through my break-in period so I’d be ready to enjoy unlimited revs by the time I could pile on some miles per ride.

As the recipient of my first “bike wave” approached, I realized I was nervous. I prepared myself, taking my hand from the clutch lever, told myself “do NOT turn your head”, and slowly let my arm drop to my side. As he neared, I forgot all of the mental prep I’d been doing, and snapped off a salute that would have made Hitler blush. DAMN! Whether he responded or not, I couldn’t tell you. I hit the throttle and roared away until I was sure I was out of sight. Was I chagrined? Yes, I was. Embarrassment has a manner of completely flipping my mindset. As I disappeared into a pinprick on the horizon, I was telling myself what a damn fool I was, and maybe I should just be a guy who doesn’t wave at anybody.

I got over it.

Who merits a wave?

This is a question that must be addressed. While the wave is accepted as a sign of comradery and fellowship, one can’t assume everybody astride two wheels are on the same page. The population of folks on motorcycles is as rich in diversity as the general public. We ride in the company of ditch diggers and doctors. While we’d like to think we put away the shovels and stethoscopes to conquer the world’s highways and bi-ways, celebrating our freedom en masse, united in our love for the open road unrestricted by doors and dashboards, we soon discover that all are not equal on two wheels. There are snobs among us.

While a jerk-is-a-jerk-is-a-jerk, and there’s at least one curmudgeon in every crowd– and motorcyclists have their fair share– determining exactly who’s an asshole on two wheels is a more complicated task than you’d think. There are folk who won’t wave to anybody not riding on the same brand of bike. Harley riders get the harshest rap. You’ll hear how those who ride “‘Merica’s Bike” are the snobbiest of snobs. The tale you’ll hear is that Harley riders look down on all machines that don’t sport the eagle, and have nothing but contempt for all other makes, brands and styles. I find this to be absolute rubbish. I find most Harley riders have an appreciation for almost every bike on the road– except, perhaps, Ducati’s and BMWs. More on that later.

I know a lot of Harley owners pooh-pooh “rice burners”, don’t care for machines “wrapped in plastic” and have little nice to say about full face helmets, but I also know they have a lot of respect for “old school” motorcycles, and the folks who ride them. I’ve seen hard core OMCs hammer the nervous owners of a BSA or a sixties/seventies Triumph or Norton with questions. They can’t say enough about how much they admire the British tradition. I’ve even seen Harley guys shower compliments on the owner of an immaculate, entirely stock 1955 BMW R50– it even had an airpump attached to the frame– and more than one said they’d be proud to ride it. Maybe it’s the Midwest, but I’ve never gotten “wave snubbed” by a Harley rider, and I’ve rarely seen it happen to another person on a bike, either. I always wave at Harleys. I even wave at obvious OMCers. If they don’t wave back, I don’t take it personally.

What’s with these guys?

Two of the most lovely motorcycles you’ll ever lay eyes on have to be BMWs and Ducatis. Maybe it’s because owning one is essentially like owning a second home or a rocket ship. I’d normally say “second home or a yacht”, but anybody cruising around on either of these machines probably already owns both. Theses bikes are not cheap. Those who own them are apparently not cheap, either, at least when it comes to spending on themselves. Let’s start with Ducati, shall we?

Ducati owners are special, and very easy to pick out. They’re the guys who have no qualms about dressing in full leather, even if they’re just heading out on a quick errand to the post office. Now, I’m an ATGATT guy, but I also believe in limits. Everything they wear costs more than a year in a private college, is bright enough to be seen from the moon, and often has a logo on it– Italian, of course– that takes up at least a quarter of the front of the gear, and often takes of most of the surface area on that back of the gear– which is often wrist to ankles racing leather. You will never spot one in a grocery store, either. You won’t recognize them, as they always wear a full face helmet that costs about a grand, and the visor is always black. Ducatistas prefer to walk the world anonymously– probably because many in the cycling world refer to them as “Douche-a-tistas.”

I’m allowing plenty of shallow-minded prejudice spill out, but I’ve got my reasons– two of ’em. One was a guy I met on a county road. I didn’t know he was on a Ducati until he was already past me. As he came toward me, I dropped a wave. The guy picked his chest up off the tank, actually looked right at me, dropped back down, snapped the throttle and screamed away, hitting ninety before I couldn’t hear him any more, no doubt looking for that killer “twistie” to burn off the last 1/32nd inch of chicken strips on his tires. The other guy was actually in the same lane as me. I pulled up to a red light, and seconds later I had a lane mate. It was the Red Power Ranger, sitting astride a V4 Panigale. Pulling up right beside another bike is considered bad etiquette if you’re not riding together, and this guy had to lane split to get there as well. I thought nothing of it. I offered a nod–a stationary substitute for a wave– and got no response whatsoever. He did answer, after a fashion. When the light turned green he ripped the throttle, swerved where I should have been heading, spraying what tiny bits of sand and other schmutz was on the pavement right into me, and upshifted into oblivion. If these dudes are going out of their way to insult you, at least they get it over with in a hurry. If I’m going to wave at a Ducati, they have to wave first.

When I’m talking about Beemers, keep in mind I’m referring to oilheads, not the old air cooled Rs I’m hopelessly enamored of. I’m a bit baffled that BMW could create such schism in their ranks of riders in less than one generation. The old timer airheads, all down to earth with greasy fingers, and “ah, shucks” grins, have been replaced by oilheads, all preoccupied with their stock portfolios and who to kick out of the “partnership down at the firm.” Two different universes.

Anyhoo. While oilhead riders are also fond of extravagant gear, they have a completely different sense of style than the Ducatistas. Rather than red, black or purple full body leather, the Beemer crowd goes for top notch– and high buck– adventure gear. The colors are typically found on deer hunters and highway workers, and bright enough to fry your retinas at half a mile. And it’s co-ordinated as well, with a shimmering silver jacket highlighted by florescent green flashes, paired with black riding pants and shimmering silver and florescent green flashes. They have rain gear, gear for hot weather, gear for cold weather, and gear for hot weather and rain, cold weather and sleet, and a three can sterno stove that fits discreetly somewhere on that gorgeous machine in case they get snowed in crossing the Donner Pass. The tent is fitted somewhere else, but YOU won’t see it. Did I mention his cold weather gear can plug into his machine, heating up his entire suit in case traversing Antarctica should ever find its way onto the bucket list– which is what, as it seems, is the impression these well-heeled motorcyclists are determined to give.

While BMW makes a variety of bikes, the “adventure bike owners” seem to have the greatest aversion to the wave. While these geared up dudes obviously take a lot of pride in these adventure machines, and never hesitate to tell you it’s “an adventure machine,” I’ve never seen one of them dirty. And then you start to realize, these guys are all old, like my age, and not one of them have a story about being beset by mountain lions in the Teton range. But, I’m not talking about 18,000 dollar adventure bikes which the only adventure they’re destined to face is a nasty overfill at the local gas station, but how the operators of such works of art have an aversion to waving at their fellow motorcyclists.

They generally travel in packs, ranging in groups of three to five– not a lot of adventure bikes out there, much less Beemers– and ride with the German precision most often scene in newsreels from the early nineteen-forties. When you see their formation approaching, you might as well keep your hand on the bars. I’ve tried the greeting, but have never so much as received a nod in return. I’ve seen ’em ignore other people, so I’m pretty sure it’s not just me. It’s not that they are rude, per se, but simply oblivious. I’m sure they’re paying rapt attention to their surroundings, but it’s not like you’re on a bike, or acknowledging they are as well, but it’s as if you’re just part of the scenery, a prop, if you will. You might as well be a cager, or road kill. You’re not a part of their universe. Perhaps, as they ride along, they’re imagining they’re in Africa, or crossing the Andes, and not simply on the way to the newest, most hip bistro they’ve heard of, just a few miles down the road. I dunno, and probably never will. I just know it’s a waste of time to let them know I’m sharing the road with them.

And… that’s it for this edition. I may have one more entry to make on this fine subject, but have yet to decide. I guess you’ll just have to stat tuned… Ride safe.

Hi! Howya doin’?

HAVEN’T POSTED IN TWO WEEKS. MEA CULPA. LIFE GETS IN THE WAY SOMETIMES…

Motorcycling is a complicated activity. You have to know how to counterbalance, countersteer, when to brake going into a corner or a curve, how to lay off the brakes in a corner or a curve. You have to know when and how much to throttle up on a downshift, how and when to throttle down before dipping into a curve. You have to teach yourself to look as far as the horizon, and at the same time be mindful of what’s happening a foot away from you. You have to anticipate what the cagers might pull to screw up your day– or your life– and know how to keep your head on your shoulders when a bird has just sacrificed itself in an effort to take it off. You condition yourself not to flinch when a bug smacks your head like a golfball launched off the tee, or when a rock thrown up by the truck in front you smashes into your shin at sixty MPH. (A true biker feels more relief when the rock then skips into the ditch and not the valve cover. You know your shin will heal up.)

It can be hazardous out there. With all of the above– and tenfold more — to occupy us in order to remain safe and happy with each and every mile we conquer on our iron horses, there’s one skill that must be mastered before you can seriously consider yourself a motorcyclist: The wave.

What’s “the wave?”

We all should know it: You’re cruising down a state highway, relaxed, enjoying the sights and sounds in a way that can only be experienced on two wheels. On the horizon, in the oncoming lane, you spot a pinprick of light. It’s coming at you. An instant later, you realize it’s a colleague, a fellow traveler borne along on a gasoline fueled steed, a soul mate if you will. This moment needs to be acknowledged, and shared. Keeping your eyes forward and– depending on what type of head protection you’re using– your face stoic, like the executioner pulling the lever and sending the condemned dropping into eternity from the scaffold. You drop your left arm, then move it to just under forty five degrees away from your hip and, just as your about to blow past each other, you extend two, three, or even all of your digits, pointing at the narrow strip of road separating your machines. Your momentary riding friend has responded in kind. You pass, retract your arm, and continue with your ride. A scant moment, no briefer meeting will you ever have… but your meeting will not be forgotten– until the next guy comes at you.

Okay, but…WHY?

It’s brotherhood, man! A sign of solidarity…

True! It’s a signal from one like-minded soul to another. It’s an acknowledgement, recognition of a shared passion, a gesture other folks on the road simply don’t do. It’s mutual respect. “I feel ya, Brotha! And I got yer back!”

Nestled in their cages, worried about their retirement funds or whether they’ll like the haircut they’re already late for, automobile motorists often have their minds occupied by everything except the road stretched out before them. If they hit a dog, it’ll hardly phase them. Wipe off the bumper and speed away. While on your apparatus of liberation, you don’t have the luxury of killing a dog due to distraction. You’d better have your eyes open and your wits about you, or you could well be accompanying that mutt into the afterlife. That, my friends, sets you apart from those who carelessly careen about on four wheels, protected by doors and, most often, a roof. They’ve also got seat belts as another barrier against meeting Jesus. Airbags. Not us, no sir. There’s nothing between us and the pavement– and quite possibly the grave– but whatever gear we’re sporting and the skills we’ve developed. Those are the chances we’re willing to take to enjoy the freedom our chosen mode of transportation can provide, and we wave to our brothers (and sisters) as a sign of our understanding and appreciation of the risks and rewards granted by taking that risk.

Wow! How’d it get started?

Who knows? However, I wouldn’t feel right just leaving it at that, so I’ll share a couple of theories that have floated about since motorcycles first appeared on the roads of this great country. The first is that it was started by two famous names in American two-wheeled history, a Mister Harley and a Mister Davidson. These two gents were apparently close, and it was motorized cycles that brought them together. While in America’s motorcycling infancy, these two gentleman traveled about Milwaukee on their creations. They were often seen passing each other, and these colleagues would exchange waves. Before you know it, others who rode motorcycles– perhaps even those bearing the names of these two pioneers– picked up the habit themselves. Hmm… could well be…

The other theory is…

G.I.s returning home from World War Two often felt they could not fully return to normal American society. They felt isolated and misunderstood, which is reasonable, considering what they’d experienced fighting for their country. “Battle fatigue” is what it was called in the pre-PTSD days, and there was no cure for it but, “Suck it up, son. That’s all over now.” They had no outlet, and their buddies could well be scattered all over the country. They needed a manner to get away, if just for a bit, and the war actually provided an unorthodox treatment. The army used motorcycles, and they used a lot of them. After the war, they were sold off as surplus for pennies on the dollar. Most soldiers were familiar with motorcycles and they began began buying Army and Marine surplus. They began to form clubs with other veterans from the areas they lived in, primarily to be among people who’d had similar experience and knew better than to respond with, “Get over it, Mac.”

They, too, got credit for creating “the wave”, supposedly for the same reasons we’re assumed to do it now: a sign of comradery, solidarity and support. As the riding population outgrew its origins as a means of release and relief to returning home from a brutal conflict, and more civilians began riding it became a tradition for all motorcyclists. Another twist on the same path was that, as the former military guys began riding without surplus gear, it became increasingly difficult to discern between a veteran and a man who didn’t serve. Rather than risk showing disrespect to a former soldier, sailor or Marine, everybody offered a wave to an oncoming rider.

Is there a right way and a wrong way?

Yes, and no. The wave I described in my opening, the downward-forty-five- degree-angle-upside-down-peace-sign-wave is the generally accepted standard. As I also mentioned, it could be two-to-five digits pointed down. The two fingers is believed to acknowledge we’re both traveling on two wheels, and this signifies it, and that it’s best to keep them in contact with Mother Earth, asphalt and concrete in particular. This is the most common wave out there. However, should more than two be pointed there is no cause for panic, consternation or confusion. This can be ignored or interpreted, depending on your analytical bent, but keep in mind if you feel compelled to figure it out, “why more than two fingers?”, you’ll have to accept you’re interpretation will most likely be yours and yours alone. It could mean they’re so overjoyed to meet you two fingers doesn’t seem to say enough; or it could mean how many bikes they own; or “This is how many women I’ve slept with!” Who knows? Not I, and I can promise nobody else knows– or cares. Even your best riding buddies will be outright puzzled by your concern, or assure you they don’t give a shit.

The variations on the wave are often dependent on the style of both the bike and the rider. If a cruiser or naked bike encounters an oncoming bike of similar style, you can expect the standard lowered arm, digits down wave from both riders. However, those astride sportbikes have a style of riding that can make the standard wave an imperilment. You offer the standard, and get a short lift of the left hand in return. Take no offense. Dropping an arm adds another hazard to the already hazardous act of dry humping one thousand screaming centiliters.

Other variations can be seen, and most are acceptable. A raised fist; a standard, upright “peace sign”; or just a simple raised hand. Again, these responses don’t merit much consideration– you’re only meeting for a nanosecond, anyhow, and what motivates an unexpected response should hardly be anything that screws up your day. Just accept it and roll on.

What’s not acceptable is responding like a kid who’s trying to get his teacher’s attention or the highly stylized “parade wave”, mostly seen by pageant contestants, folks in a parade, or the Queen of England. Don’t do it. Like it or not, riding a bike grants you a degree of coolness you may not actually possess, but you’ve gotten credit for it by default. Don’t screw it up by turning into a moron just because you see another bike on the road.

Is that it?

Oh, hell no. I’ve got more, but I’m running out of space and wearing out my welcome. I’ll be back in a couple days with vital information, i.e. my personal preferences about when to defer from this sacred gesture, and who may or may not deserve it. STAY TUNED!

I can’t get it up!

After three years of relying on my dad, I finally got my own bike. It’s pictured above, same color even, and, as you might note, it was equipped with the latest in drum brake motorcycle technology. More about that on another day. With my own ride underneath me, taking chances took on a whole new meaning. I was anything but spoiled, so damaging the old man’s property would have been first taken out of my hide, and then my bank account. It also meant I was unlikely to get it out of the garage again. Having my own meant I footed the insurance bill– basic coverage only– and it could only get it repaired if I could afford it. While I could fudge on how much gas I put in my father’s bikes, there was no getting away with it when I was the only one riding mine. Thus, my level of responsibility hadn’t really changed, it just became different. While finding a different sense of responsibility, I did indulge in one attempt at achieving full “squid-dom.” I attempted a feat I’d never dared to try on one of the old man’s machines– a wheelie.

Super, mega-dank…

NOONER!

I went to the school parking lot. After a moment’s regret of not finding somebody to witness this achievement, I went straight to work to get this essential practice mastered and wear the mantle of a bona fide bad-ass. After a few attempts at timing the throttle to the clutch release, pulling the front wheel off the ground a few, scant inches, I was ready to perform the real deal. I made a turn, crept forward in the ol’ friction zone, cranked the throttle and released the clutch. The bike lurched, the tank was coming up at my belly… and I did what anybody with a brain would do, I jerked the clutch back in. The front end dropped, my right hand had stayed on the job and the throttle was wide open, the front tire was back on the asphalt– and I released the clutch. Through the love and grace of Our Lord And Savior Dear Sweet Jesus, the engine killed. But the bike still jerked forward at a pretty fair clip, and initiated a tank slapper there would never have been any hope of my recovering from were the engine still running. With the engine dead, the front end still, I dropped the bike. I didn’t dump it so much as set it down, and I stepped away and wandered around the lot, making sure there was nothing more in my shorts I hadn’t started the day with.

I’ve never bothered to check the specs on a 1970, Yamaha XS 650, but I’m not sure the bike was built to produce jaw-dropping “whoolies.” I’m sure it was possible, but that was my one and only attempt and I no longer had the desire to find out. One thing I’ll readily admit about myself is this: This boy definitely has “quit” in ‘im.

It was not a complete failure. It had a profound effect on my attitude toward two wheeled travel. While tooling around on motorcycles that weren’t mine, I deferred from most squid-like behavior because the machines simply didn’t belong to me. I wasn’t about to attempt burn-outs or pock the local roads and parking lots with “smoking donuts.” I wasn’t the guy paying for rubber. There was a bit of testing to see how fast a bike would go, but it wasn’t a compulsion. I never once succumbed to the challenge of race, either. I could ignore the accusation of “chicken” when I was playing with some one else’s money. And, there was always the threat of losing the privilege.

While wandering around the parking lot with my very own motorcycle lying on its side and my heart whacking against my sternum, I suddenly became aware of something I’d never realized prior to that moment: I was not only riding around on my father’s bikes, I was also operating under the fantasy that I was traveling about in a completely illusory bubble of paternal protection. If the old man could hand me the key, what could possibly go wrong?

One small reason I bought by own machine was that my father had sold his CB750 the winter before. I’d intended to buy my own anyway, so I didn’t read anything into his selling a motorcycle I knew he loved. He never offered an explanation, just sold it. I never asked for one, either. I was ready to provide for myself. It was my mother who told me why. She said he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if I were to get killed riding something he’d handed over to me. A few years later, he was back astride a machine. I’d turned mine in for a wife, and it would be forty years before I had my own motorcycle again.

However, on that day, despite my shock and momentary horror, I still had a bike. And would enjoy it for three more years. When my chest ceased its pounding and the shakes settled into a manageable quiver, I picked it up, started it, and rolled out of the parking lot, grateful it had turned out there was nobody there to bear witness. It wasn’t long after that I started wearing long pants and a leather jacket whenever I went for a ride.

Why a Royal Enfield?

Before I get started, I’ve got to acknowledge there are a lot more views and opinions of “thumpers” than mine. I’ve gotten and read several messages since the post went up: “Put on 300 miles…; 200 miles on Saturday, 215 on Sunday…; San Francisco to Portland over the weekend…, etc. etc….” Okay “Iron Butts”, I get it. You all have concrete asses and wear dentures. No, seriously, hats off to all you one-bangers. You’re tougher than I am.

+ + +

Well… Look at it!

My first glimpse of the Interceptor was an Orange Crush, which I believe was the dominant color released with the first wave to distributors in the US and the UK. At first glance, it was reminiscent of a 1968 Bonneville, or maybe a 1971 BSA Thunderbolt, as the motor crowds the frame a bit more than the Bonnie. A Bonneville was a bike I’d craved as a kid, but I also thought the BSA was actually the more beautiful bike. But, even as a seventh grader, I’d heard stories about the electrical systems in the BSA and comments that they were the “best looking machine you’ll ever see parked on the roadside.” Regardless of the horror stories we’ve all heard about British bikes in the sixties and seventies, I’ve never heard anybody state a Japanese bike possessed that kind of eye catching promise– not one built in the 60’s to the mid-70’s anyway– that would make your soul complete. They just happened to start every time. If nothing else, the RE might have been built in India, but it screamed Great Britain. The only concern I had was if the Indians had kept more of the British tradition than its sense of style.

Enter YouTube

I wasn’t about to let everything I learned about this bike come from RE’s website, no sir. I needed to do some deep digging. Thank God for Stuart Fillingham and the Missenden Flyer, two men I hold in the highest esteem– but I do give credit to the others who provided their opinions via their video test runs as well. That both Mr. Fillingham and the Flyer both sang its praises and ultimately bought it should have been plenty for anybody, but I continued my quest, searching for at least one bad review. I figured that would be the exception that proved the rule. No luck, no matter how hard I tried. Even Yammie Noob offered lukewarm praise, which I took as overwhelming support of a bike that I figured such a site would never bother to take a glance at. Sure, there were comments that showed how corners had been cut and, as another bike-free year on my end passed, some negative comments were made, but these were only offered in support of…

How much? No way. You gotta be shi—

The price. Six grand for a brand new, 650cc motorcycle that’s more beautiful in one’s eyes than their first prom date– and I don’t care if you’ve been together ever since. Yes, some shortcuts were pointed out in order to achieve that price point. The plastic turn signals (I like the American signals much better than the oblong, rectangular flashers offered in the UK), a cheesy rear light (retro appropriate…), analog light bulbs. Critiques were also made of the suspension, the seat– while also retro appropriate, it’s shortcomings become readily apparent on longer rides– and a few easily dismissed complaints were voiced about the foot peg placement. Can’t blame the manufacturer for an individual’s height deficiency. There have also been some gripes about the hardware found on the handlebars, and I agree the controls are nothing if not generic, but when looking at what counts there’s no hint of skimping whatsoever. It’s got ABS and fuel injection. Really, what more does a modern motorcycle need? At my age, more bells and whistles add up to confusion, not performance… The engine and the transmission are flawless, and it’s not just my pedestrian opinion. The engine and gearbox have garnered nothing but praise and admiration. Even the low numbers on the spec sheet can be dismissed out of hand. The gearing ratio would never allow one to believe they’re being propelled by 47 horses. And, torque-wise, I’ll listen to any legitimate complaint if somebody can point out a single gear that feels “boggy.” I’ll entertain all gripes, if they come anywhere near convincing.

All of the criticism I’ve heard can easily be solved with a little cash and, honestly, not a whole lot of expertise. You can get new suspension all around, change the seat, swap out all the lights, and still have a few grand more in the bank account than if you’d bought yourself a brand new Bonneville. And…

LOOK AT IT!

After first laying eyes on this machine, I’m convinced it will someday be hailed as a classic example of design, hitting a home run in both form and function. This is also combined with a stroke of marketing genius, serving the entire motorcycling community well by its beauty and economy. I knew it was a bike I was going to buy, and any research I did was more to find a solid reason for NOT buying it. Love at first sight, man. I’m proud to own one.

What’s a Royal Enfield?

When I first got the bug to get back into riding a motorcycle, I figured I’d go the “familiar” route for us old folks who are, in motorcycling terms, “Born Again.” I planned to find a Japanese bike, most likely a Honda or a Yamaha, as those brands are what I rode as a kid, a mid-size, between 500 or 750 cc’s. I figured I’d start with a used machine, between three and five years old, see how I liked it, and then start thinking about buying a new one. Then, way back in 2019, a guy I work with was talking about Royal Enfield, and that he’d heard about a new motorcycle they were due to release in a couple of months. He didn’t know a lot about them, but he told me it sounded like they were practically “giving them away.”

I’d actually heard of Royal Enfield motorcycles. I’d also never heard anything good about them. I knew they were a British bike, they were around in the ’60’s, and that, not unlike BSA and Norton, were temperamental as in hard to start and harder to keep running. They also let you know where they’d been by the stains they left behind where they’d been parked– “Royal Oilfield”– and that they were essentially crap. I thought they’d gone out of business about the same time BSA and Norton had. I was right, in the U.S. anyway. Royal Enfield in the United States went of out business in 1970, BSA disappeared in 1972. Norton flopped around under various owners and configurations and, to be honest, I had no idea when they weren’t sold in the U.S. any more.

Not English, but still in business!

Intrigued by what I’d heard from my friend, I did some research. Suprise! Royal Enfield may have been bankrupt in Blighty, but had been alive and well, thanks to the Brits building a factory in India in 1955, which were still producing bikes after the business in the U.K went under. What I also learned is there have been motorcycles in continuous production with the Enfield name since 1901. Take that Harley Davidson! While not yet convinced they weren’t crap, a tradition like that merited more investigation.

Thump, thump, thump…

While RE had produced some bikes that were considered “big” for the times, the Constellation, Meteor and Super Meteor in the fifties, all 700cc, and the Interceptor, introduced in 1961 as a 700cc, and later bumped up to 750 until the brand disappeared in the American market. These machines were all parallel twin cylinders. India was a different story. The factory in India was built in 1955 and produced bikes in the 250 to 500cc range– all single cylinder. The common term for these bikes is “thumper,” a single piston machine known for the vibration that permeates the entire bike– and its rider– from idle to max revs. While RE’s “superbikes” of the sixties had a reputation of being among the fastest production bikes sold in the U.S., the bikes made in India carried no such reputation.

Motorcycles in the US are essentially toys. Sure, some folks use them to get back and forth to work, and even fewer have them as a sole means of motorized transportation, but to the vast majority they are a luxury. In India, they are essential both for transportation, and as working vehicles. Any vehicle that can get you from point A to point B economically is valuable, and being the hometown ride, RE is a very popular brand, but luxury is not a prime consideration. Cost is. While a motorcycle built in fifties or sixties has its place in the United States, it’s more novelty than anything else. It’s something that will get a lot of attention, start some great conversations and certainly be fun to tool around on, it’s not what people here consider an everyday ride. In India it is, and if a bike relies on mid-twentieth century technology to get you around, few people are going to complain. While Americans were not only enjoying stuff like ABS, traction control, fuel injection, onboard GPS, and every other doo-dad you could hang on two wheels, they were demanding it as well. In India, if your bike starts you’ve already got a leg up on your day. Speed also plays a factor in the U S of A. In the sub-continent? Not so much. Which brings me back to thumpers. If your fillings are at risk going thirty miles an hour, imagine how you’re going to feel at fifty… sixty? If, by the grace of God, you can get your single cylinder five hundred up to seventy, how’s your ride going to be if you swallowed your dental work at 6o mph and now your teeth are loosening up? Not to mention you may find your bike shedding parts as well. You’re not going to be putting on stretches of one hundred fifty miles in one leg of a trip, either. If I attempted such a trip as that at my age, I’d be in the market for a scooter before long– the kind you plug in at night before going to bed. However, this was all news to me when I first starting researching whether a Royal Enfield was in my future, though a thumper wasn’t going to be considered no matter who built it. But, if you’ll allow me to be a bit grandiose, RE saw me coming, and had made plans years before I’d started looking for a bike.

A change for the better.

While RE’s have been available in the U.S. since, the first American distributorship was opened in Milwaukee in 2015. They’ve been available, but I’d never seen one on the street or in a parking lot. They’ve enjoyed a cult status, presumably owned by people with excellent dental plans or those who enjoy riding a massive sex toy to the convenience store. But RE underwent a management change, and their sights were now set on an international market, and the United States and Europe were in their crosshairs.

The first offering was a funky 411 cc adventure bike called the Himalayan. It debuted in 2016 and was the first RE built from scratch since, well, whenever. All other RE thumpers have the same frame, with no updates in over fifty years, regardless of engine size. The Himalayan is also single cylinder, but was equipped with fuel injection, a newly designed frame, and excellent off-road suspension, though it also handles quite well on pavement. It had a rough start the first couple of years, but management learned from its critics and now enjoys a great reputation. Another thing to consider is its price point, $4749 off the showroom floor. That’s a helluva lot of fun for less than five grand. It also received a massive boost from a young Dutch lady, known as “Itchy Boots” on YouTube, whose worldwide adventures no doubt helped sales, as she was viral as viral gets, when in comes to women on motorcycles traveling in risky places.

All of this leads up to why I decided on a Royal Enfield as my re-introduction to motorcycling. I’ve used up a lot of words, and a lot of space, but I won’t just leave you hanging until mid-week. I’ve put a picture of what I decided on as a means of risking life and limb. And a picture saves a thousand words, as they say:

Wednesday I’ll tell you why I bought it… as if the pic doesn’t say enough.

The Death Machine

A kid will pull on a pair of shorts, don a tank-top or T-shirt, slide his feet into a pair of flip-flops, hop on a motorcycle and tear out of his driveway, hitting third gear before he’s traveled fifty yards and probably has the front wheel off the ground before he hits the first stop sign. Let’s hope he’s got a pair of sunglasses on, at least. “Eight feet tall and bullet proof.” That’s a phrase my grandfather used to describe young men with a wealth of fearless bravado and a dearth of common sense. I’ve fit the bill a few times. I only wore flip-flops once, however. The shift lever wore through the skin on the top of my big toe.

Trying to recapture the inner squid?

It’s a question I asked myself when the thought of buying a motorcycle first crept into my head, and that was over two years ago. It certainly wasn’t a thought that plagued me. While my attire as a young man on a motorcycle was certainly that of a SQUirrely kID, my behavior fell rather short. While my greatest threat to public safety was my disregard for the speed limit, I was also never the type to blow by the elementary school at freeway speed. There were also a lot of kids in my neighborhood. There was an unwritten rule in my town that anyone’s dad was everybody’s dad if one’s own sire was not present to dole out justice. Any behavior perceived as dangerous– which was trebly enforced should a child be present– any parent (this right was not reserved for the paternal family member) was granted free rein to take any action they saw fit. This covered anything from getting a thorough tongue lashing to a smack upside the head. And it didn’t necessarily end there. As often as not, when you got home you may well find you’d earned a “two-fer.” The greatest danger was losing the privilege of use of my dad’s bike, as it would be two years before I became a real grown up and bought my own machine. I behaved myself in the neighborhood.

Back to my grandfather. I was told by my dad the scrambler needed an oil change. We did all of that sort of thing at my grandfather’s. I gave him a call and headed over. I saw him standing in his driveway, so I thought it was a great opportunity to exhibit my skill. Grandpa was standing at the garage door, ready to go. He had a gravel driveway. I turned in, cracked the throttle, started a corner and hit the brakes– no ABS in those days!– which left Gramps standing in a cloud of dust, shaking his head. “You do crap like that, and it gives me a reason to hate seeing you on that thing.”

I was nothing if not flippant. “You can only die once.”

His head kept shaking. “Yeah. Youngsters like to tell you they’re not afraid to die. If you’re lucky enough to get to my age, you’ll start understanding you have to die. It changes things a bit.”

The babes will think you’re twenty again…

Uh-huh… Didn’t happen when I was sixteen. Didn’t happen when I was twenty, either. And it sure as hell won’t happen now. In fact, I gave up the bike forty years ago to get married, and I know damn well I’m not the only guy who’s done that. C’mon…

It’s a means of escape.

Always was, always will be– but it means so much more now than it ever did when I was too stupid to know there were things that truly needed escaping from. The country’s a mess. Don’t try to talk me out of it. Political turmoil, cop shootings, mass shootings and, rather than fix it, all we do is name call and fight. We’ve abandoned reason for rage. The decision between watching the news and going for a ride became the choice of no choice. I’d rather risk a bird in the face than watch somebody denigrate their neighbor for the sake of politics.

It’s a reward!

Damn straight it is. Long overdue, as well. While I’ve lived a blessed life, I’ve still gone through my share of shit and made a lot of sacrifices. There’s getting my kids into stable adulthood, paying my bills, working a stressful job and enduring a lot of self-inflicted personal struggles and coming out clean, and… I’ve earned it. I’m not the only guy whose come to the same conclusion, either.

It’s all of that, it’s none of that.

Tell me something about the above picture. Is it a sunrise, or a sunset? Does it matter? You’re going to look at it and probably say, “It’s beautiful,” and not give a damn about whether you laid eyes on it getting out of bed, or after you ate dinner. It’s just there, and you appreciate the moment, and hope you may get to encounter such a thing again. When I walked away from motorcycling, I told myself it was the “mature thing to do,” but there was a voice in my head telling me I was wrong. That’s what “maturity” does to some people. And if this brand of “maturity” gets ahold of you, you find yourself with a lifetime of “doing the mature thing” for all the wrong reasons.

In forty years, I went from essentially getting out of the shower and hopping on the motorcycle, to a person who puts on a suit of armor before he starts it up. I say it’s part of a deal I made with the woman I’m married to now, but it’s also an act of “maturity” I didn’t possess as a twenty-something. Common sense, I suppose, and acknowledgement I’m no longer eight feet tall and bullet proof. It’s still a choice, mind you. I don’t care if you ride in full gear or feel totally secure in a bandana. To each his own. That said, I confess to having no small amount of anxiety when I turned the ignition on my new ride. There was a small audience of total strangers standing around on the sidewalk, all grinning, excited to see my departure. They all said words of a congratulatory nature, but I also knew a few of them were waiting to see if I’d kill the engine at my first clutch release. There was no shudder, no jolt, no humiliating lurch to a stop. I even managed a wave as I pulled away. A more palpable terror arose when I took my first turn. And while it rose and fell with every stoplight, intersection, lane change, it diminished by the time I had a mile behind me. The basics were all back and, while I knew there was still much, much more to get re-acquainted with, the fear had ebbed to a tiny tingle at the base of my spine, and the excitement I felt suffocated it pretty damn well. It was like riding a bike.

With over five hundred miles on the odometer now, I know the chances of embarrassing myself have pretty much been left in the hands of fate and not due to any awkward fumbling. I still have much to learn– when does it ever stop?– many skills to hone, but the guy now clutching the handlebars is very different from the brat pulling onto the freeway in a Led Zeppelin T-shirt and a pair of cut-offs. Yet, a big piece of that kid woke up the instant that parallel twin fired up and the rumble graced my ears. That kid, who spent every minute with a smile on his face, feeling the wind, smelling the smells, hearing the roar, appreciating every ride was an adventure, finding new “twisties,” new hills to climb, more valleys to plunge through, throwing a wave at every bike he encountered, simply because he couldn’t keep it all inside him, and finding joy in meeting a total stranger who felt exactly as he did for that one fleeting second. That came back, too, and in spades. I am now as old as my grandad the day I sprayed him with dust. And, yes, it has changed a bit. Motorcycles can be death machines. To not acknowledge that is foolish. I still get that slight tingle of fear before I start every ride. But, what those who don’t appreciate, those who don’t take the risk, will never experience what it really represents. LIFE. Raw, pure, naked life. Unencumbered, yet all engaging, totally focused yet utterly liberating. It’s freedom. It’s hopping on and leaving everything that threatened to drive you mad in your day-to-day existence, and allows you to simply live, if only for as long as the ride takes you. Whatever rationale I employed that allowed me to surrender something that had meant so much is lost to me now. It doesn’t matter, and I can’t even bring myself to regret it any more. I know what I’ve got back, and I have no plans of letting it ever get away again. Not as long as I’m still upright and breathing.

Screw you!

Why would a guy at my point in life, 63 years old, if I’m to be honest, suddenly decide the one thing in life he needs is a motorcycle? Well past a mid-life crisis, but the rocking chair not yet in sight, why screw up getting to the rocking chair by throwing a leg over a death machine and daring those sensible enough to travel on four wheels to put you into a hole in the ground? With the work that I do, I’ve had plenty of opportunity to let firsthand experience dissuade me from engaging in such recklessness.

It’s Dangerous!

Probably the most common argument you’ll hear.

I’ve seen the tibias sticking through pantlegs, the flail chests, a single finger in the middle of the road while the body is yards away. I’ve even picked up a helmet with the rider’s head still inside it, his body already bagged up. While visually horrifying, what most people don’t realize is the folks above– and most others left in the same fashion– didn’t feel a damn thing. They may have seen it coming, true, but had only an eyeblink to give it a thought. There are worse ways to go.

There’s plenty worse than getting killed.

No argument here. Sitting in a wheelchair for the rest of you life wouldn’t be pleasant when you’ve spent most of your life upright. Then there’s laying in bed, drooling, crapping yourself, eating through a tube, having no concept of time, space, other people… family. Folks saying you’d be better off dead– and you’d agree with them, if you had the capacity– and when you finally do slip off to whatever it is or wherever it is we’ve wondered about all the time were were alive, all will say it’s a blessing. No argument with that, either. But you can face those circumstances by means other than hitting a guardrail or getting broadsided by a soccer mom gaping at her cell phone. My father died paralyzed from a tumor that suddenly decided to grow into his spinal cord. He didn’t exactly court that fate, yet was trapped in bed for ten months while the cancer finished the job. My grandmother had a massive stroke, and several more, and got to finish her life in a manner much like my second scenario. She took her prescriptions every day, and never missed a doctor’s appointment but, despite her dedication to his orders and her measures to prevent a medical catastrophe, it happened nonetheless. Best laid plans of mice and men… Guardrails and distracted soccer mom’s are at least tangible.

Your fate may not be in your hands…

Yes, there are massive potholes, gravel, oil and even roadkill out on the road. They all have the potential to trigger a high side “yeet” into eternity or a low side final trip into oncoming traffic or an oak tree. You my have the skills of an expert, but God or whoever’s in charge of the universe can lay something in front of you that no amount of conscientious piloting of your two wheeler can save you from. And, of course, there are the distracted soccer moms… and teenage girls putting on make up, and reckless boys in their fast motor cars, dads singing along with the radio, hungry travelers chewing a cheeseburger, folks racing to beat traffic lights, cell phones, rowdy kids in the backseat, drunks, and the age old: “I just didn’t see him…” muttered by the shaken commuter staring at the blood on his hood and the antifreeze spilling on the street. They’re out there, and at least four times more of them than back when I was riding my Yamaha dressed in a T-shirt, gym shorts and deck shoes. Yes, I was a “squid” in my youth. These days, despite my helmet, padded jacket, riding pants, gloves and boots– All The Gear, All The Time– and the hours of online research, remembering I’m “invisible” and that the “cagers” are all out there to kill me, the day I left the dealer on my brand spankin’ new motorbike, I was the happiest I’d been in years. And after I’d gotten the first mile behind me, and the nerves, jitters, and outright terror had left my system, I was even happier than the happiest I’d been in years.

When I come back, I’m going to tell you exactly WHY.

G’Bye, Politics… for now, anyhoo.

I’m giving up this, for this:

Makes sense to me. While the Donald battles courts, rages against the Real Republicans, and ultimately dwindles and withdraws from public life, I’ll be out on the twisties, rolling over hills, scaring the crap out of myself and compelling my wife to put the insurance company on speed-dial. It’s a decision I’ve made, and I can’t think of a better distraction.

Why?

Good question. A great question. It’s a question I’ve asked myself more times than I can recall, and my wife– whew— she’s not exactly against it, but she’s said more than once, “I can’t picture you on one of the those things… don’t expect me to get on the back of it,” which I don’t…

Why?

All right, I’m living a cliche`.

I used to ride in my late teens and early twenties. At first I just hopped on whatever bike my father had in the garage, starting with a Honda twin cylinder 125, then a Honda 450 scrambler and, finally a Honda 750cc inline four. That was a sweet bike. And then he sold it out from under me. He never said a word, it was just gone. He never told me why, but my mother clued me in and said “You’re on it more than he is, and he decided he didn’t want you getting killed on his motorcycle.” So I bought my own. Then I got married and said goodbye to my Yamaha 650Xs.

I haven’t exactly pined for the old machine much. It was a fun bike, and I rode the hell out of it for a couple of years… and then got married. It’s easy using a wife as an excuse not to ride any more. That was the one I’d used. My prime motivation was that I didn’t get the chance to ride it as often as I’d liked, I couldn’t store it where I was living at the time and, honestly, the money looked better than the bike at that point in my life. Money in the pocket, and I forgot about the exhilaration of the open road, and meeting my maker on the asphalt was no longer a concern… and it wasn’t for forty years.

Sooo… why now?

A better question, and one I can’t really answer, to be honest. I just got an itch, and it didn’t go away. Then I saw a picture of a Royal Enfield 650. It reminded me so much of my old bike– almost the same specs– and when you added anti-lock brakes and fuel injection, the itch got worse. And when I saw how much they were brand new, I started thinking destiny was at work– exactly what kind of destiny is also a good question, and another one I don’t want to consider at the moment.

I sat on the idea for over a year. If anything, I didn’t want to write this off as an impulse, and it would certainly fall into that category if I just up an bought one the minute I laid eyes on it… A year later, and I wanted it even worse. So I ordered one, one right off the factory floor.

I’ve done goofier things, but not for several years. It’s a helluva way to backslide.

So now, as I wait for delivery to the dealer, I sit and ponder what got into me. I also realize I might get over it the second I write the check to pay it off. I’ve even thought about what I’d do if the urge suddenly vanished. Would I simply leave it there, screen my phone calls until they finally quit calling me? I’m sure it’s been done before… I could offer an excuse, shift blame to my beloved and complain she’d changed her mind and wanted me at home and compliant until my funeral– which would take place after I die in twenty more years, and in my sleep. Or I can just march over there, tell them I chickened out, and run back out the door. But I won’t. I know that for sure. Whatever trepidation I feel is– for now– the anticipation of having nothing better to do one day than throw a leg over a death machine and ride it until the sun goes down.

But I won’t be doing it alone, and I won’t be running before I can walk. I’m going to take my time, get myself re-trained enough to hit a country road, and possibly find Jesus by cutting a corner too hard and perhaps finding eternal peace at the courtesy of a guardrail or the bumper of an F-250.

I’m going to “do it right.” I’ll be taking an MMSC, probably in April, and… You will be there too! I’m going to drag you right along with my while I either turn into a capable, happy guy who enjoys a few hours a week at one with the open road, or sitting miserable in an emergency room while a resident picks gravel out of my ass. Let’s not hope for anything worse… See ya soon!

Risen from the… Back again, in other words.

I’m back, and in a different context. I’ll explain later. Right now I’m compelled to vent, rant and blow smoke about the moron that just got booted out of the “Highest Office In The Land”, and how this infantile buffoon is handling the ass-whooping he so richly deserved, Donald J. Trump.

As of this writing he’s done… nothing. Yes, he’s filed lawsuits contesting the results. But the actual work is being handled by his lackeys and lickspittles. I envision them getting orders and giving progress reports outside a White House bathroom, hissing against the jamb and slipping briefs under the door.

He’s also started hosing out the Pentagon, sacking folks who’ve done nothing but serve the country and replacing them with more lackeys and lickspittles. I hope it’s not because he’ll be relying them later for the coup.

The only public appearance he’s made was to a Veteran’s Day Memorial, and during the entire occasion he kept his mouth shut. Most would find that refreshing but, in lieu of his current employment situation, I believe it’s cause for concern. His appearance at this event is the only thing he’s done that can be considered Presidential. After it was concluded, I imagine he was whisked back to the White House, back to his bathroom and his Twitter account.

Other than that? Nothing. His “acceptance” rant doesn’t count, because the election wasn’t over– to my horror I actually thought he was going to win at that time. Since then it’s been a lackey or a lickspittle that’s fouled the airwaves. Even Fox News cuts ’em off. Nothing, other than his tweets, which now come with a free warning.

An inert Trump is nothing new. As I’ve been made to understand by the Fake News Mainstream Media, the president’s daily intelligence report is not mandatory daily reading for Mr. Trump. This has been standard practice since the Donald robbed Hillary of her birthright. It’s presented to him and, as I’ve heard, he delegates it without a peek. If it contained something that demanded his interest, he’d give it some attention. A staff member reported a couple of days ago that Trump hasn’t bothered with it at all since the first week of October.

When it comes to legislation, it appeared to be primarily undoing everything done by the previous administration. He did give the middle class a tax break in which we found out we traded mortgage interest and student loan interest to “double” our personal deduction, which expires in 2025. You won’t be getting your mortgage and student loan deductions back, though. Sorry. Wall Street got a break, too, and didn’t have to give up a thing. It lasts for eternity and one day. He promised to replace “Obamacare” as well, and replace it with a plan that’s so good he’s too excited about it to give us a little peek.

His foreign relations didn’t take much time or effort on his part, either. He got every friend we had in the world pissed off in a little less than a year, learned how to keep a straight face no matter how close he stood to Putin, and allowed himself to get punked on numerous occasions by a third generation despot.

When COVID arrived, he handled the best way he knew how. He ignored it. He supported this action by ignoring the advice and direction of people who understand such things as well. Even getting it didn’t inject him with any humility. He got about a quarter millions dollars worth of meds so he could tell us, “It’s no big deal. You get it, and get over it.” Who will ever forget that shot of him, standing on the balcony and peeling that mask off. Mussolini would have been proud.

In spite of all this fine work, he lost. So now he leaves the grunt work to his lackey’s and lickspittles. He ignores the contract he made with “the People” and lets the work of running the country go untended. He purges the Pentagon, essentially via Twitter, and sulks. “Thank God he’s gone!” you might expect the nation to cry out.

Not so fast.

You’d think such an unpleasant fellow would have been crushed by a landslide. Not so. He only lost the popular vote by about five million. Seems like a lot– well, it is— but like all things in life, it’s relative. You don’t need the entire country to adore you to hold on to power, it only takes about half of them.

So, while he sulks and expresses his rage with a telephone keyboard, directs his lackeys and lickspittles to obfuscate and hinder to the best of their abilities, there are a LOT of folks out there insisting “this thing ain’t over.”

Stand down, but stand by.