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.