Tag: Motorcycles

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.

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.