“How Crazy Are You?”
When I read the subject line of Doc’s e-mail last winter I knew he was
working on another Ironbutt. My response after learning it was to be the 48/10? “I just might be that crazy.” My wife’s reply? “Noooo.”
Maybe motorcycles suit me because they are a wonderful mix
of the rational and the irrational. So
economical, so exhilarating. So
practical, so foolish. I rationalized my
way onto a Harley-Davidson nine years ago, when my pickup truck was bleeding me
dry at the pump. “Maybe I should start
taking the bus. But I would need
something to get around during the day.
What happens when I need to run to court? A bicycle?
No, too sweaty. A scooter? Sure.
Did you know that scooters are actually more dangerous than
motorcycles? They lack the power necessary
to move with traffic at highway speeds. Really? Well, that’s what some guy on the internet
said. Works for me. Plus if I have to go to Salt Lake for
something, I couldn’t go on a scooter.”
Boom! I had talked myself into
getting a motorcycle. Completely
practical, right?
From there it was a purely emotional step to get the
Harley. My grandfather was a Harley
dealer 100 years ago. Here he is with
his “business card” showing him with a 1914 Model.
I rode some other bikes but they just didn’t feel the
same. When I took that first test ride
on my 2005 Super Glide, I was hooked.
There was something of a connection there with Grandpa Hellyer. More than that though, was the sensation I
remember from a recurring dream from my childhood. You may have dreamt, as I did, of
flying. My dream flight wasn’t the
superman, fly over tall buildings kind stuff.
In my dreams I flew very low, almost as if I were hovering just above
the ground. I think I will never forget
those dreams, nor the identical sensation I felt when I rode my motorcycle over
Ironton hill. Hovering just above the
ground, the wind in my face. Flying.
The next summer Harley-Davidson had their HOG rally in
Billings, MT, where Grandpa had lived and I had graduated high school. I had to go.
I talked my middle daughter, Cami, into joining me. Despite frigid temperatures as we rode
through Yellowstone after dark, she endured the trip cheerfully and was an
ideal traveling companion.
She also joined me on my first group motorcycle tour, which
was when I met Doc– my wife’s parents’ neighbor’s dentist (so we’re practically
related). My father-in-law had invited
me to join them on a tour of southern Utah. On the first night, at a grimy motel in
Panguitch, Doc initiated the new members of the Bar-T Riders (a title I could
not earn for several more trips). Quite
the showman, I thought. I’ve since
joined Doc on rides to Jackson Hole, Glacier National Park, Jasper/Banff, and
the Black Hills – each time joined by one of my daughters. A few years ago Doc and I did our first
Ironbutt – a Saddle Sore 1000 across the Nevada desert and back. There is a lot of show there, but even more
“go”.
Maybe because I had started to enjoy recreational riding so
much, I felt a growing need to balance that fun time with something more
useful. In 2009, after I upgraded to a
Road King Classic, rode to Glacier National Park, and got my first taste of
huckleberry ice cream at the Big Dipper in Missoula, I helped to found the Ride
Against Child Abuse (www.rideagainstchildabuse.org). Now in its sixth year, we’re still trying new
things to help it grow. I’m happy to find any chance I can to bring more
attention to the ride and encourage more riders to support our efforts –
including my participation in this ride.
Considering my schizophrenic desire to be involved in
something at once beneficial and yet ridiculously impractical, when Doc asks,
“How crazy are you?” the only possible
response is, “Just crazy enough.”
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