Aug 10,11

Passion. We all have our passions. One of mine is riding my motorcycle. There’s something in the feeling of the air, the movement and connection with my surroundings that make me feel alive when I ride. I feel a freedom like no other when I journey down a windy road. It is exhilarating to be able to become one with the machine and the asphalt beneath me. Riding is an experience akin to skiing, where you are living on the edge and feeling the most alive.

My Honda ST1300 turned one hundred thousand Kilometres old this week. It is a worthy accomplishment in the annals of riding for any motorcycle enthusiast. Watching the odometer turn that magical number, 99999, and then 100000 was a happy moment that carried with it a certain tinge of sadness. Like time, the mileage keeps ticking away. There is nothing we can do to stop it. So we may as well embrace it.

Since Covid began I have had the fortune to ride almost every day. I remember a lifetime of riding. I also remember a time when I was a young man that learned hard lessons about riding. I learned to fall and to get back up. I learned to be aware; I know how lucky I am to be alive. How lucky I am to ride.

It was August 1989, I was a brash youngster, caught between a boy and a man. I was going to ride to the Okanagan and meet my friends camping on the beach. I was going to go have a blast for the long weekend. It was going to be awesome. I had a wonderful landlady in our high-rise building who loved motorbikes and wanted to go to see her daughter in Kelowna. I offered her a ride on the back of my bike. That was my first mistake. My landlady, asked if she could sit on my bike, saying yes was my second mistake. When she dropped the bike on its side we both decided it was a bad omen. We picked up the bike, saw no sign of damage but agreed maybe she would skip the ride. In my mind, I felt a huge sigh of relief. Little did I know how fateful that decision would be.

I barely slept that night, a feeling of trepidation and anticipation stirred my subconscious.  Morning came and I packed up my Suzuki GS1150 and set out for the city limits and beyond. I never made the city limits; luckily I didn’t end up in the beyond.

Sarcee Trail and Memorial Drive was a fairly quiet intersection that fateful morning; luckily for me.  The traffic light was red and I sat waiting for the green. I was filled with excitement. It was my first big ride to Kelowna. My friends were already there, camped on the beach. The sun blazed down overhead in Calgary. The Okanagan was sure to be a scorcher and the lake was calling to me. I had thoughts of beaches and bikinis in my mind when the light turned green.

I rolled on the throttle and released the clutch. My metal steed lurched forward like a racehorse from the starting gate. I cracked it wide open feeling the exhilaration of the acceleration. Not too fast, the sharp corner and on-ramp to 16 Ave was coming soon. I let go of the throttle and it stayed open wide. I was going too fast. I touched the front brake lever.

I was on my back, sliding. I watched in horror as my beautiful motorcycle slid sideways right into the median curb. It hit a sign and sheered it off. It tumbled in the air. NOOO! It landed again and rolled into the ditch.

I was on my feet in an instant. I don’t remember any time between sliding along the pavement and leaping up. I started at a run and went rushing to my poor bike. I was devastated; I loved that machine as if it were my baby. Now it lay there in the ditch twisted and broken. I sickened as I shrieked in anguish.

I stood looking down at my wrecked machine when I heard the first voice.

“Are you OK?” it was a city employee standing next to his flat deck truck.

I looked down at myself and took a deep breath. “I’m fine, but my bike isn’t”

“Jump in we can give you a ride.” The burly guy in his mid-thirties pointed at the truck as he grabbed the fallen sign and tossed it into his rig.

“Can we put the bike in the back?” I pleaded with my rescuer.

“Sorry man, best we can do is give you a ride, might look weird us hauling a motorcycle around.” The driver of the truck looked at me with a sympathetic grimace on his face. His eyes told me he wanted to help.

I shrugged my shoulders, jumped in the back seat, and thanked these two good samaritan city workers for their kindness in my moment of pain.

Twenty minutes later we arrived back at my apartment building. I felt humbled, I felt sad and felt grateful these two guys took pity on a wounded biker. My wounds were financial and I took a big blow to my ego that day. I also learned a lifelong lesson. What doesn’t kill us does make us stronger.

My landlady felt awful when I told her what had happened. She felt responsible; she knew that dropping the bike on the throttle probably caused it to stick. That’s when I made my third mistake; I let her feel that way. It was my fault for not checking the bike first, I was the one who cracked it wide open and I was the one who touched the brake. Not her. I let her carry my burden, my guilt. We never spoke much after that.

I continue to ride motorcycles. I got back on my horse after buying another GS1150. I rode that bike everywhere until I upgraded to my St1300. Now after sixteen years on my Honda I have broken the magical barrier of 100000 Km. I look forward to many more. I will continue to be cautious, and aware. I accept the risks and take precautions, but I will continue to live free and embrace every moment.