Karl Klockars

My friend Mike gave me a really good line about motorcycles that I like to use when I describe my biker experience: “I’m a real biker – my bike sits in the garage all day while I drink beer and look at it.”

And I shut the garage door firmly on that biker experience yesterday when I handed a guy my helmet and he handed me fifty dollars–thank you, Craigslist. You’re the best e-pimp a guy could hope for, and your “for sale” ads are cool too.

My motorcycle experience is short and dirty. In 1993 my brother Peter was big into dirt bikes. I rode them enough to figure out how to work the shifter and throttle, and maybe the brakes if I was lucky. Pete wanted to ride fast and jump big huge hills and wear chest protectors and go over whoops and all that Motocross jazz. I just wanted to ride in circles and try not to die.

One afternoon I decided it’d be cool to try one of the jumps Pete had made. It was just a pile of dirt a couple feet high, and how hard could it be–I’d been Evel Knievel-ing about on my BMX and 10-speed since I was 6. No problem. 35mph, 70 feet in the air and one major injury later, my dirt bike experience was effectively over.

I hit the jump in 3rd gear, flipped the bike on top of me and had it land on me while I skidded across the ground. I dislocated two fingers on my left hand, bruised my hip and legbones, and broke a piece off my left middle finger which resulted in a cast which forced me to flip the bird for 6 weeks. And some great tire tracks across my thigh.

So when I decided a motorcycle was exactly the thing I needed in 2003, it’s not entirely clear to me why I wasn’t any smarter, even ten years later. It’s nice to know that sometimes stupidity is an essential part of ones experience.

I picked up an old ’75 Honda from an old boss at an old job. For $500 I had purchased the opportunity to die a terribly painful death under the wheels of any number of different other vehicles, or impaled on a telephone pole. Or such fun like that. I rode it home, white-knuckling the handlebars and squinting my eyes. I had neglected both sunglasses or faceshield, which would result in a number of bug-welts on my forehead and teeth. How can you tell a biker is happy? He’s got bugs in his grin.

And shuffled the old bike on home, where it did a great job of holding up brooms and rakes in the garage, to be toddled out every month or so, revved up, ridden around the block, and then put away. I had forgotten that I was absolutely terrified of fast-moving vehicles. Damn the luck, I’m phobic of things like that. Should have thought of that before I spent the money or decided to take it on the road at high rates of speed.

See, I had this “incident” based on very little sleep, massive amounts of caffeine, and driving long distances where I had something of a seizure while doing 80 mph back from a radio job in Rockford. Ever since then, I’ve been something of a tweak about high speeds, freeways, and the like. Road trips aren’t good for me.

So why I decided to pick up this two-wheeled vehicle when I was terrified of four wheels is beyond me, except to cop to the excuse of youth and vanity. See, motorcycles are freaking cool. And having a motorcycle is an excuse to look cool and have chicks ride on the back of it. And when you’re 23 that’s practically a license to print money.

Unfortunately for me (again…see a pattern?) having someone’s life in my hands while they wrap theirs around my waist only served to heighten my tension, and it’s hard to impress a girl when you’re too freaked out to go over 15 miles an hour. Okay, that’s not entirely true, I did push it up to 20mph a couple times but only when the house was in sight and I was sure that even with a shattered pelvis I could crawl back home.

To the delight of my mother, I sold the bike last month for more than I paid for it, which is a lesson in economics, and I sold the helmet yesterday for less than I paid for it, which is a lesson in necessity. I’m broke and the rent needs paying. And now I’m not a biker. Nor was I ever a very good one in the first place, but on the checklist of life that’s another thing in the “done” category. I’m very likely to never climb Mt. Everest or go hang gliding but at least I had a bike.

I would do the nod to other bikers, I would ride around back streets trying to get up the nerve to go on roads where cops might be–I never really got my license or even registered the plates the right way, I don’t think. And finally it got to the point where it was just in the way and would be better served filling space in someone elses garage. No more motorcycle.

If there’s a “guy checklist” then at least I’ve gotten a couple major things out of the way – own a motorcycle, play guitar in a band, get arrested, you know, the necessary stuff to look back on and say “boy, was I dumb. And I’m still alive. There’s no justice.” And now part of that is over and I can move on. Maybe to a nice pair of khakis, or a reasonable sedan. Take that, world.

Okay, maybe not that far. I have to maintain some sort of reputation for myself here, and some sort of self-worth. A compromise–new jeans, some chewing tobacco and cheap sunglasses. And a Vespa. No! Dammit. No Vespa. That’s too urban-hip. Vespa? Yikes. Okay–a 10 speed bike, a CTA pass, and a sneer. Yeah–I’ll work on my sneer. And a raised eyebrow. And I can still blow smoke rings. I’ve got that going for me.

I was a terrible biker. There aren’t any glorious 110 mph stories down empty desert freeways, nor are there any fantastic barfight tales, or even anything faked like the “tequila” scene in Pee-Wee’s big adventure. Which is fine–sometimes maybe it’s better to hold back a bit on things as long as you know your limitations. I went 65 mph once. For like, 15 minutes. Then I freaked out and thanked all things anyone ever considered holy that we got to a red light and I could try to calm the hell down.

It’s probably good I sold it.