Introduction: I am into most anything that gets me out of the house and on the road. I like camping, fishin, huntin, hikin and most of all enjoying a ride through unexplored country. Although that is gettin almost impossible to find.
I am not your typical modern biker I don't get dressed up in leather and ride to the nearest bar and then back home. I ride. I will ride in a pack or I will ride alone. As long as I am on my bike all is right with the world. The more freinds that ride with me the better. And that is not to say that I don't stop and have a drink or 2 while I am out.
The Men Who Don't Fit In*
Robert W. Service
There's a race of men that don't fit in, A race that can't stay still; So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will. They range the field and they rove the flood, And they climb the mountain's crest; Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood, And they don't know how to rest. If they just went straight they might go far; They are strong and brave and true; But they're always tired of the things that are, And they want the strange and new. They say: "Could I find my proper groove, What a deep mark I would make!" So they chop and change, and each fresh move Is only a fresh mistake.
And each forgets, as he strips and runs With a brilliant, fitful pace, It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones Who win in the lifelong race. And each forgets that his youth has fled, Forgets that his prime is past, Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead, In the glare of the truth at last.
He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance; He has just done things by half. Life's been a jolly good joke on him, And now is the time to laugh. Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost; He was never meant to win; He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone; He's a man who won't fit in.
It used to be that all bikers shared a common bond, an unspoken code of ethics and behavior that transcended words and was built on actions.
There was never a bible written on this Biker's Code and there was no need for such. But the times are changing and there seems to be a lot of new riders out there.
These days the riders you see blastin' down the road are just as likely to be clad in shorts and sneakers as jeans and engineer boots. And the roughest, toughest-looking biker you pull up next to could be your doctor or lawyer and may be wearing a Rolex watch under his leathers. There's nothing wrong with that, so long as these new riders learn the Code just as we did.
Being a biker used to be about using your creativity to take a basket case old hawg and using only grit and ingenuity, turning it into a one-of-a-kind eye dazzler, then risking your life on the asphalt on a bike you made yourself out of pride. Bikers wore leather and grease because they knew cagers would just as soon run them down as look at them, so they had to be intimidating. We were a breed unto ourselves with no union, no support group, and in many cases, no family (they threw us out). We had to make it in the world of our own, against all rules, against mainstream society, and against all odds. We survived and prospered because of the kind of people we are and we never took shit from anybody.
As an old scooter bro once said, "It's every tramp's job to school the young. How else are they gonna know a Panhead from a bed pan?" With that in mind, we bring you a primer on the basic two-wheeled life.
Take heed, brothers and sisters, for our Code is a hallowed one filled with honor and loyalty, the likes of which have not been since the days of knighthood: Don't take any shit. Be kind to women, children, and animals, but don't take any bullshit. This is an essential part of being a biker. It has to do with respect and honor. Anyone can be a quick-tempered fool. Be cool, stand tall...
OLD BIKERS
The old ones stand out, now their numbers are dwindling down. They're a sad loss to the American scene, these individualists with the worn down clothes and faces. You can still see them sometimes, the real ones, some in packs, not as large as a while ago, sometimes alone. The alone one is the best. One who's been there a long time, staying with the life he loves, never giving in to a system that sucks you up like a vortex if you slip just one foot into it. He's got his connections, a few like him, that care for and protect each other. Hanging onto the only unique lifestyle left, like old dinosaurs. Their faces are leathered and rough by forty, but their eyes are still sharp and knowing. Some are gray and have white in their beards and braids, some have limps in their steps and some pain in their kidneys. They know no other life, their lives merely a dreary journey into everyone else's monotony. He looks at the new ones, then turns away, knowing they will never know of life on the road, and of the women who can take it. Wild, loving women who will hang in with them because they love it too. A woman with a wild heart and a loyal soul, that's what's needed here. The new ones are shiny and young and a bit too clean. They're born into a system that has an iron grip now. The new ones will never know and couldn't take "the life." I think it's a mystique, even to the old ones, why this life is theirs, but it is, and it's the only one they know. When the last biker falls, like the dinosaurs, the sun will go down on a breed of heart-of-gold, tough as nails, free-spirited men, who, even at their worst, love what's theirs and protect it.
Turn ons:
Indepenent, spontaneous, good sence of humor
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