Free Wheelin'

By now, we have all probably seen the insurance commercial on television where we are warned about the "danger" of becoming our parents. Up until this point, I was not aware of Parentamorphosis – but it is on TV, so it’s gotta be real, right?

For the last year, we have seen Parenta-Life Coach Dr. Rick on his mission to save young homeowners from turning into their parents. 

I just thought it was funny, until the one with the guy gassing up his pick-up and the young homeowner asking him, "There is a reason we don't call them clean bikes. Am I right?"

I got a chuckle until I saw Shira giving me a smirky smile.

What? You think that’s me? Hmmm. Maybe.

These commercials ran around my mind on a great Sunday in the late summer. We had met our friends Tony & Gena for pizza at the Corner Piazza in Eldred, New York – just a bit north of the Delaware River on Route 55. While waiting, a large group of Harley riders rolled up. A large group. We had parked our bikes in a willy-nilly fashion, and I got up and walked across the street to move them and give some extra room. These riders, all well geared up and riding reasonably toned bikes, were from Nassau County, and were a really nice group of people, and we all chatted up bikes and the great day. About twenty minutes later, another cruiser crowd arrived. Unlike the riders from Long Island, they were sporting tank tops, vests, half-helmets, and riding extremely loud, and annoying (to me at least) machines. They let us know that by letting them idle with the occasional and thunderous blip of the throttles.

When they finally turned them off, the silence was deafening. Uggg.

On our third pie (the best pizza in the region), we had a group of sportbikes come zipping up to the crossroads on which the Piazza sits. You could hear them coming north, throwing gears as they approached. Half of them made the light, the last few gassing through the yellow/red, sounding like the last lap of a Moto 3 race. When the light turned green, the rest dropped the clutches and bonzaied after them.

My “uggg” was echoed by many trying to enjoy the day and the Mets game on the TVs.

On our ride home, I really began to think that maybe it was me… maybe I was becoming like those portrayed on the commercials. Maybe I would need a Dr. Rick.

Oh, but our day's quiet ride for pizza was not done, and riding south on Route 97, I could see some riders approaching, about a half mile down one of the few and long straight parts of this road.

Both their headlights disappeared, as they quickly approached – on one wheel – as these guys were doing some serious wheelies.

I appreciate a good wheelie, but not coming at me, and not when the rider starts to zig-zag down the road, and his control becoming very questionable.

I heard Shira yelling in her helmet to “get the F away from me!”

We both accelerated to get past Evil and Robbie, and our bit of angst really had me thinking how I just don’t appreciate rude or careless riders.

But our life lesson on “Becoming Our Parents” was not done this day.

We crossed back into New Jersey on Route 23 and were heading up and over at High Point. The long road approaching the top of New Jersey's highest point was empty, only three riders slowly going our way. We passed them cleanly and were at a fairly good pace. But not as quickly as the rider coming up from behind.

He blasted by Shira, and she yelled for me to "roll to the right." 

Her urgency had me do just that as the track guy and track bike came by me at well over a ton. He banked into the tighter left ahead, deftly dragging his knee-pucked leathers. By the time we got to this spot, he had already made a U-turn and was heading back the way we had just come. I wondered how many times he had done this today.

He waved as he went back past us, and we nodded. Again, it is not that I don't appreciate the skill and finesse it takes to handle a bike like this – but not here, or on a usually crowded Sunday on a main road through a state park.

Riders like these are all part of the PR Problem that riders in the US have had for generations. What sort of rider are you? Like talking to someone through a closed bathroom door – there is a time and place, and this is not either.

Given the choice of riding and hanging with riders like this or not… Well, maybe I’ll just stay home and line my cabinet shelves.