Motorcycles and the Minimalist

“Get your motor running, head out on that highway!” exclaimed the band Steppenwolf in the 1968 anthem penned by Mars Bonfire. In post-World War II pop culture, the motorcycle is the symbol of freedom, the mythical horse of the self-described modern-day cowgirl and cowboy.

My Great grandpa Silvola was a motorcyclist. Many an over one-hundred-year-old grainy black and white photos exist of that motorcycle purchased back when motorcycles were young. Part of family legend and lore was that he removed the headlight so that his daughter, my grandma, could ride upon the handlebars while my Great grandma straddled the rear fender. As a family they traversed the rutted and rough and tumble pioneer byways of the early Iron Range on that old motorcycle, often doubling back upon discovering that Great grandma fell off the back of the spindly contraption somewhere along the way.

Back in the day, most motorcycles were purchased by folks too poor to afford a car rather than as the vehicle of an adventurist. I was but a young boy when Great grandpa passed so I did not have the understanding to ask which scenario might be the case. I suspect it was adventurism.

A couple of generations later, an older cousin, who was no doubt inspired by the movie “Easy Rider” stopped by the village we lived in for a visit. His ride was a WWII surplus Harley flathead with radically long forks, a king and queen seat with a smoke show lady in the queen seat, psychedelic yellow and lime green paint scheme, and a shrunken skull suicide shifter knob. His bike was the most bitchin’ chopper ever. He offered each of us much younger cousins a ride. “Where do you want to go?”, he asked me.

I gave him directions to my friend’s house.

“No, let’s ride past the house of the kid who doesn’t like you”, he replied. My cousin Daryl is the coolest guy ever.

And so began a lifelong affair with motorcycles for a certain impressionable young boy from the village.

I was barely a teen when the last draft of the Vietnam War occurred. A neighbor in the village had received a motorcycle as a graduation present, a beautiful Ruby Red with gold pinstripe Honda scrambler. Paranoid about being drafted to go to ‘Nam, my neighbor put 100 alcohol-soaked miles on the brand-new cycle then sold it to young punk me for ten cents on the dollar before enlisting and shipping off to Germany. It even came with a lucky rabbit foot key chain. At the age of thirteen and being the kid who checked the family mailbox every day after school, I was able to register that bike with the State of Wisconsin and in turn received a shiny new license plate in the mail.

That legit Honda scrambler coupled with that credible Wisconsin license plate “legitimized” 13-year-old me being able to take an occasional day cruise up to Duluth/Superior 110 miles distant or to Minocqua/Woodruff 60 miles distant. Undetected, under the radar, and under the cover of completely bogus stories. In the context of those times and being of that age, that was true freedom. Sorry mom, I’ll go to my room now.

As time wore on the natural gravitation was away from the asphalt-based cruisers and towards dual sport motorcycles that were equally capable on or off road. This was very contrary to the Harley biased crowd that dominates motorcycling. “When are you going to get a real bike?”, or “Why do you ride a kid’s bike?”, they chided.

A moment of redemption came at the expansive Fall Ride in Tomahawk, WI. Harley Davidson has a satellite production plant there and that event is dominated by their loyalists. As a dual sport rider, I endured the good-natured ribbing of my Harley riding compadres all weekend. Until we exited to an event with a parking lot that contained 5000 black and chrome clones, all lined up in neat and pretty rows. “Where did we park?”, my Hog riding friends asked. Suddenly the appearance of my tall and spindly lime green cycle in the far corner of the lot, towering over the sea of black and chrome look-alikes wasn’t such a bad thing.

But “looking for adventure” for me starts where the blacktop ends. And a Harley is at a severe disadvantage where the blacktop ends. That is why that unappreciated by the masses dual sport motorcycle means so much to me. Black top leads to two tracks which leads to single tracks which leads to hikes which leads to the places I want to be. True adventure begins where the blacktop ends.

One of the most exquisite experiences in the conflation of the natural and man-made world happened to me while riding a ratty dual sport. During a brisk cruise down a remote woodland fire lane that consisted of a series of roller coaster “whoopsie daisy” hills a covey of ruffed grouse flushed up. I braced myself to take a partridge hit or two in the head and chest then experience the inevitable motorcycle crash. Much to my surprise, the birds were almost immediately in synch with my speed. Great serenity instantly flooded me. Upon experiencing zero g’s at the apex of the next crest barely a moment later and with a covey of ruffed grouse in flight and in synch and about my head, it was as if I had joined them in flight.

There were countless other adventures on that old bike. Fall color tours, searching out elk, scouting out potential camping spots, flat tracking on snowmobile trails in the dead of winter, and covering great distances that may have taken days on foot instead of mere hours; all were made easier or more fun with a motorcycle.

Does a person truly need a dual sport motorcycle? No. Could a dual sport be a more fuel efficient, reliable, expedient way to expand your experience further into the vast green and white world and possibly even minimize your adventure-based carbon footprint? Yes. After all, that same gallon of gasoline burned in an SUV may well get you four times further up the trail if poured into the tank of a dual sport motorcycle instead. But…..

A big component in this newly adopted lifestyle of mine is minimalism. Simplifying and owning and using only what one truly needs creates great inner peace and melts away much of the self-imposed pressures wrought by rampant consumerism. There is empowerment in solving a day-to-day problem or performing a mundane task without relying on the latest expensive time saving farkle or gizmo. Easy. Simple. Minimal. It adds a certain purity to daily life.

And one less new motorcycle or doo-dad being built and shipped and consumed results in a slightly smaller hole in the ground for the extraction of raw materials, a lot less carbon being utilized for production and distribution, and ultimately a lot of carbon that will never be consumed and emissions that will never be emitted in daily use due to its nonexistence. There would also be less stress on me and you, the would-be consumers, over buying and paying for a widget that really may not be needed, and statistically will probably end up in a dumpster or forgotten on a shelf within three months’ time. Easy. Simple, Minimal. It adds a certain purity to the span of a life.

A new dual sport motorcycle would certainly be nice. But a new pair of quality Carolina boots when the current pair finally wears out will be much nicer, much more responsible, much more useful, and will get me just as far up the trail.