Here I am, alone with my thoughts, the hum of the motor, and the familiar smell of roads well traveled. The experience is calming and essential to my well being like food and rest are to my body. These roa ds are close to my home and close to me. The hum and the smell remind me once yet again why I ride.

Most people become interested in riding motorcycles because either one of their relatives rode, or one or more of their friends rode. I started riding out of necessity. My car engine blew up and I needed a way to get to school. And though I bought my first bike from my younger brother (a '73 CB350 that he used "off-road"), it could be argued that he was then and is not now concerned or interested with motorcycles. At that time, my interest was only in cheap transportation.

I rode the little CB350 until I could get my car together again. I did not fall in love with motorcycles at that time, probably due to having to ride in the winter without the right gear...brrr!

The hum of my motor and the smells of the wooded area coalesce, with sunlight cutting perpendicular across these well-traveled roads confusing my sight just before ducking into a shroud of darkness. The wet musty flavors cross my nose exciting and delighting me as I fall forward and downward through the dark woods. My senses are so alert and receptive to the dynamic that lies ahea d , they charge my heart and coddle my soul. Sunlight, like the light at the end of a dark tunnel re-appears as my angle of descent becomes horizontal and I enter a field with the thought that nothing I have tried before makes me feel more alive than riding my motorcycle.

I bought my first 'real' ride after taking a job, earning a little money and getting my own place. I was not drawn to motorcycles then either. I just happened to be perusing our local classifieds and found what I thought was a seemingly good deal ('83 Shadow 500, 3300 miles for $1,000). As I learned more about motorcycles, I found that the deal I got was exceedingly good. The guy was getting married and hardly ever rode it. Need I say more?

I rode the piss out of that bike, and I still have it today. And even though I wasn't trying to, I found that I was growing an affinity for motorcycling. Well, at least my bike.

Horses line both sides of the road and stare as the machine and rider whiz by. The sound of the machine makes their ears twitch and muscles tense in preparation for flight. The machine stays its twisty course falling close to the ground whil e rounding through the 'S' corners. The machine is a threat not realized though startling in its suddenness, its hum and smell. The machine passes through.

As of this writing, I have been riding motorcycles for over 15 years, and though that counts as fairly experienced among riders it is not nearly as long as I'd like to ride in my life. Old farts that have been riding for 30-plus years know what I mean. Though in the short time I've been riding I've touched on an interesting and somewhat disturbing phenomenon. It may only occur and affect just a few of us though. I wonder if you sometimes feel the same way. It goes something like this; I loved riding my motorcycle. The more I rode it, the more I wish I could ride it. Sometimes I wonder what's so great about riding anyway. I remember it used to be better than this, and maybe this is all there is. Riding is become so boring.

Passing through the field and through a hollow, the smell of horses fading and the sprinkling sunlight charging through the trees bring to mind the tempo of all daily life. The motor hums and I sense the vibration of motion and inertia as I round another corner. The world is forever tilting this way and then that way as it rushes by. The world is ignorant that here I'm smiling the bi g grin while consuming its beauty and the intricacies it offers. Tilting forward and upward, the hum of the machine turns to a growl and the dusky smell of wet wood offers good reason for the sudden darkness once again. Here I am, on a tangled and famil iar course through silent timber, shimmering brilliant desire for the next corner. \

This phenomenon first occurred around 9 years into my ride. But before it reared up I had to learn the hard way about motorcycle safety. Nothing awful happened (slid down the side of a car), but I had no sounding boards other than myself to bounce off . The bliss of ignorance of what could happen in a bad accident, with time, eroded to the sobriety of reality and what would happen if I didn't start protecting myself better. One way I learned more about safety and other moto-issues was to absorb large amounts of motorcycle-information in the form of magazines, newsletters and other media.

I would also occasionally make it out to the races that are held about an hour from my house in summit Point West Virginia. I always went alone, or seemed to be struggling to get another rider as enth usiastic as me to join in. The races were fun, and the knowledge I gained about bikes was great, but it was not really that pleasing not being able to release it in any way satisfying. The satisfaction of knowing cool things about road safety and motorcycling, and not being able to share the knowledge and experience sort of nullified the experience, and I was growing tired of it.

Happiness is the hum and the smell of a ride in progress. It is always this way when I ride. Beyond the next bend are opportunities for more and, more bring ing to me the big stupid grin. Easing off the throttle, it occurs to me that aside from the safety my full-faced helmet offers, it too masks my joy from an observer as he lifts his head and stops raking his yard long enough to wave hello as I ride by. W aving back I am stricken by so very many feelings of oneness with this road. I am like a dance, a progression, a movement, alive. Intensely aware of my theater, the road and world surrounding it, I am the rhapsodic mummer, motorcycle man, ever gesturing forward. The observer shivers with what? An exhilarating feeling lay hidden just beneath the surface but he can not pinpoint the source of it and, while returning to the toil begins humming to himself.

Struggling with the ideal of what I consider a good friend, I always concluded that they are those that stick by you for better or worse. But it would be even better if they rode a motorcycle, heh? Up to this point, I had mostly ridden alone, as my close friends never caught the bug. Every now and then I'd hook up with some other riders to go to the races with, but this wasn't helping my dreary outlook toward my future riding career . What could I do? Those of you who have the fever understand this; you never think you could ever fall out of love with motorcycles and riding. The act of saddling up and riding off was becoming less pleasurable than I could recall, and I was fearful that after all of the riding I'd done and the knowledge I'd acquired, that I was burning out.

So, I bought a new motorcycle.

Now, common sense would dictate that it makes no sense to purchase a "new" motorcycle when I was just beginning to feel that I may not even want to ride motorcycles anymore. Those of you that have the fever understand that common sense and money for the love of motorcycles don't mix. Apparently in my pause for meaning, my fever, though barely lukewarm at the time, took control of my decision taker and caused a spark. I began to get excited again! The day I picked up my new bike is a day I won't forget. It was raining, I ran out of gas, and I was happy!

On hindsight I'm convinced that the change, a "new" motorcycle, was the booster shot in the arm for the sport I loved. It made me realize also that when I thought that my passion for riding was no more, I simply needed to change my attitude . The new bike just helped me do that. Change then was key. And if you can spare some, do it!

The road is straight sometimes, and then it is curvy. The road runs skyward sometimes, and then it dips low. The road is a connecting vein between two places, and only one of a vast network that supports many. I have come to the end of this vein where I can stop and fill my machine with one of its basic needs, gasoline. Gently rippling from the windows of a small automobile, the sound of two young children playing can be heard. The hum of my machine has distracted them and dra w s their attentive gaze, first on me and, as I dismount, my motorcycle. Both children are huddled in the closest window attempting to secure my attention with little waves. As the fuel splashes forth, I return their salutation and am pleased, as are they , to welcome them into my experience. Something new has occurred. Something has changed their small worlds. And as they eye both rider and ride, I smell the spirit that will propel me forward, mount my motorcycle and turn down another road, waving goodbye to our future.

I rode and rode my new machine. I ventured out and away from home to discover another aspect of the sport, the rally. My first ever rally was the Honda Hoot in Asheville, NC back in 1994. It was also the first Honda Hoot rally. I rode alone. It is one of the best memories I have. I had grown accustomed to riding alone, and realize that it is a mixed blessing since you pretty much make your own time-table and do as you please. B ut when you come across something fantastic, a scene, a place or whatever, you want to share that with someone. After conquering my first rally, riding longer distances seemed like the next step in discovering this sport.

The ebb and flow of life, like a pendulum, brings you joys and heart-sob. It's like that with motorcycling as well. My brand new motorcycle breathed warm life into some cold feelings I was having for the sport. It could not of happened at a better time. I needed a nudge, a wake up call of appreciation for the very one thing that I could call my own. So, I rode.

The murmur of the tailpipes is a song that brings joy to my addiction as I work the motorcycles throttle. Though the notes are the same on most occasions, the melody never is and it soothes me as I hum along. This road follows the border of another horse farm, offering a warm, elevated view of a time gone by. There are no horses visible, but the scenery is lush with green grass, sparkling dewy in the suns bright rays. The smell of the ranch commingles with the tangy scent of the warming grasses and the motorcycle, ever forward in the pursuit of the next scene. This is my playhouse seat as we move through this real life motion picture. On the next bend, the setting is rearranged, depicting tall sage and a fluff of dewy smoke to one side. There is a river.

I am a commuter biker and a weekend warrior, and commuting to work has definitely put a significant number of miles behind me. With my now older "new" bike beginning to grow on me somewhat, but no less shiny due to my tend er care, the day in and day out and back and forth to work starte d to set in again. This type of thing can have an ill effect on ones perspective if not checked. Recall that change is key. Changes are a necessary adjustment to a life going stale, or risk the slow process of being bored to death. Now what could I do ? Buy another "new" motorcycle? Some people may be able to do that, but no matter how fevered you are, if you don't have the money, you don't have the money. Period.

So I did the next best thing. I bought a used bike. I bought a 1991 ST1100 with very few miles on it and, you guessed it, I've been riding the piss out of it.

Motoring along the road, the fluffy white appears to be tracking me in a near perfect parallel. A small rise comes into view to my right pitching the road upward and demanding that I angle my track around it accordingly. Who am I to argue? With this single motion the fluffy white drops away and speeds suddenly across the field and around some trees. The sun is warm this morning and the air is crisp and my humming has become loud er. Time seems so insignificant now and nothing else seems to matter. I almost forget if there is purpose to my current situation, or is it the situation I'm in that lends purpose? \par \par I also did something else. The one thing I should have done from the beginning. I committed myself to joining groups of people who share my enthusiasm for the sport. I wanted to share some of the feelings that are at best, an indescribable result of experiences gone by. With some effort, and some thanks to the Internet, I did just that.

Once past the ranch, the rode delves again into the slowly warming wood. I am swaddled in the natural habitat of countless creatures, all searching for their morning breakfast. There are a couple of squirrels chasing tail a nd, smelling or sighting me they stop and raise on tiny haunches to look. The motorcycle is gone before they realize I've past them and they continue to play. With the night chased away and the light of day passing through the trees, everything comes al ive with enchantment.

Making new friends is sometimes awkward for me. I'm not always willing to stick my neck out for fear of rejection. It's an old story. But it's a pretty silly one now when I think about it. Some people are afraid of the damnedest things. Since I'd gone through a single experience of questioning and confusion about the sport I really do love and found that tweaking it a little is all that is necessary to abate these feelings, then it was time to change yet again. Life won't let me stand or sit still to enjoy it. It is not something I wish would happen. Life is something I do, and I wanted to do more. And I wanted to share it with others.

Once more, man and machine emerge from the hollows of fascination to the beaming warm face o f the sun. I no longer hum a song of discernible melody, but begin to follow the tone of my motorcycle. The resonance fills my lungs and ears in harmony as the river fog once again comes into view. The smell of the morning has almost dissipated to be ruled by nature's calm gift of a delightful spring day. As I round another bend, the river comes closer, and shoots past me just ahead crossing under a bridge.

In the last year, some not so tiny changes in the way I view and enjoy this sport have transpir ed. I now ride on a semi-regular basis with a bunch of really nice people in the Washington DC Metropolitan area. They are known as the "Capital Area Motorhead Society" (CAMS at http://www.clark.net/pub/hacker/CAMS/) (ed. Now defunct), and the DC-Cycles (which is an e-mail list group). We have had Christmas parties together and meet at our local track to watch some of us race. We've had a summit hosted by yours truly for the DC-Cycles that has really brought out the best in everyone. I also joined the HSTA as it seemed like a good bargain for people who like to ride. Further, I've delved headlong into the world of Long Distance riding. So far, no complaints. And we all love this one thing, this motorcycling.

Fear not then, change. It is necessary and the only sure thing in your life. Can you spare a little?

On the other side, in black leathers and full-stitched outfits, and on vibrantly colored motorcycles sit my friends. As we greet one another with handshakes and hugs, a glowing calm filters through us. This i s a palpable and quietly shared feeling among we merry band of motorcycle enthusiasts. And for the rest of the day we played our instruments in chorus, each humming a different note and sensing life with the delectable smell of the undiscovered.

END