Back in Black.

So, there’s a motorcycle show. 

That’s not surprising once you say it, but the discovery was, for me, like finding out a circus was coming to town. And in one of those rare moments when I think maybe God really does want me to be happy, my darling wife just happened to be busy taking a course that very weekend. When Saturday morning finally came, I kissed her goodbye, gulped down the last of the coffee, jumped in the car and was among the first people in line when the doors opened.

Here’s what they don’t tell you about motorcycle shows, and you need to know this: you can sit on everything. You can’t even do that in dealer showrooms. But here, on this one golden weekend in February, you can plop yourself down on any motorcycle that tickles your fancy, and likely not even have to deal with a salesperson. And you should. Mind you, it took an hour before this truth really dawned on me – I’d been raised to not touch things that weren’t yours, given the certainty that something embarrassing and expensive would happen. But once I had the epiphany, I was straddling everything that didn’t move. And learning more than all the motorcycle magazines in the world could possibly teach me.

I learned, for example, that I’m not comfortable on cruisers. Look at them, and you’d think they would be the easiest bikes to ride, what with your feet in front of you where you can see them. But, sitting there, at least, this position seemed like it would feel strange to me on the road (Harley's Iron 883 reminded me of riding a Big Wheel). I was less surprised to learn that a lot of sport bikes would be equally uncomfortable, besides the “not that guy” problem, and yet more so that the Kawasaki Ninja 300 was the second most natural feeling bike I sat on all day. All of the adventure bikes were immediately off the table simply because they are so tall; that thing about beginners needing to put both feet on the ground is real. 

All of which was fine. Because I wanted a standard. I wanted to be Steve McQueen way more than I wanted to be Jax Teller. As it turned out, what I wanted was a Triumph Bonneville.

I flirted with other bikes in the class at the show, of course; you don’t pass up a chance like that. Besides being less pretty, the BMW R Nine T is just a lot of money. I loved the Eurotrash quirkiness of the Moto Guzzi V7, but it wasn’t as comfortable for me as its measurements would suggest. But when I got to the Triumph booth, it felt like a homecoming. I’d found a crack in the time space continuum and landed in an alternate 1970s in which I was cool and insouciant rather than a chubby dork. The Scrambler made my heart beat a little faster, but it felt ungainly, more than I was ready for. But when I settled into the saddle of the base Bonneville, my feet and hands landed in exactly the right four spots without even thinking about it. Clouds parted, angels sang, and a column of pure, divine light shone down to the very spot I was sitting. My bike. 

Except that the T100 Black is effing gorgeous. Just a smidge less comfortable for me than the regular Bonnie, and I’d probably die trying to catch glimpses of myself in store windows as I rode it. But, man.