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    Motorcycle Meanderings: 25 Motorbike Essays Strictly for the Bathroom
    Motorcycle Meanderings: 25 Motorbike Essays Strictly for the Bathroom
    Motorcycle Meanderings: 25 Motorbike Essays Strictly for the Bathroom
    Ebook67 pages57 minutes

    Motorcycle Meanderings: 25 Motorbike Essays Strictly for the Bathroom

    By Johnny Winterer

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    About this ebook

    “Good riders are thinking riders,” said moto-racing champ Reg Pridmore. We’re also poets and mystics and rebels and lovers and revivalist preachers, sometimes. We find our religion, our sense of beauty, as much on the serpentine road as in the roar of a well-tuned machine. Ours is a tribe of wanderers, seekers and finders, and two-wheeled pilgrims that occasionally—or often—like to go fast. Ironically, this means slowing down and taking a detour from the rat race, to discover where the real juicy marrow of life resides. These short “inspirational” (for lack of a better word) essays are offered as nuggets of the riding life to chew on and enjoy. This is a book for all you moto-bums and moto-nutters that dare to think, dare to love (and lust), but most of all, dare to ride.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBookBaby
    Release dateAug 21, 2014
    ISBN9780990009061
    Motorcycle Meanderings: 25 Motorbike Essays Strictly for the Bathroom

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      Book preview

      Motorcycle Meanderings - Johnny Winterer

      MOTO BUM

      Today I found myself doing something I always do. I rode my usual route on Pacific Coast Highway 1 to Malibu to meet with a client. Lovely ride along the ocean. Beats riding on Highway 101 along the caged hamsters fighting for asphalt real estate. After meeting my client, when I was heading home, I saw a side road that looked good and twisty. Instead of taking the straight shot back home, I did what I always seem to do. I saw that this deviating mountain road that juts out of the coast would add miles upon miles of twisted, snaking roads on the spine of this unexplored mountain…perfect. Of course I played the cursory 5-second rational mind game to decide if I should do it, then without another thought, I did a U-turn, with a crook in my smile and a glint in my eye.

      As I wound my way around the mountain’s hips, I realized I am a bum. Knowing how little is in my bank account, I should be racing home to build more business. But I have been this way since childhood. Homework was always something to start at 10 at night because the day was meant for exploring. Then twenty years of ski bumming damaged my work ethic forever. And even though I admire the Protestant work ethic of America, I resonate more with my European and Latin ancestors, who subscribe to a work to live philosophy instead of a live to work ethos. So this means I have a lazy bone to most but a sane, balanced life to me. So any chance I can, I go play, as long as the food, shelter and gas-in-the-tank needs are met.

      Yes, I am a moto bum.

      The detour was worth it. The extra fourteen miles gave me time to do my daily reflection and sort out the trash talk in my head. I prioritized what mattered most. Somehow, dreaming and planning to sell a few bikes so I could buy a Ducati got in there with paying the phone bill. Then the idea of writing this little ditty cropped up ahead of looking for a new home, even though I only have five days left in my present shelter. Such a vagabond, such a bum. Did skiing ruin me, or was it motorcycles? What killed my climb-up-the-ladder spirit? Maybe I’ve always been this way and simply found the right activities to support my lifestyle. All I know is that I will keep taking side roads. I may not get there efficiently, but I will certainly enjoy the gettin’. Right on. Write on. Ride on.

      FUCK CARS

      A dear friend, who witnessed my metamorphosis from non-biker to moto-nutter, saved a t-shirt from back when he was heavy under the trance of motorbikes. He gave this shirt to me as he knew I had been bitten hard by the bug. This was a gesture of love, recognizing I was a fellow soldier, a comrade in arms, a motorcyclist with passion and zeal. For the black t-shirt has a black and white photo of a WWI soldier on his relic of a motorcycle, holding a machine Tommy gun that is pointed straight at whatever is ahead. The soldier’s determined look says it all—I am going to shoot what I am looking at. The title underneath the provocative vintage photo says in plain, large white words, Fuck Cars.

      Yes, fuck the caged beasts that keep us safe from the fresh smell of flowers and the cold air at the bottom of a hill. I believe that riding in cars is passive movie-watching of the outside world. The driver, if sane, should throw a rock through the windshield and bust out the cracked glass, so that he and the passengers can feel the cold of morning on their faces, the smell of flowers in spring, and the heat of Vegas on their eyes. Be in the movie of life, not watching behind shatterproof, clear screens, rolling lifeless on four wheels, yawning. Life is for feeling and being, not watching.

      But breaking a car windshield won’t do. Because when you ride a motorcycle, you engage your stomach muscles and feet and hands in a way that has a direct impact on the course of trajectory. Curve your right foot, and the bike goes right. Wiggle your butt and the bike swerves, gently rolling. Smiling, for some unknown reason, has a direct link to the throttle, and

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