Born in 1982

I never thought I would be a motorcycle guy. Back in high school and my first year of college, I did own a 1987 YZ 125 dirt bike that I loved. I raised all sorts of 2-Stroke hell in Kaysville; jumping over the roads in a new subdivision and racing it through dirt lots back when open land still existed in Kaysville. The fields and marshes I road it through are now the backyards of $500,000 to $750,000 homes. The Russian Olive tree I slid the bike into was torn up years ago, but I still have the scar by which to remember it.

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I broke 6 ribs over the handlebars of that motorcycle down in the sand dunes by Delta, Utah. I kept up with brand new CR 250's at the larger red dunes of the Mojave near Baker, California. During that same trip my rear hydraulic shock exploded and the rear brake cable snapped off and ripped through a few of the spokes.

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I am an intelligent guy, so I decided to keep riding and trying to keep up with the bigger bikes, even during the jump contests. When your dirt bike still has a rear spring but no hydraulic absorber, it makes the jumps even more exciting. The back end of the bike compresses as you approach and then "SNAP!" it cracks back into place, throwing you into an involuntary front flip so you lean back as far as you can, trying to yank the front wheel level before you hit the ground. Some times you pull hard enough and manage to land. Most of the time your corrective measures are too little or too much, and the resulting wrecks are as spectacular as they are entertaining to your buddies.

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As dangerous and idiotic as all of that may sound, I always thought it was safer than riding a road bike. I don't trust other drivers. I know there is a reason for the "Start Seeing Motorcycle" bumper stickers. I once heard that your life expectancy drops to 6 days as soon as you buy a bullet bike.

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Don't worry, I didn't buy a bullet bike.

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But, after a few conversations with Jenny and the stunning revelation that she wants to go on motorcycle road trips when we get older, I suddenly fell in love with the idea of getting a road bike.

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I wanted to get something cheap and smaller to begin with. I even looked at a few 250cc bikes until my buddy Josh warned me that I would look like a circus bear on a motorcycle of that size.

I looked for a 650cc or 750cc, but instantly fell in love with a 1982 Honda 450cc Nighthawk (the fact that the bike was "manufactured" the same year as I was didn't hurt, call me nostalgic if you must.)

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The bike is big enough to take on the freeway once I feel comfortable and confident enough to do so, but it is only about 350 pounds, vs. the 1,000 pound bike Jenny and I will most likely purchase when we get older, maybe a 1,200cc or 1,600cc.

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On Saturday we drove to Richfield to pick it up. Spencer was kind enough to donate his truck and his time to the task. It was a fun little road trip.

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Unlike most machines pushing 30 years (myself included) this bike has been meticulously maintained. It was purchased new and then passed from the original owner to his grandson. I am technically the third owner, but only because the first passed away long before the bike did. It only has 8,000 original miles on it (unlike the 30,000 or 35,000 you would expect from a bike this old) and has always been garaged.

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Last night, I took my first "long" ride--at least as long as it took for my fingers to go numb at 11 p.m. in December. It made me want to read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance again. I think I will understand it much better this time around.

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Don't get me wrong, I'm not naive enough to think that 20 minute ride was enough to consider myself "experienced" by any means, but it did give me a glimpse of what compels so many people to reduce their highway cruising from four wheels to two. There is something incredibly freeing and therapeutic about it.

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Damn. Winter hasn't even started and I'm already counting down the days until Spring.