Motorcycles, Life & My Dad
by Brent Allen (Bob’s Son)
Our experiences shape who we are as motorcyclists. We are the sum of our experiences. Every ride adds to who we are and can change the way we look at the world. My first cognizant motorcycling memory is from inside the family car. I was about 8 years old and we were at the intersection of El Camino Real and Grant Road. 3 guys on 2 stroke enduros were crossing through the intersection perpendicular to us. All three popped the front up and wheelied through the intersection. It was the coolest thing I had ever seen. I can’t tell you what kind of bikes they were, or if the guys were wearing helmets, or even where we were going! I just remember thinking “that is the coolest thing I have ever seen”.
(In fact today, when I see ride up to a minivan, and I see kids popping their heads up to look at me on the bike, my first instinct is to look around and see if I can sneak a wheelie in—but that’s another story.)
Not long after that my big brothers’ friends started getting bikes. My brother Jeff’s friend James got a Honda 185, which was the first motorcycle I was given a ride on. James’ twin brother Bill got an RD400 which thrilled and scared me to death as it screamed up the street, once or twice with me clinging to the back. Then another friend got a red Yamaha XS750, and eventually, a cool color matched windjammer which was the platform for my longest passenger ride.
That “looking” as a 8 year old translated into a fascination that led me to ask for a ride whenever I thought I could pull it off. (Little brothers have and continue to not be cool—BUT asking for a ride was one thing I could do that wasn’t met with contempt…)
By the time I was a Senior in high school I was working after school and weekends with one simple goal: get a bike. So I worked. And saved. And my parents said “No, you’re not.” So I worked and I saved some more. I needed transportation so I bought a beater BMW 1600 sedan, drove that into the ground, sold it for parts, got more than I paid for it and decided it was time.
Two important things had happened. First I had turned 18. Second, my parents had been saddled with a Beemer up on blocks in the driveway that slowly, part by part, disappeared. (I sold the carcass in one piece—boy, were they glad to see it go). That lingering death of the Beemer created a window of opportunity. A motorcycle takes up MUCH less space. Scavengers don’t show up and take one headlight then leave dangling wires from an empty socket. Second, you can wheel a motorcycle back behind the garage and no one knows it’s there.
So I watched the want ads, talked to my friends at work and found a 1978 Honda XL500S that was the right price.
Mind you I had ridden ON motorcycles but never operated one. But I’d bought a Bell MotoStar, had a denim jacket and leather gloves so I was good to go. I copped a ride on the back of a friend’s XT500 gathered up another on an XL185 and headed to Cupertino and did the deal. The transaction was notable for its brevity. I handed the guy the money, he handed me the pink slip and suddenly I was standing there owning a motorcycle.
Sitting on it was no problem. Riding it? I’ve always held that the Good Lord didn’t want me to go hungry so he gave me mechanical skill. I was 18. I could operate anything mechanical. I had graduated High School with a Class 1 operators license, I was a licensed truck driver, I could operate forklifts and frontloaders—if it’s a machine—I can make it work.
So I wasn’t smart enough to be frightened. I got the “this is the clutch—this is the throttle—this is the brake—this is the shifter” speech, put on the helmet and gloves and got this final word of advice:
“Just follow us and do what we do. DO EXACTLY what we do.”
OK. How hard can that be? We saddled up and took off. A lot has been written about rider training. There are volumes on how to learn to ride. The Motocycle Safety Foundation has a great training course, as does Team Oregon and Idaho Star. It all starts with a classroom and then range time, coaching and evaluation, practice and refinement.
Turns out that on the way home there was a certain terrain feature I was unaware of: railroad tracks; a raised crossing, something that today I could call “a ramp”. I followed. And when they accelerated, I accelerated; and when they stood up, I stood up. They stayed on the throttle and I stayed on the throttle. They flew and I flew. They landed and I landed.
And everything was OK. I rode my first motorcycle and jumped it too. I learned to ride the old school way; the way most people still do: Just follow us and do what we do and everything is gonna be OK. Isn’t the nature of life? In some things we get formalized, curriculum driven instruction; in others we just try to do what the guy in front of us did.
Today is Father’s Day. This is the second one I can’t call my Dad and wish him Happy Father’s Day. He’s gone; but as I travel down this road of life I can still see his taillight out there in front of me. I remember how he treated me. I remember how, once I embraced riding, he supported me, warned me of danger, made sure I had good insurance, and reminded me to be safe. How much he cared about everything I did.
I never knew how much time he spent awake at night worried about me. I know it now because I lay in bed and worry about my kids. Now, as my oldest son gets ready to leave for college I worry if I can do this right. How can I make sure I’m doing and saying the right things? The answer is simple: I just do what Dad did. Dad loved me. I love my kids. Dad wanted me to get the most I can out of life. I want success for my kids. Dad stopped and waited for me, made sure I got there safe, encouraged me and led me forward again.
He’s out there now, just ahead of me, waiting for me to catch up, watching me be the man he was, teaching my Son to be all the man he can be.
Thanks Pop.
