If I ever see my bike again, I’ll have to bring it back home.
Every now and then I see one. Maybe in a parking lot. Maybe out on the road, chrome glistening in the sun, engine thumping rhythmically. And I get that old feeling. I miss my motorcycle.
The drive to ride kind of ambushed me in the fall of 1986, in the form of a three-cylinder Kawasaki owned by a distant cousin who would soon become a close friend. Being of the two-stroke variety (the bike, not the cousin), it rattled and smoked and had various things wrong with it that would come and go (which, with the exception of the smoking, sounds a bit like me these days). One ride and I was hooked, buying it off him for the princely sum of $150.00.
I brought it home and stored it in my mom’s basement for the winter and prayed for spring. My mom, I am sure, said a few quiet prayers of her own.
That’s me on the left with my first bike in 1987, seen here with my cousin Jim. Note the snazzy high-top sneakers.
As a college student, spring was a lean season, but I managed to scrape enough money together to cover the licence plate and the insurance. As for the obligatory motorcycle training course (I think that was another $150), it would have to wait. I was, technically, an outlaw biker. Which added to the cool factor.
Until one hot evening that summer in downtown Cowansville, one of the rattles became a very loud bang. Followed by a succession of smaller grinding noises as I coasted to a stop. Just like my dreams of being a biker.
But that fall I came into a financial windfall, known in those days as a student loan. Filled with the fiscal responsibility of youth, I went out and bought a lovely little Honda 450 from L’Ami Denis in Lennoxville. I was on that bike every chance I got. If I had an hour between classes, I was exploring. Being from the west end of the Townships, the world around Lennoxville was undiscovered country. But not for long. That sturdy little bike racked up the miles as I drove it late into November.
I resolved that the next spring I would get my money together and get my motorcycle driver’s licence. But by then the price had doubled. It did so once again the following year. A year after that the price went up again. By that point I decided to bin the idea of taking the course. The widow Crossfield’s boy was destined to remain an outlaw biker.
It’s not like it was all smooth sailing. I got stopped once in East Farnham on my first ride of the year. The cop didn’t notice the absence of a Class 6 on my permit and gave me a $40 fine for dangerous driving. Apparently, buoyed by the arrival of spring, flapping my arms like a bird was seen as dangerous.
And law enforcement was nowhere to be seen when a car backed into me in the parking lot at Bishop’s. The lady who backed into me happened to work at the Sherbrooke Hospital, and kindly gave me and my then girlfriend a ride. I came out of that with a broken nose and skinned knees, while my passenger had a gouge in one leg that left a scar, but no serious damage.
By then I was riding my all-time favourite motorcycle, my 1981 Honda CB 750. I drove it so late into November I got caught in a snowstorm bringing it back to East Farnham, ice forming on my chest and shellacking my helmet. By the time I got home I was in the early stages of hypothermia, that lovely bit where you feel warm and cozy and ready for a nap.
Two tone blue, I felt more at home on that bike than just about anywhere else in the universe. I felt, in those moments, cool. My usual lack of self-esteem paired with ever-present anxiety vanished at the touch of the starter, as it took me on trips to southern Ontario, and even all the way out to Prince Edward Island.
James and I on Prince Edward Island, 1991. Wild and free.
When I moved to Montreal in the fall of 1990, the bike came with me. Being a biker in a large city is a different experience, one that didn’t agree with me. In fact, city life in general didn’t agree with me.
The following spring I rode the bike back to Lennoxville, desperate to get out of the city. Walking into the Snack Bar on campus I spotted an old friend. And met his sister for the first time. My True Love, Sarah. It would be many years and more than a few twists and turns before we could get where we needed to be, but that was the moment. I knew. We both knew.
Eight years into my biker life, I was cruising through East Farnham one fine fall day, when the cop parked in front of the depanneur stepped out of his cruiser and waved me down. A routine traffic check. Suddenly I was looking at a $400 fine. As a recent addition to The Record’s editorial team, I was broke. I explained that I couldn’t pay a fine. The cop took pity on me, changing the partly filled out ticket into a 48-hour warning for a bald back tire.
“Go home, I don’t want to ever see you again,” he said.
I took his advice, taking my motorcycle home and putting it in storage. My years as an outlaw had been good ones, and I had been fortunate. When I got my licence and my bike back up to snuff, I would be back on the road.
Life had other plans, and a few years later I was a father. Then a divorced father putting his first home up for sale. And while that unexpected rupture opened the way for Sarah and I to finally be together, it also meant getting rid of my beloved Honda. One of my worst life decisions.
I still miss that bike. It’s been gone for over 20 years now and whenever I see one that looks like it, my head turns. If I were to ever see it again, I’d know, and I’d have to buy it. As I write this, I want to write in big letters: HAS ANYONE SEEN MY MOTORCYCLE?
In fact, I won’t even let myself sit on a bike, for fear the fever will take hold once again. That would also mean having to take the motorcycle driving course, which these days costs about two grand.
But I guess I’m getting to be a little old to be an outlaw. On the outside, at least.