Hollister Hazing
So I'm thinking about buying a motorcycle.
[Waiting a beat or two]
Mom if you're reading this get up off the floor.
I know. I know. I know.
I'm taking the three day Motorcycle Safety Foundation training course this week. I already passed my written test (zero wrong answers). I'll double my life insurance. The kids are old enough to remember me fondly.
Now then.
I've been immersing myself in motorcycle books, rider training, and books focused on coming back to the bike after a few years off. Apparently time has stood still since I last rode and I'm not alone in my renewed interest in biking. In a recently published report over the last 20 years the average age of motorcycle riders has gone from 28 to 41 years old. The last time I rode I was about 28. Well at least I'm still average.
The family and I ambled up to Hollister on Friday to take in the fading glory yet immense popularity of 60th anniversary of the fabled biker rally. Apparently the first event caused a fear of biker gangs stir similar to the red scare of the 50's. Of course Hollywood capitalized on it and cast Marlon Brando in the Wild One.
Things have changed since then.
Kathleen is being pretty cool about the bike thing. The kids are excited about getting rides. And so we scooted up in my car on a sunny afternoon to check out the scene (and ogle the Yamaha's in their giant display tent).
Hollister is about an hour's drive. Largely inland from our place. Small but spread out with some rather charming tree-lined streets (Tree-lined in this part of the world is a rare commodity). A modestly historic downtown with some fading sign-fronts welcomes you into its sleepy decrepitude.
Except for this weekend.
I'd guess about 2,500 bike's were jammed along those sleepy streets under those pleasant tree boughs. Kathleen retorted that she can't see so many motorcycles lined up like that and not think of Pee Wee's Big Adventure. If you haven't seen it you should.
First we hang him, then we tatoo him, then we kill him!
Harley-Davidson is clearly the crowd favorite by about a 50:1 ratio. The models were incredibly varied but only in the most subtle ways. It was all cruiser and choppers that ran in three models: Big, Humongous and Climate Changer. The downtown was literally blocked off for the event. Spirits were high and to the uninitiated the crowd would seem rather Brandoian. It was a sea of black vests, riding chaps, t-shirts, doo-rags, and scraggly toothed visages.
This was a blandly terrifying group. I was nearly a youngster in the crowd. Police were gently omnipresent. Snacks were abundant. Everyone was mellow. There was no alcohol only, get this, lemonade. People were smiling and consuming. No bar brawls, no swearing, even the tattoo's were mostly of unicorns. OK I made that last one up but still the place could have been the Monterey farmers market Leather Thursdays.
What a let down.
Now I'm not into Harley's. Oh they are finally making bikes that don't fall apart anymore and many were pretty sexy beasts. It's that the whole brand has turned on its head.
What was a Harley? Harleys were tough, edgy, I'm-a-Loner, hide-the-women fantasies.
Now they're ubiquitous on the road. The loner riding one looks exactly like the loner riding with him. They're both my grandfather and the the damn bike still vibrates so dramatically it's like the anti-viagra.
Damn I can't wait to plunk down 20 large so I can be just like guy with the pirate flag lashed to the sissy-bar. He's so cool.
We meander through the crowd. There are endless booths selling endlessly self-referential I Was There Hollister 2007 t-shirts. For most of these folks the loss of memory of this event won't be al-cohol related, it'll be from al-zheimers.
There were some exceptions to the rule. We passed one tent with a blond booth babe in a leather bikini posing with what appeared to be several 9 year old boys. Pedophilia at it's best. I was on the hunt for helmets and gloves.
Apparently I'm a little too safety minded for this crowd. Helmets ran the Viking-horned variety and gloves are for gardening sissies. There were plenty of thin jackets, cheap sunglasses, cheesy bike paraphernalia and miscellaneous rebellious attire.
We hunkered around further and then decided to eat. Confronted with a gauntlet of grease injected choices we went for the sausages, fries and lemonade route. The sausages ran the size of Mitchell's forearm and were spicy. When asked if I wanted cheese and mushrooms on mine I blurted out "of course", I get so few mushrooms in my daily life I couldn't help myself, but the promise was greater than the delivery. With no seating to be found in a three mile radius we made do with a back street, semi-clean sidewalk. Greasy fun was had by all. Kathleen noted that we all ate the same sausages so whoever hung on longest could tell the paramedics.
There was still some entertainment left. Some geezer having his bike repeatedly push-started. The gang of four Mad Max types riding what were apparently 1940's era children's 100cc Harley's (I kid you not). We strolled by the Brando Bar replete with wall-sized reproduction of his charming face complete with now gay-looking hat.
What I came for was the Yamaha display. They brought in an 18-wheeler full of bikes and set up an enormous tent to display the hottest models in all their glory. Yep there's what I want, a quality built, low-cost, reliable, stylin' cruiser. I'm looking for a Yamaha V-Star 1100 Classic.
I sat on my dream model (Mitch on the back), realized that I did not want to test drive anything until my safety training class was complete, grabbed a few catalogs and we skedaddled.
Soon though.
[Waiting a beat or two]
Mom if you're reading this get up off the floor.
I know. I know. I know.
I'm taking the three day Motorcycle Safety Foundation training course this week. I already passed my written test (zero wrong answers). I'll double my life insurance. The kids are old enough to remember me fondly.
Now then.
I've been immersing myself in motorcycle books, rider training, and books focused on coming back to the bike after a few years off. Apparently time has stood still since I last rode and I'm not alone in my renewed interest in biking. In a recently published report over the last 20 years the average age of motorcycle riders has gone from 28 to 41 years old. The last time I rode I was about 28. Well at least I'm still average.
The family and I ambled up to Hollister on Friday to take in the fading glory yet immense popularity of 60th anniversary of the fabled biker rally. Apparently the first event caused a fear of biker gangs stir similar to the red scare of the 50's. Of course Hollywood capitalized on it and cast Marlon Brando in the Wild One.
Things have changed since then.
Kathleen is being pretty cool about the bike thing. The kids are excited about getting rides. And so we scooted up in my car on a sunny afternoon to check out the scene (and ogle the Yamaha's in their giant display tent).
Hollister is about an hour's drive. Largely inland from our place. Small but spread out with some rather charming tree-lined streets (Tree-lined in this part of the world is a rare commodity). A modestly historic downtown with some fading sign-fronts welcomes you into its sleepy decrepitude.
Except for this weekend.
I'd guess about 2,500 bike's were jammed along those sleepy streets under those pleasant tree boughs. Kathleen retorted that she can't see so many motorcycles lined up like that and not think of Pee Wee's Big Adventure. If you haven't seen it you should.
First we hang him, then we tatoo him, then we kill him!
Harley-Davidson is clearly the crowd favorite by about a 50:1 ratio. The models were incredibly varied but only in the most subtle ways. It was all cruiser and choppers that ran in three models: Big, Humongous and Climate Changer. The downtown was literally blocked off for the event. Spirits were high and to the uninitiated the crowd would seem rather Brandoian. It was a sea of black vests, riding chaps, t-shirts, doo-rags, and scraggly toothed visages.
This was a blandly terrifying group. I was nearly a youngster in the crowd. Police were gently omnipresent. Snacks were abundant. Everyone was mellow. There was no alcohol only, get this, lemonade. People were smiling and consuming. No bar brawls, no swearing, even the tattoo's were mostly of unicorns. OK I made that last one up but still the place could have been the Monterey farmers market Leather Thursdays.
What a let down.
Now I'm not into Harley's. Oh they are finally making bikes that don't fall apart anymore and many were pretty sexy beasts. It's that the whole brand has turned on its head.
What was a Harley? Harleys were tough, edgy, I'm-a-Loner, hide-the-women fantasies.
Now they're ubiquitous on the road. The loner riding one looks exactly like the loner riding with him. They're both my grandfather and the the damn bike still vibrates so dramatically it's like the anti-viagra.
Damn I can't wait to plunk down 20 large so I can be just like guy with the pirate flag lashed to the sissy-bar. He's so cool.
We meander through the crowd. There are endless booths selling endlessly self-referential I Was There Hollister 2007 t-shirts. For most of these folks the loss of memory of this event won't be al-cohol related, it'll be from al-zheimers.
There were some exceptions to the rule. We passed one tent with a blond booth babe in a leather bikini posing with what appeared to be several 9 year old boys. Pedophilia at it's best. I was on the hunt for helmets and gloves.
Apparently I'm a little too safety minded for this crowd. Helmets ran the Viking-horned variety and gloves are for gardening sissies. There were plenty of thin jackets, cheap sunglasses, cheesy bike paraphernalia and miscellaneous rebellious attire.
We hunkered around further and then decided to eat. Confronted with a gauntlet of grease injected choices we went for the sausages, fries and lemonade route. The sausages ran the size of Mitchell's forearm and were spicy. When asked if I wanted cheese and mushrooms on mine I blurted out "of course", I get so few mushrooms in my daily life I couldn't help myself, but the promise was greater than the delivery. With no seating to be found in a three mile radius we made do with a back street, semi-clean sidewalk. Greasy fun was had by all. Kathleen noted that we all ate the same sausages so whoever hung on longest could tell the paramedics.
There was still some entertainment left. Some geezer having his bike repeatedly push-started. The gang of four Mad Max types riding what were apparently 1940's era children's 100cc Harley's (I kid you not). We strolled by the Brando Bar replete with wall-sized reproduction of his charming face complete with now gay-looking hat.
What I came for was the Yamaha display. They brought in an 18-wheeler full of bikes and set up an enormous tent to display the hottest models in all their glory. Yep there's what I want, a quality built, low-cost, reliable, stylin' cruiser. I'm looking for a Yamaha V-Star 1100 Classic.
I sat on my dream model (Mitch on the back), realized that I did not want to test drive anything until my safety training class was complete, grabbed a few catalogs and we skedaddled.
Soon though.
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