Note: Many of you inmates are already familiar with Nick Adams’ writing or YouTube videos, and some of you are familiar with his forum postings under the handle @nick949eldo. He’s got a lifetime of experience on motorcycles, and an odd interest in flogging his vintage machinery around the Canadian wilderness, or long, long distances on remote back roads. He’s here today with some thoughts from his adventures—Ed.
I don’t join clubs. I don’t ride in groups. I usually avoid riding with others. I prefer long rides on old bikes to remote places, preferably on gravel. I’m an anti-social motorcyclist—but I’m an equal opportunity waver.
Some riders find waving tedious, pointless, irritating or are just too cool to bother. I’m not one of those. I’ll wave or nod to just about anyone: Spyders, cruisers, squids on rockets, groups on ADV bikes, couples on touring bikes out for a spin, kids on tiny ebikes heading for their jobs at McDonalds, geezers on mobility trikes—they all get a hearty wave or a nod. It’s a shared moment of acknowledgement, no matter how brief. It links us to other riders and creates a sense of belonging. Riding a motorcycle is a deeply individual activity, but a simple wave connects us to a much larger whole. It’s a way of saying, “I’m looking out for you.”
On his way back from a Lake Superior tour this summer, my eldest son swerved to avoid an obstruction on the road, hit a patch of gravel and slid out, ramming his Ducati into the safety barriers. Fortunately, apart from a bruise or two he wasn’t injured and was soon on his feet, although the bike was a wreck. Sad and upsetting as the crash was, that’s not what’s important here—it’s what happened next. Some car drivers, and every motorcycle rider who came upon the scene stopped to ask if he needed assistance. One rider, who lived nearby, immediately went home, attached his trailer to his truck, and, once it had been cleared with the police and the insurance company, returned to help my son remove the bike from the crash site then drove him to his pre-booked hotel. All this because he too was a rider. He understood how my son must have been feeling. He chose to help.
In the years I’ve been riding I have been the recipient of innumerable small kindnesses from total strangers. On one occasion, I was out on my old Moto Guzzi for an early Sunday morning ride. An empty, twisty road, a cloudless sky, a mellow old bike, and one happy rider until the rear end started to wiggle and sag. Somewhere along the road I’d picked up a nail. Less than an hour away, my youngest son was at home with his pickup truck. I’d have given him a call had there been any cell service. Instead, I waited. Half an hour went by before a car passed without stopping. I waited some more until I heard the unmistakable sound of a motorcycle approaching—two bikes as it turned out. They stopped. We discussed the situation, then, within moments I was perched on the back of the lead Harley being transported for a few miles until some bars appeared on my phone and I was able to call my son. Why did they stop? We ride bikes.
On a trip across Canada a few years back, my ailing Guzzi was given a comprehensive tune-up in a fully equipped private garage by a guy whom I had only ever encountered through an internet forum. He swapped the carbs off his own identical, and virtually spotless bike to keep my rolling wreck on the road. On my way back from the Arctic Circle, he let me use his address for the delivery of some tires to replace my rapidly balding Duros, and welded up my broken pannier frames. Why? We share an interest in motorcycles.
On a more recent cross country trip, I ended up staying with the family of a person I only knew because of our mutual fascination with motorcycle travel. I’ve received more offers of help and accommodation than I can count, solely because I choose to ride a motorbike.
When I’m out on the road in some distant place, if I pull over to the side to examine a map or make some minor adjustment to the bike, it’s likely that the very next vehicle along will slow to check that I’m not in trouble. If that vehicle happens to be a motorbike, it’s almost guaranteed. It has got to the point where I’ll search for a side road or somewhere obscured from the main traffic before pulling to a stop. Just the other day I was on my way home from a quick tour of eastern Ontario on my 1960 Panther and was stopped, looking at the map on my phone, when two guys on new ADV bikes pulled alongside.
“Everything OK?” said Martin, looking at my relic from a bygone age.
“Just ‘cos it’s an old bike, did you assume it was broken?” I laughed. “No, I’m fine. I was just checking my route.”
They had no idea what kind of trouble I might have been in. I could have run out of fuel, been lost, had some catastrophic mechanical failure, or stopped because I was experiencing medical distress. But the important thing is, they stopped to find out. I’ll bet they wave at other riders too.
In the end, I followed them down some delightful roads to the ‘Redneck Bistro’ in Calabogie for a beer and a chat. I guess I’m not that anti-social after all, and I’ll continue to wave at anything that remotely resembles a motorcycle.
