My beef with Harley

It's an unfortunate truth of the internet that no matter what you say, somebody, somewhere will get upset about it. The persistence of that truth seems to increase roughly 1,000 percent when you say something about Harley-Davidson.

Doesn't matter what you say –– it can be good, it can be bad, it can be indifferent. You could make a seemingly innocuous statement like, "Harley-Davidson is a company based in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, that is best known for selling motorcycles," and someone will lose their mind.

"OMGWTFBBQ! THIS GUY IS SUCH AN IDIOT," an anonymous commenter will opine. "HE'S OBVIOUSLY BEING PAID BY THE COMPETITION!"

I don't really like that this is a truth of the internet, but it is. So, when a few people took issue with some of the things I wrote in a recent review of the Harley-Davidson Street Glide Special, I didn't really pay much attention. Haters gonna hate, after all.

But then RideApart's creative director, Jim Downs, brought it up with me in an email conversation.

"Playing devil's advocate, I have to ask," he wrote. "What's your beef with them?"

It was a question that knocked me back a little, because the short answer to his question is: none. I have no beef. After all, I first found RideApart (the site I now write for primarily) many years ago while in the process of searching for articles about the Iron 883, a bike that I loved the look of so much it made me want to return to motorcycling after a few years break.

When I eventually rode one, I was considerably less enthusiastic about the bike, but I still get all dreamy eyed every time I see one on the road. I'm like that for most Harley-Davidson motorcycles; I really like the looks of them. As I wrote of the Street Glide Special: "It looks fantastic. This is a motorcycle upon which any sane human being wants to be seen."

In that same review, I also wrote: "Riding a Harley is like riding a tractor. [And] riding a tractor is awesome."

Which, to me, isn't an attack — unless the definition of "awesome" has changed since I left the United States 10 years ago. I did have some criticisms of the bike, but that's part of a review: You look for things that might become issues to the people who eventually shell out thousands of dollars/pounds/euros/darseks for a bike. But, for the sake of answering Jim fully, I decided to sit back and ask myself, honestly: Am I, in some way, biased against Harley-Davidson?

I think it's impossible to write about motorcycles without some kind of bias. Otherwise every article would just be a list of numbers. The trick to writing honestly, I think, is adjusting your bias to favor the motorcycle-in-question's stated strengths. For example, no one ever complains that a BMW S1000RR isn't suitable for off-road trails, or that a Honda Goldwing can't do the Kessel run in 12 parsecs. We don't expect those things.

So, the real question is not whether I'm biased, but whether I'm failing to adequately adjust my bias when assessing a Harley-Davidson. Am I expecting things that shouldn't be expected? Well, I don't know. To me, if you sell a motorcycle for more than US $23,000 and you tell people that it is "plush, top-end touring technology," that's kind of what I expect.

My experience was that the bike in question didn't meet those expectations. It was uncomfortable and not up to the given task of touring. Even there I didn't feel I was being excessively harsh. I went so far as to point out that my experience might be unique (my 6-foot-1 frame is apparently beyond the target audience of Harley ergonomics) and suggest that if a rider's expectations were different than my own — if he or she planned to use the bike less for touring and more for stylin' and profilin' — it might still be worth the asking price.

I feel my expectations were fair. Or, would have been fair if I had been riding any other bike... But it's not any other bike, is it?

A Harley-Davidson is a wholly unique thing, and perhaps to assess it you have to do so in a wholly unique way. Maybe part of the unique way is to be consumed of the same mindset that makes so many of its customers so vociferously loyal. You have to be able to place yourself under the Harley spell.

Because I was uncomfortable, because the bike hurt my lower back and gave me a headache, I wasn't really able to do that. I wasn't able to connect on a metaphysical level, and as a result, was left to evaluate the bike as just a material thing.

So, whereas I don't possess a bias against Harley-Davidson products, I equally lack a bias in favor of them. And perhaps, for some people, that is the real problem. Because part of the Harley experience is being wrapped in the Harley mystique, having the faith.

If I have a "beef" with Harley-Davidson, then, maybe it's that I don't get it; I'm unable to comprehend the emotions that lead other people to get tattoos of this corporation's logo. And maybe –– maybe –– because of that, I'm jealous. I'm annoyed that I don't feel the spirit.

I use religious allusions because, in a way, the whole thing reminds me of when I joined a church group in college. I did that primarily because there was an extraordinarily gorgeous girl in the group whose Kentucky drawl and affinity for tight jeans absolutely melted my brain. And ohmygoodness the way she moved! To me, she was clear evidence there must be some kind of God.

But the group's interpretation of that God was something I didn't jive with, its focus too narrow for my tastes. And as a result, I never really connected with any of them. While they were jumping around and shouting, I was thinking: "This music is kind of basic. This chapel is a little cold."

Unable to get myself to feel whatever they were feeling, I was left to assess it all as just a material experience, which of course meant I was missing the point. And that annoyed me enough that I was eventually able to convince myself it would never work out between myself and the gorgeous girl — even if she hadn't been dating a point guard.

Such is the case with the Church of Jesus Harley Latter-day Davidson, I suppose. I don't quite get it. I get cruisers, and ohmygoodness some Harleys look cool, but the thing that's not there, the thing that you can't attach a number to, the thing that would make me reach for my wallet, is the thing I'm missing.

I don't hold that against the faithful, though. I mean, what's wrong with loving a thing? The whole point of this website is that it's for people who love bikes. If a certain segment of those people love one brand of bike considerably more, well, they're welcome to do so.

That I don't feel that way isn't a beef, though. It's just lack of belief.

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This June I'll be taking part in the Royal British Legion Riders 1000 ride, helping to raise money for the Poppy Appeal. Please check out this page to learn more and donate in support of British veterans, currently serving military personnel, and their families.

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ADSENSE HERE

Electric motorcycles have arrived; Have we?

Not too long ago, I got a chance to spend a day tearing around on a Zero DSR. It was the first time I had ridden an electric motorcycle and I came away surprised at just how much fun an e-bike can be. 

When I returned home to the palatial Cope estate, I couldn't stop singing the bike's praises to my wife. My time with the DSR had convinced me that electric motorcycles are "there," I told her.

So often when motorcyclists discuss electric, we insist that the technology — specifically, the available range — hasn't arrived in terms of practical usability. But my own experience had shown that getting 120 miles from a full charge was entirely possible.In fact, that estimate may be a little conservative. Zero claims 147 miles of range, and I think that's realistic.

Either way, it really is "there" in terms of distance that the average American motorcyclist rides on any given day. Anecdotally, I'm thinking of the riders I grew up around in Texas and Minnesota. In my mother's hometown of Lake Jackson, Texas, there's a 4.5-mile stretch of road called Oyster Creek Drive that runs the width of the city. On nice evenings, dudes will get off work at the Dow plant, drive home, then hop on their Harley-Davidson Street Glides and Street Bobs. They'll rumble up and down the strip once or twice, stop for a beer downtown, and be home in time to watch the news.

At most, one of those dudes will clock up 20 miles in a night. On a Sunday afternoon, if it's not too hot, he might ride the 15 miles out to Surfside Beach, putting in roughly 50 miles that day with some back and forth. If he goes any further than that, though, he'll take his truck. The days when his mileage would truly exceed a Zero's current range are few and far between.

Within the world of motorcycling websites like The Motorcycle Obsession and RideApart, it may sound like I'm being insulting to those dudes. Because, after all, all of us are super-hardcore awesome riders, doing an Iron Butt a day in dirt while getting a knee down. That's certainly the impression people like to give in comments, at least. And people on the internet never lie.

But there's evidence to suggest that outside our interwebs fishbowl, the American motorcycling experience allies more closely to that of riders in Lake Jackson. According to the 2015 Powersports Business State of the Industry Webinar, the average American rides just 2,809 miles a year. That's 234 miles a month, or less than two full charges for a Zero DSR.

Meanwhile, over here on the other side of the Drumpf wall, the average UK rider manages roughly 7,500 miles annually. That's still not very much, and an electric motorcycle remains viable. Charge points are to be found in any number of places, including "services" (rest areas with gas stations and fast food), which are located every 20-40 miles on the motorway network. Some charge points are even free.

And, of course, all that overlooks the true purpose of most electric motorcycles: commuting. Easy to ride and almost totally maintenance-free, electrics are incredibly well-suited to urban/suburban use and equipped with a range that will meet most people's needs.

Many moons ago, when I was stuck living in Southern California, I had a daily commute of 40 miles each way from San Diego to Carlsbad. It was a painfully long drive. I listened to learning CDs in my car, and within a year had become fluent in Welsh (which is more or less how I ended up moving here). That 80 miles a day is within a Zero's ability, though –– even ignoring the possibility of plugging in the bike while at work.

"It's silly that more people aren't riding electric," I told my wife. "It just makes so much sense. A bike like that, you just get on and go. It's easy; you're more aware of your surroundings. It's such a great experience and it really is do-able in terms of range."

"You should get one," she said. "You could trade in your Suzuki."

"Ah... uh... oh... well, you know, it's not really..." I stammered. "I mean, the way I use a bike, that's different. There are times when I have to cover a lot of distance and..."

"You just said it would be possible to get up to Scotland in a day," she said, her voice now picking up the West Country lilt she uses when shooting holes in my arguments.

"I did, yes," I huffed. "It would be a long day, though, and would require some judicious planning."

"You're not capable of planning?"

"No. I mean, yes. I am. I could. But it's not a bike that fits my lifestyle. My motorcycle use, as a moto-journalist, is different. An electric bike wouldn't really work for me."

"Hmm," she said. "It sounds like you're saying everyone else should be doing something, but you don't want to give up your rumbly toy."

I still think my particular case is unique. A motorcycle is my only means of transportation and there are times when I have to travel pretty far for professional purposes. To test ride the Zero DSR, for instance, I had to ride 120 miles to Birmingham; that's a 240-mile day. Last week I had to travel to Peterborough, England, for a meeting –– some 400 miles round trip. But I do think my wife may have stumbled upon something. Perhaps the biggest obstacle for electric motorcycles isn't range or cost, but motorcyclists' unwillingness to change.

Thinking about this, I started to look at many people's arguments against electric and I was struck by their similarity to the arguments people give for not riding at all.

No doubt you've been in that situation where you mention riding to a friend or coworker, who suddenly gets a dreamy look in his or her eyes and says something like: "Yeah, I've always wanted to get a motorcycle."

To which the obvious answer is: "Well, why don't you?"

Unless you're being wheeled around a care home it's not too late to start riding.

But rather than concede to this impeccable logic the person will offer a profusion of excuses. Excuses that mask his or her true reason for not riding: he or she can't be bothered to learn how to do something different.

Essentially, that's what those who refuse to consider e-bikes are doing. They're muddying the water with a thousand excuses, trying to hide the simple fact that, golly, they just don't want to ride electric. Motorcycling is an activity that requires certain concessions of inconvenience, but they're unwilling to make these particular concessions.

I guess I shouldn't say "they." It's more appropriate to say "we." Because my wife is right – although I'm happy to take the high ground of telling people they should help save Earth by riding electric, my actions say I'm unwilling to join them.

I make my excuses about range and cost (moto-journalism isn't the most lucrative career), but quietly I know that if I didn't personally have those obstacles I still probably wouldn't be buying electric.

Probably. Maybe I would. It's a lot of fun, after all. I don't know. The fact is, although I think electric motorcycles are "there," I'm not entirely sure that I am.

ADSENSE HERE

The Octane PR fumble: What does Victory do now?

The initial backlash against the Victory Octane was so intense that most of the reviews I've read of the bike have felt the need to mention it:

• Motorcyclist: "Maybe Victory set expectations unreasonably high... enthusiasts like us were hoping for a high-performance machine more in the standard- or naked-bike realm than another midsized cruiser"
• Motorcycle.com: "(M)any... felt misled by Victory’s references to the Project 156 Pikes Peak racer... I can understand riders’ desire to see this powerplant in a more standard or sporting chassis"
• Common Tread: "There is a large incongruity between the motorcycle that Victory’s marketing department hinted we were going to get and the Octane that is actually going to hit the showroom floors."

As I said in my own early comments, Victory's PR led a lot of people to hear things that weren't actually being said. I include myself in that group. I wasn't expecting a naked or standard –– the two "concept" bikes from Urs Erbacher and Zach Ness had made it clear the Octane was a cruiser –– but I was expecting more power and perhaps something that wasn't 100-percent cruiser.

In conversations I've had with Victory folk since the Octane's launch they've quietly conceded their initial enthusiasm may have been just a little over the top. Fortunately, for Victory all the actual ride reviews have been positive. So, it's not in the position as Harley-Davidson was (is?) with the Street 750, where it said "Look at this amazing bike!" but delivered a stinker.

Instead, the general consensus is something along the lines of: "The Octane is a really good bike that isn't quite the huge leap forward some people thought it would be." 

From Victory's perspective, that's not an awful place to be. They have a solid platform they can build upon. And it's a platform they can be pretty sure will be profitable.

Which is an important thing to remember about Victory (and Indian) –– it's a business. Victory doesn't make motorcycles as an act of social good; this isn't some massive community service project. And Victory is a motorcycle business that operates first and foremost in the United States, where (much to my persistent confusion) Harley-Davidson sells roughly half the street bikes larger than 600cc.

I can't find any figures on what the rest of the market looks like, but by simply travelling around the United States it would appear the next biggest market segment is: "cruisers/big V-twins that aren't Harley-Davidsons." Let's imagine that makes up 30 percent of sales. Maybe even 35 percent. That leaves a not-so-big field of play for everything else.

Which is why I don't think Victory is ever going to completely abandon the cruiser market.

But, Polaris is an international company and it is already familiar with the idea of offering different products in different places. That's why we lucky Europeans still have the Judge. It's why the Octane (and Judge and Gunner and High Ball) is ABS-equipped, despite the feature not even being an option in the United States.

So, Victory could build a bike targeted more at markets outside the United States. And I suppose that's what I was hoping for. I had hoped the Octane would be a Victory Judge that lived up to the ambitions of a Judge. Apparently a flop in the US market (it only lasted two years there), the Judge was designed and marketed with a muscle car motif –– similar to what we've seen with the Octane.

The Judge has midset pegs, cool 5-spoke cast wheels, and an overall bad-ass look that I love. It remains one of my favorite motorcycles, but for the fact its single front disc brake isn't up to the task of stopping all that weight. The Judge weighs more than 700 lbs. sans rider. 

Plus it has a 33º rake, 16-inch tires, and 82 hp. It doesn't really live up to its "Modern American Muscle" tag line. 

But the fact it still sells in Europe is sign riders in Not America like the idea –– folks here are open to the concept. I had thought that since the Octane's engine was first unveiled in Milan and its first "concept" delivered by a Swiss builder, this would be a model aimed partially at the wider world. I pictured a lighter, more powerful Judge with dual front discs and tighter steering.

And, that may happen still. The Octane is sort of there already in some aspects (more powerful than the Judge, with tighter rake), and there are rumblings that Victory plans to expand the platform very soon. So, maybe we'll get an Octane S, similar to the way Victory offers a Hammer and a Hammer S.

But even if that doesn't happen, I've been thinking that building the Octane I want might not be impossible.

The first step, I think, would be to get my hands on some modifications from Lloydz Motorworkz, who have managed to boost the Octane's oomph by 16 hp and 14 ft.-lbs. of torque. That means 108.72 hp and 84.86 ft.-lbs. of torque, measured at the rear wheel (if you want to use Victory's at-the-crank numbers as a base, you could claim 120 hp and 90 ft.-lbs. of torque). That's a solid amount, I think; plenty for me.

As soon as I did that, though, I'd want increased stopping power. I'd want to equip the Octane with upside down front forks and dual front discs. I don't know how hard this is, but the fact Urs Erbacher did it in less than two weeks (that's the amount of time Victory gave him for the build) tells me it's entirely possible.

Lastly, I'd improve the suspension, possibly boosting travel in the rear by an inch. Though, I wouldn't want to do something so excessive it affects handling. Shame I don't know a damn thing about chassis dynamics.

I find myself thinking about all this so much that I plan to look into the expense of having it done. Exactly how much would it cost for me to have the Victory I actually want? Probably a lot, since I don't have the tools or knowledge to make any such modifications myself.

Obviously, the better solution would be for Victory to deliver an Octane S that has these features (to save on cost, I'd be willing to miss out on the engine mods). And after that, I'd like to see the Octane platform used to build a spirited tourer –– a kind of American version of the BMW R1200RT. A boy can dream. 

It feels Victory is on the verge of something really exciting. I hope that turns out to be the case.

ADSENSE HERE

The freedom of lane splitting

Not too long ago, I wrote an article suggesting that motorcyclists in the United Kingdom and the rest of the European Union are generally more skilled than their American counterparts. The reason behind this, I suggested, was the intense amount of testing that comes as a result of the EU's tiered licensing. In doing so, I set a little trap.

Unsurprisingly, a few people really didn't like the implication that things should change in America. A common counterargument to suggestions of implementing tiered licensing in the United States is the unwavering belief that bureaucracy is bad. As RideApart commenter Sayyed Bashir put it: "I don't think Americans want the government to get even more involved in telling them what they can or cannot do."

OK, fair enough. The United States is a country that was founded first and foremost on a healthy distrust of governmental overreach. We can wander deep into the rabbit hole of a discussion on the merits of paternal law and what obligations we have under the social contract into which all Americans are born... but I get it. I understand the philosophy behind these kinds of arguments. I don't necessarily agree with them in this case, but I do understand them.

They're the same arguments that people often make in defending their right to ride a motorcycle without a helmet. It's all about freedom and the protection of that ideology even in an aspect of life so seemingly mundane as traffic law.

So, here's the trap. If we accept the premise that tiered licensing and compulsory helmets are bad because they are averse to freedom—and freedom is good and bureaucracy is bad—why is lane splitting still not legally permissible in 49 states? That is a blatant infringement upon motorcyclists' freedom.

Called "filtering" in the United Kingdom (which I feel is a better word and sounds less adversarial), lane splitting is an immensely useful riding technique. One that, when applied intelligently, helps to make motorcycling safer, more rewarding, and more viable as a transportation choice. It's a freedom that British and Irish riders enjoy, as do the majority of motorcyclists worldwide.

But you don't have to filter if you don't want to. If you want to stay in a lane—perhaps you're uncomfortable with lane splitting, or you want to keep checking out that sexy person in the Volvo to your left—you have the freedom to do that as well. That's an important thing to remember about lane splitting: You don't have to do it. I've talked a lot about lane splitting over the years, and often when I've seen arguments against it they seem to be centered on a belief (perhaps fear is a better word) that if lane splitting is decriminalized across the United States it will somehow become obligatory.

Of course, that's not expressly stated; it seems implied. As if the person thinks he or she will no longer be allowed to command a lane in a lane-splitting-legal world. Some wild dystopia will ensue: a world in which cars will be allowed to drive right into and over motorcycles, and responding police officers will simply look at the crumpled motorcyclist and say, "Well, he should have been lane splitting."

And if that were the case I could understand being against lane splitting. Some people just aren't comfortable with it. Not all of us want to spend our time weaving and hurtling through traffic like those nut-jobs in Brazil. That's true as well in countries where lane splitting is permissible. I've encountered riders in Europe who have not trusted their ability to navigate between cars. It's not for everybody; just as motorcycling itself isn't for everybody.

The point is that the freedom to decide one way or another should exist. Just because you're afraid of not being able to do something doesn't necessarily mean others should be prevented from doing it—especially in the United States. If we want to be free to ride any size motorcycle, helmet-less, with little to no training, we should definitely be free to ride that motorcycle between lanes of traffic.

The good news is that over the past few years we've seen growing support for the idea of extending that freedom. The American Motorcyclist Association now supports lane splitting. I'll admit I don't have a lot of love for the AMA (it took quite a while to extend its support), but it's good to see the organization now standing on the right side of this issue.

If the AMA is willing to put some of its political and financial muscle behind lane splitting, we may actually see it allowed in the not too distant future, which is important. Not only from a philosophical point of view, but a practical one.

(Originally published on RideApart)

ADSENSE HERE

British riders are better

(Originally published on RideApart)

Fire up the hater machine: There's no way things are going to be civilized after a headline like that. 

But if you haven't gone straight to the comments section to break your fingers typing a load of stereotype-driven vitriol (Bad teeth! Socialism! Rain! Russell Brand!), if you are actually still reading this, I'll explain why I think Britons are better motorcyclists than their American counterparts. And why I think Americans could stand to learn a few things from the Mother Country.

I hope you understand it hurts me to say that. I've developed a fondness for the UK over my years here, but not so much that I don't hate to admit anything British is in any way "better."

Food? No.

Music? No.

Weather? Definitely no.

Healthcare? More accessible, but no.

Police? Friendlier and considerably less shooty, but probably no.

When it comes to riding a motorcycle, however, I can't deny it: The people here do it better.

I'm speaking in general tones, of course. If you happen to be a championship racer or some such thing I'll wager your skills surpass those of some bloke named Nigel who's pootling about on his Triumph. Though, I'd also wager that if you pit Nigel against the average American motorcyclist, he'll come out the better rider.

On the surface, if you compare the two countries, there's not much reason for this to be true. In both places, motorcyclists make up about the same small percentage of road users (roughly 2 percent). Both countries have a rich motorcycling history stretching back more than a century. Both countries have fostered motorcycle cultures that have influenced all other parts of the world.

It's true that Britain has more curvy roads per mile. The straightest road in Britain is 12 miles long and there's really only one like it. Whereas the straightest road in the United States is apparently 123 miles long and roads of its kind are so common you probably don't even notice. Obviously, being required to navigate more curves more frequently may help Britons sharpen their skills. But surely that can't be it entirely.

The weather might have something to do with it. We get a lot of rain in Blighty—a lot of gale force winds, too—so if you're going to ride more than five days a year you have to learn how to handle a bike in unpleasant conditions. Laura Llovet's recent RideApart article about riding in the rain suggests some Americans have developed these skills, but it seems most refuse to venture out if there's even a possibility of water from the sky.

Certainly it's true that Britain has considerably more commuting motorcyclists (and scooterists). Just last month, the Motorcycle Industry Association announced that sales of commuter motorcycles (i.e., 125cc or less) had reached a record high in the United Kingdom. Maybe the fact that more people ride more frequently is what makes the Brits better.

Maybe, but again I'm not convinced. I mean, quite a lot of people commute on motorbikes and scooters in Hanoi, but I'm not sure that makes them masters of the craft.

If I had to peg the reason for British superiority to one thing, I'd say it would be tiered licensing. Yeah, that old chestnut.

Grumpy old Brit riders will tell you tiered licensing exists thanks to the European Union's incessant love of bureaucracy. They are, of course, forgetting Britain's far greater love of bureaucracy, which extends back centuries. And in the unlikely event that the UK does choose to withdraw from the EU this summer (bet you didn't know they're voting on that), I can all but guarantee they'll keep tiered licensing for motorcyclists. Heck, they might even make it more complex.

Those old dudes are right, though, that the current system is guided by EU policy. So the system here is more or less the same you'll encounter in Ireland or France or Germany, etc. And guess what? Those guys are also (generally) better riders than Americans.

The reason tiered licensing makes for better riders is not so much because it restricts different ages to different machines (though there's an argument that may help), but because it creates multiple testing situations. More testing means more studying. A British person riding from the age of 16 could potentially face seven different exams before attaining a full motorcycle license at the age of 24. There are ways to ignore a few of those tests, but even in the cases of people aged 24 and older, and therefore able to test directly to full-license status, there are a lot of hoops to jump through.

That latter route, known as Direct Access, is how I got my UK license. Much to my chagrin, British authorities saw no value in my US license, so I had to:

• Earn a Compulsory Basic Training (CBT) certificate
• Take a theory test
• Take a "hazard perception" test
• Take an on-the-bike test on a closed course
• Take an on-the-bike test on the open road, being followed by an examiner who issued instructions via radio road

Just the process of earning my CBT was more intensive than the Basic Rider Course I had taken as a teenager in Minnesota. When I took that BRC, I was in a group of 14 people under the direction of a single instructor. The group never left the safety of a YMCA parking lot. But at the end of the day I left with a license endorsement that meant I could go out and buy any size bike I wanted.

Whereas when I did my CBT in Britain, I was given one-on-one instruction (most UK training schools allow no more than three students per instructor) and spent several hours riding on public roads. Not to mention the hours of closed-course and classroom instruction. And at the end of it, I was still only at the beginning of the process. Legally, I was only allowed to ride a 125cc bike.

That may sound frustrating –– and it was –– but the process built my confidence. I did several more days of training to practice and prepare for the on-road tests (tested on a 600cc motorcycle) and when I finally earned my full license, I actually felt I had the ability to use it. Which isn't really how I had felt back when I was 18 and driving home from a YMCA parking lot.

Indeed, in the years between getting my US motorcycle endorsement and my moving to the UK, I never bought a bike of my own. I rode other people's bikes, crashed them, and soon acquiesced to my ex-wife's belief that those murdercycles were bad news.

So, although getting a US license was easier, the process didn't prepare me to use that license.

The idea of tiered licensing in the United States has been discussed before and the reaction has been pretty negative. The basic response that people give is they don't want tiered licensing because Freedom.

Right. The freedom to crash. The freedom to pay high insurance rates because everyone else is crashing. The freedom to not know what you're doing, get scared and give up. The freedom to allow your insecurity to turn to animosity and have your bad behavior spoil it for others. The freedom to be irrelevant in transportation planning. The freedom to sit in traffic and suffer because the government thinks you're too stupid to lane split. The freedom to look across the water and see that just about everyone in Britain is a better rider than you and enjoys more freedoms and advantages as a result.

I think about this stuff a lot, because one day I want to come home. And I don't really want to be wistfully thinking back to these soggy nations when I'm out riding in America. I find a quaint charm in the idea of American exceptionalism, but I know you can't actually claim to be the best if you make no effort to be better.

In order for American motorcyclists to no longer hold our heads in shame, perhaps we may need to consider tiered licensing. Or, at least, far more stringent testing. Exactly how to fix it, though, I'm not sure. What would you do to improve things?

ADSENSE HERE

What has Erik Buell taught us?

(Originally published on RideApart)

Sportbikes still matter in Britain. Less so than they once did, but enough that MCN —a weekly motorcycling newspaper with a readership of roughly 330,000 — dedicates several pages each week to superbike competition.

Read motorcycle reviews in UK publications and you'll notice a distinct sportbike tinge in the interpretation of a given motorcycle's qualities. The more a motorcycle displays sportbike-like features, the more reviewers are willing to forgive shortcomings.

Many British riders view motorcycling through a similar filter. They coo and swoon for machines that are unmanageable, uncomfortable, impractical and, often, unreliable, because said bikes are capable of going really, really, really fast. Keeping this in mind, I'll tell you about an experience I had in 2014.

I was at the UK's largest motorcycle show, Motorcycle Live, which draws thousands upon thousands of riders who feel it their duty to sit on every single bike. Or, well, almost every single bike.

Whereas I had to throw elbows to get close to other models, the area displaying the then-new EBR 1190RX was completely devoid of life. No one — I mean, not one person — gave a damn about it or the 1190SX. That's when I knew EBR was doomed. If you can't get people to look at your sportbike here, you've screwed up. It's like not being able to sell barbecue in Texas.

Less than five months later, EBR tanked. Some indeterminate part of the company fell into the hands of erstwhile partner Hero MotoCorp. The other indeterminate part (exactly what was sold was never fully explained to the public) was set to go to New Jersey businessman Bruce Belfer.

But after months of Belfer failing to raise the actual cash (no shame there, I suppose; I wouldn't be able to put together $2.25 million either), those indeterminate bits of EBR were sold last week to a company called Liquid Asset Partners, who specialize in, yes, liquidating assets.

There are a handful of Buellistas out there with enough faith to start a new religion (expect them to show up on your doorstep soon with pamphlets), and they swear unto their dad-jeans-wearing god that EBR is not dead (it's pining for the fjords, perhaps). They will point aggressively, full of hope, to a Liquid Assets Partners press release that uses the word "maybe" four times in a sentence. 

(UPDATE: That press release is no longer available on LAP's website. The company has removed all references to wanting to sell EBR as a single entity and has begun selling off whatever parts they can)

But let's be honest with ourselves: it's over. The final chapter has been written. EBR is no more, and nevermore shall be.

I'm inclined to believe that this is more or less the last we'll hear of EBR's eponymous founder Erik Buell. He's been eligible for AARP benefits for almost 16 years now and it seems unlikely that anyone will want to bankroll a venture in which he might hope to be involved.

Take that with a grain of salt. I've never met Erik Buell and I can't speak to what he will or won't do, or what he's capable of. However, a handful of established moto-journalists who have met him say he's the sort of person who should never be written off.

But, as many more people who have never met him will almost certainly point out in the comments below, Buell has been involved in multiple failed motorcycle companies. That sort of thing puts a mark on a fella, and in the skittish, hoodoo world of modern business, it may be an indelible mark. 

So, if this is the end, what lessons can we learn? What has Erik Buell taught us?

First and foremost I think he's taught us that the motorcycle business is kind of hard. And from that truth we can perhaps start to see why Buell was very much on his own in trying to make sportbikes over the years.

Because another thing Buell taught us is that Americans aren't all that into sportbikes. At least not enough that the things are going to just sell themselves—not the way cruisers do. I don't know why Americans love cruisers so much. I'm genuinely baffled every time I see that Harley-Davidson motorcycles still account for 50 percent of the bikes 600cc or larger sold in the United States. The sun is yellow, the sky is blue, Americans buy a lot of cruisers. Some things just are.

That's not to say American motorcyclists are completely homogeneous, it's simply that there aren't enough riders in a given non-cruiser category that you can throw any old bike out there and expect it to sell... especially since those non-cruiser riders are used to looking beyond US borders. Patriotism doesn't necessarily work on them.

Buell's motorcycles were innovative in certain ways, but none were ever truly better than their foreign competition. This was a fact especially damaging to Buell considering his chosen style; electronic whizbangery is an inherent part of the sportbike genre.

So, the third lesson from Buell is that if you're going to build something other than a cruiser in America, you can't rely on intangibles to make it sell. America's major manufacturers have already taken note.

This past November, I got an opportunity to corner Gary Gray, product director for motorcycles at Polaris (parent company of both Indian and Victory). I looked him right in the eye and I said: "You know there is a desire out there for something other than a cruiser, right? You're making great bikes, I love them, but surely you've heard the voices calling for these engines in a different platform?"

His answer, diplomatic and far more tactful than my question, was effectively: yes, they are aware of those voices, and they don't dismiss them outright, but they are also alert to the fact that anything they do has to make economic sense.

This is what Buell taught them: If US companies are going to answer the voices calling for non-cruisers, they have to be damned sure those voices will translate into sales. Otherwise, they face the curse of the fifth thing we've learned from Buell, which is that American motorcyclists hate failure.

Oh, man, do we hate it. Hate, hate, hate it. Take a look at the vitriol against Buell that you see in some forums and internet comments. You'd think the man had been making the seats for his bikes out of kittens.

All in all, there is a sadness in looking at the career of Erik Buell. A sadness that is sad in part because it's an unfair weight to place on his shoulders. After all, Buell has in his career accomplished a whole hell of a lot (he may accomplish even more, who knows?). But there is the deep-sigh ache of what could have been, what might have been — what, maybe, almost was.

Almost. And more than once.

As I suggested in my 2016 predictions, there may be a day, many moons from now, when people will look back on the legacy of Erik Buell with kinder eyes and he will receive the accolades he seems to be missing out on now. Maybe then someone, or some company, will be inspired to make an American motorcycle that isn't a cruiser. And maybe, because they will have learned from Buell's experiences, it will succeed.

They'll have to call it something other than an EBR, though. Because, odds are, that name will still be in legal limbo.

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Does it matter where stuff is made?

(Originally published on RideApart)

I've become obsessed with the idea of getting an Aerostich Roadcrafter, the famously unsexy safety onesie favored by adventurers and moto-journalists. I mean, just about every two-wheel-loving scribbler out there seems to wear one: John Burns, Jamie Elvidge, Marc Cook, Gabe Ets-Hokin, that guy who goes camping with dogs... 

And since I've been known to describe myself as a moto-journalist –– primarily just to annoy my father –– I feel I should look the part. But also, 'Murica y'all.

Roadcrafter suits are made in the God-blessed United States of USA Land –– specifically Minnesota, where I spent many of my formative years –– and the idea of being able to represent my home country every time I ride hits the semi-illogical pleasure center of my brain where patriotic thoughts are most often stored. Indeed, I think that may be the main reason I want an Aerostich: patriotism.

But I'll admit to being a man of fickle allegiances. I've lived in Her Majesty's United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland for almost 10 years now, and I've developed some affection for it. As such, there may be an argument for my buying one of the textile suits made by Hideout, a company based in the English county of Hertfordshire.

I've met some of the women who run and work at the business, and that humanizes the product for me. It makes the idea of Hideout gear feel more important, more special.

Hideout Hi-Pro Adventure suit

In both cases –– Aerostich and Hideout –– the goods are said to be of extraordinary quality. And with that, comes an extraordinary price tag. In the case of the 'Stich, you're looking at shelling out upward of $1,700 for a suit with additional bells and whistles and some tailoring. Meanwhile, a two-piece from Hideout easily heads north of $2,300.

That's eyewatering, but keep in mind a two-piece from Rukka can put an equally large hole in your wallet: about $2,200. Buy the best two-piece suit Klim has to offer, and you could end up paying more than $2,500.

In my mind, I've dismissed those last two. Rukka gear comes from China, and asking the origin of Klim stuff results in a murky, apologetic admission that it comes from a lot of places, none of which are the United States.

All of this is academic, of course. I have nothing close to the money needed for even the least-expensive of these options. But I tell myself that if I did I would want my gear to be "local" (local either to where I'm from or where I am presently).

This speaks to an idea of goods origin that I've been developing recently. I want my stuff to come first and foremost from 'Murica, but if that's not possible, I'd like it to be from the UK or Ireland. After that, Canada and Mexico, then the European Union, and finally, any one of the other 75 countries at the top of the Democracy Index.

But, of course, that's hard to do. I'm writing to you on a device that was assembled in China: a country listed well below those top 75. And in inspecting the labels on the clothing I'm wearing right now, I'm only scoring 1 out of 5 in the conscientious buying game.

Aerostich Roadcrafter Classic

Meanwhile, perhaps simply to assuage feelings of guilt, I can't help asking myself if it really matters.

I mean, let's say I had the money for one of Hideout's fancy, made-to-measure get-ups. I don't know their gear to be demonstrably superior to, say, Rukka or Klim. Hideout suggests as much, but you'd expect it to say that. Finding independent reviews to back up that claim is a challenge (equally, I can find no negative reviews).

Still, I'd choose the UK brand because it's a UK brand. Because I've met some of the people who make it, but more broadly because I like the UK.

Effectively then, I'm deciding that something is "good" because its staff and manufacturing facilities are located in a place that is familiar to me. I assume they are people "like me" –– people who share the same Western values as myself, whose ideals align with my own. Is this silly? Is it jingoistic?

And more importantly, does it matter? The Vietnamese guy or gal who made the Triumph-branded riding suit that I wear at the moment is probably a cool person. But if he or she isn't, who cares? And what does it matter if he or she agrees with my world view? I bought the suit because it was the best thing I could afford at the time, and it's held up pretty well over the 21,000 miles I've worn it thus far. Shouldn't that be what matters?

Maybe. I clearly haven't gotten my undies in a twist over the fact that I don't ride a motorcycle that was made in the US or UK. For all my pro-Minnesota blustering I don't (yet) have a Victory or Indian in my shed. (Though, I will point out that the Suzuki V-Strom 1000 is made in Japan –– no. 20 on the Democracy Index)

Japanese bike in Luxembourg

I honestly can't decide which is the correct position to hold. I can't decide if "local" is actually important or if I just feel that way. I will say though, that none of this pondering has stopped me from setting aside money each month for an Aerostich.

And when I finally do get one, you can bet I'll be paying the extra $15 to have them sew on an American flag. If they can scrounge up a Minnesota flag, I might have them sew on one of those, too. Because who wouldn't want to be associated with the home of Prince, Dairy Queen, and Great Clips?

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12 Reasons to ride a motorcycle

We're several days into 2016, but I'm of the mind that a new year doesn't really begin until I buy a new wall calendar. Which won't happen for another week. I'm waiting for shops to lose their nerve and offer discounts.

In the meantime there's plenty of opportunity to make New Year's resolutions. Allow me to suggest one: make this year the one in which you finally get a motorcycle. Or, the year in which you convince someone else to get one. To assist in this, I've listed every reason I can think of to ride a motorcycle.

1) Riding a motorcycle makes you cool

Generally we like to hide this fact. But, in many ways, it is at the heart of all other reasons: in some way or another motorcycling will make you cooler than everyone else. And deep in their hearts, everyone else will know it. No, it's not very cool to admit such a thing –– indeed, part of coolness comes from respectfulness toward those who lack the good fortune of being you –– but, that makes it no less true.

You don't have to look like Beckham on a Bonneville to achieve this coolness. It happens naturally with all two-wheeled conveyances. As my wife once told me: "When you see someone on a motorcycle, it doesn't matter what kind, you think: 'Oh, that person is on an adventure! I wonder where they're going.'" "You don't think that about someone in a car," she said. "You just think: 'That person is stuck in traffic.'"

2) You'll find your zen

Part of being cool as a motorcyclist comes when you stop worrying about "embarrassing" things like helmet hair or walking into restaurants wearing base layers; you don't get upset when it's hot or cold or raining or windy. Ride regularly (and intelligently) for long enough and you'll even be less enraged by other road users' negligence. Because you know centering your anger on one person or thing only results in lost awareness.

On the road, the constant monitoring of your situation –– speed, angle, body posture, road condition, lane position, possible hazards, etc. –– serves as a meditation that clears your mind of the unnecessary. I have never once thought about the Kardashians while riding. On a bike you find mindfulness and inner peace, some of which will stay with you off the bike.

3) Commuting is easier and more fun

It seems a lot of people suffer a mental block when it comes to honestly considering motorcycles as viable everyday transportation, but the fact is, they make a lot of sense. If you live in one of the majority of places in the world that allow lane splitting, riding a motorcycle means you will get to work sooner and with less frustration. If you don't live in one of those places you should be writing your representatives and throwing eggs at ABATE members in an effort to get things changed.

But there's still plenty of advantage to getting to work on two wheels.

There's the nominal financial benefit. Bikes can be pretty fuel efficient. A good 250cc machine will give you upward of 85 mpg. And since doing basic maintenance (e.g. oil changes) is easier with a motorcycle, you can save some cash there, too. It's not unheard of for motorcyclists to encounter lower costs at toll booths and parking lots, but even if your area isn't that progressive finding a place to park is still generally easier.

I used the word "nominal" in the above paragraph because often when someone evangelizes the financial benefits of motorcycling he or she conveniently overlooks the cost of gear. Good gear is important for happy commuting and it doesn't come cheap. But I'm still willing to bet that the motorcyclist comes out slightly ahead at the end of the year.

4) Mother Earth will thank you

As a knock-on effect of fuel efficiency, motorcycles are a greener choice of transportation. Maybe not so much if you're still thrashing around on a two-stroke, but any modern bike will have to meet increasingly strict environmental standards.

If you're lane splitting on the way to work you're also decreasing your environmental impact by not sitting at idle for long stretches. If your engine is running for less time it spends less time putting crap in the air. If you go electric, of course, you can ride around feeling even more smug (assuming you are conscientious enough to ensure your energy supplier uses sustainable resources).

5) You're less of a drain on the system

Along with putting fewer pollutants into the air they breathe you're helping out your fellow citizens by placing less stress on the roads their taxes pay for. Because you and the bike weigh less than someone else and a car, you're causing less strain. That means the road lasts longer, and that means the need for repair is less frequent. Henceforth, feel free to shout "You're welcome!" at everyone you pass.

6) A motorcycle can't be hacked (yet)

One of the more terrifying Skynet-like things to happen last year was hackers remotely controlling a Jeep Cherokee. Last I checked, this sort of thing isn't yet –– yet –– possible with a motorcycle. Though, considering Ducati (and most electric bikes) offer the ability to make adjustments via smartphone, it probably won't be long.

If you're truly concerned about the machines taking over, though, a motorcycle remains a good bet. Especially if you choose a Royal-Enfield or Ural.

7) More humans are involved

Related to the above, it's generally the case that far more human hands will have been involved in the making of your motorcycle than in the average car. This is especially true if you buy boutique motorcycles, like the Ariel Ace, but even with major manufacturers like Honda people play an important role, performing tricky tasks a robot simply can't manage.

8) Your health will improve

When motorcycle proponents are scraping the barrel they drag out the claim that motorcycles help you lose weight. Ostensibly this is true: a 180-pound man will burn 40 more calories in an hour riding a motorcycle than he will driving a car. If he sings the whole time he'll scorch an additional 100 calories.

But take a gander at those attending Sturgis or Daytona rallies and it's clear riding a bike isn't a miracle weight-loss technique.

It is, however, incredibly good for your brain. The aforementioned zen state mixes with the endorphins that come from spirited riding or simply being outside and does wonders for your mental health. 

It pains me to give ammunition to trolls here, but I'm someone who has struggled a lot with mental health over the years. Since returning to riding, however, I've found things gradually improving. I'm calmer, more confident, kinder, and generally happier. And it's a simple truth that improved mental health leads to improved physical health, if not simply because it gives you the right attitude.

9) You meet the nicest people

Using terms like "brotherhood" or "sisterhood" in applying the connection between motorcyclists quickly sends one down the rabbit hole of self-aggrandizing BS. The idea of there being a special bond between the purchasers of a mass-produced item is silly. I am no more spiritually linked to other motorcyclists than I am other consumers of Kraft macaroni and cheese.

And yet, and yet... there is something.

Depending on country, you'll be greeted by waves or nods or extended feet when you pass other riders. Motorcycling induces a small-town friendliness amongst its participants, no matter where they are in the world. Showing up somewhere on a bike means people will go out of their way to talk to you, to share stories.

If you're open to this, you'll find yourself meeting people with whom you might otherwise never have had an opportunity to interact –– people from outside your socio-economic/religious/racial circles. And you will be better for it.

10) Because freedom

"Freedom" is such an overused word I sometimes question whether anyone really knows what it means. But I can't think of a better one to use in describing the sense of self-sufficiency and independence that comes from the simple act of getting on a bike and twisting the throttle.

We live in a jittery world; there are so many demands for our attention. If you are a person in a relationship with kids and family and a job and ambitions, it may feel at times that everything you do is for the service of someone or something else, that every action you take is directed by something external.

On a motorcycle it's just your little head inside that helmet. You are in control of you, totally and completely. You feel the immediacy of your actions and decisions. The zen state pushes away anxiety about deadlines and bills to pay and whether that girl at Starbucks was flirting when she told you to have a nice day. It's not selfishness, but simply the realization of the fullness of yourself.

On a bike you feel like a complete human being, not an insignificant part of something else. And with this knowledge you'll find your interactions with your partner, kids, family, job, ambitions, and so on, will improve.

11) Connection to the world around you

The freedom you gain from riding a motorcycle helps you appreciate the things in your life because you'll know you are free to be a part of them –– not obligated. The people and things you care about are things you've chosen to care about. But beyond that you will find an even greater connection to your surroundings, one that can be difficult to articulate.

I'm of the mind that swimming in a river is inherently better than staring at a picture of that river. Life is better when lived. But our cars are so climate controlled and infotainment loaded that the experience of driving somewhere is almost indistinguishable from the experience of watching the same drive unfold on a television screen. In the modern world we spend a shocking amount of time blocking that world out.

On a motorcycle you climb out of the "cave" of Plato's famous allegory. You're no longer looking at shadows but seeing the true objects of the world, experiencing them with all your senses. Admittedly, this isn't always fantastic –– when you're riding through a hail storm or behind a pungent cattle truck, for example –– but soon you find you're willing to tolerate the occasional negative for the sake of being able to fully experience the positives.

12) It can be damned exciting

I'm slightly averse to hyping the thrill aspect of motorcycling because too often it gets phrased in terms of fear and risk. In and of themselves, I'm not the sort of person who likes those things, and I suspect there are plenty of people who would be put off by them.

I mean, imagine trying to sell the idea of motorcycling to your mother: "It's great, Mom, because there's an increased probability of your dying in horrible ways."

Nope. That doesn't work for me.

But I will admit that there is an adrenaline aspect. When I push the bike above the speed limit, or swoop through a section of corners, or again make an unsuccessful attempt at a wheelie, there is that rush of buzzing happiness and giggling laughter. That is, without question, one of the reasons I ride. For some people it is the only reason they ride.

Regardless of your attitude toward risk (remember, because you are free on a motorcycle you are equally free to make decisions that mitigate risk) there's no denying that motorcycling is fun.

–– What did I miss? ––

Despite the fact this article is really long I feel I've forgotten one or two other reasons for riding. If you're one of the people who's taken the time to read the above (thank you), rather than skipping straight to the comments to complain about a list, I'd appreciate your adding to it. What did I miss? If you were trying to convince someone to take up riding, what would you tell them?

Parts of this post were originally published on RideApart.

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