The Brotherhood of Bikers

I have always been in search of something. Who I am? What will I do in my life? What is my purpose on earth? The list is endless. My little brain churns thought much in the same way a grist mill turns grain into flour. You could say that I am the charter member of Over-thinkers Anonymous.

In 1974, just after recovering from an ankle fracture, I bought a used Honda motorcycle from a neighbor across the street from the little 3-room apartment my wife and I rented. The Honda 500, four-cylinder was set up to ride on the road, including a set of Kerker Headers.

I was nineteen then and had no idea of the value of Kerker Headers; however, at that time of my life, if any motor vehicle had "headers", then it was cool to have it. And that was enough.

I justified the purchase of the Honda to my eighteen year-old bride by telling her shifting through the gears was good therapy for my ankle. (I know what you're thinking, and you'd be right; but hey, we were young). And, as it turned out, the process of shifting through the gears did actually help regain more range of movement a bit, as I rode everywhere; irrespective of the distance.

We soon met other motorcycle enthusiasts and began to ride around the Southern portions of Ohio encompassing Dayton, Chillicothe, Franklin, and Portsmouth. Riding with other bikers is a very tribal experience; we were separate, but we were one. Many parts united in a single pursuit; however, the meaning of each pursuit was as diverse as the type, style, and size of each bike and its rider.

Lance was one biker friend with whom I rode many miles. Lance was an athletically stout, howbeit short, man with a full dark-brown beard. He rode a Yamaha 750 four-cylinder that had every add-on that could be purchased at the time. Full fairing, with windshield; road bars, for stretching out, a comfy seat; Lance had it all.

We all smoked a pipe back then (think of it as 1974's slant on cigars today). Lance even had a windscreen for the top of his pipe so he could smoke while riding without burning up his pipe tobacco. We were kings; or so we thought.

We certainly must have had something that everyone envied, as whenever we passed other motorcyclists traveling in the opposite direction, they would raise their left hand as we approached each other. I thought of it as a kind of salute from subordinates raised out of respect for our passing by. Or perhaps, this was something unique to Southern

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