My Life As A Biker

I’ve heard it said, that a woman becomes a mother the moment she feels the baby move inside her, and a man becomes a father the moment he sees his child. I think it goes something like that. Anyway, now that I have been through the experience twice I can testify of its truthfulness. Long before I felt any connection to the little bag-o-guts, my wife was already loving, thinking, and planning; forming a bond that was months ahead of the one I would one day begin.

There is a little less known saying that goes, a man becomes a biker the first time he hears the roar of a hog motoring down the street, but a woman becomes a biker's wife only after her husband secretly withdraws money out of their joint account, sneaks out, and buys a motorbike. I think it goes like that. I am happy to say that that day has finally arrived, and we are now the proud new parents of a Shadow Aero 750.


My life as a biker is everything I dreamed it would be; freedom, adventure, power, women, bar fights, hell raising, rock ‘n’ roll, wheelies, rumbles, petty crime, superior gas mileage, and the amazing feeling of wind in my short hair. Well, the gas mileage and the part about the wind are true. Everything else is stifled by my strong sense of civic and family responsibility. But for the most part, it’s everything I dreamed it would be.

To those who know me, it may seem that I remain mostly unchanged. They’re probably saying, “Sure he rides a kick-A hog, but it’s still the same old Ben. He still baths and everything.” But I have changed. For those who don’t own a motorbike this may be hard to understand, but I am a brother who comes from a vast fraternity of brothers. No, I’m not black. (Not 100% anyway.) I am the newest member of the family of bikers. To the layperson it may be hard to see the bond of friendship and love we share. (This bond doesn’t include bullet bikers. Nobody likes bullet bikers. Not even themselves.) The idea of such a bond is completely foreign to car drivers, but that is because car drivers hate each other. When you are in a car, the only thing that can make you angrier than social injustice and child abuse is a stupid driver. And when you’re in a hurry, everybody is stupid, except you. But such is not the case among bikers. We live by a higher law. And although you may not see the bond and higher law, it’s there. Don’t believe me? Next time you're driving behind a biker on the highway, watch what he does when he passes another biker. If he thinks you’re not looking he’ll take his left hand and point at the ground at a 45 degree angle.

I quickly learned that this was called the “Signal of Brotherhood” (S.O.B.). At first, I was certain everybody was pulling the “made you look” joke on me. But I figured this wasn’t the case when they never came back to punch me in the arm. Later, I determined they were pointing at Hell, as in, “See you in Hell, bro.” Again, I was mistaken. Finally, I learned that it was a signal of recognition and acceptance, as in, “Hello there brother. I see you, and you see me. We see each other and therefore we are not alone. I do not know you personally, but I love you and am loved of you. If you are ever in trouble, just perform the scream of the Norse god, Kerfluggon, and your brothers will be there, in all their raging furry, to fight on your behalf.”

Upon further research I learned that the S.O.B. was not always performed the way we see it now. Up until 1973 the S.O.B. was a low five. You actually slapped hands with oncoming bikers. You’re probably thinking an actual five is way awesomer than a non-five, and you’d be right. It was way awesomer. But the original S.O.B. was wrought with peril. S.O.B. deaths were not uncommon. But it wasn’t until Sonny “Bones” Wilcox, leader of the Southeast chapter of Hells Angels, S.O.B.’d a passing biker, swerved into an oncoming semi, folded like an accordian on impact sending his butt through the back of his face, and killing him instantly, that the biker community decided to change the way the S.O.B. was performed. Needless to say, the language is changing but the feeling and intent remain the same.

Despite my new adoption into the larger family of bikers, I am convinced that true arrival as a biker does not occur until one is part of a "gang." But rather than join and conform to the rigid traditions of an existing gang, I’ve decided to form my own. That way, I make the rules by which I live. Since the names, “Hells Angels” and “BACA” ,(which turned out to be an acronym about some sissy child advocates group), were already taken I decided to name my gang “The Pillow Fighters.” Right now I am the sole member of the Pillow Fighters, but we’ve got a lot of spirit and I see us doing great things. That said, we are now taking applications for membership and would be happy to consider anyone. So, if you own a hog and would enjoy the association, camaraderie, and fun-loving good times of the Pillow Fighters, then please leave your info and I’ll be in contact.

BORN TO RIDE! RIDE TO BORN!

Book of Real History, Chap. 1

So I got that teaching job I said I was looking for back in March (The Burden of an Education). For a poverty level paycheck I still can’t believe how demanding teaching high school can be. (That’s right, high school. I was also offered teaching positions at two different junior high schools, but I decided early adolescents was someplace that, psychologically speaking, I could not venture.) I spend my extra time trying to stay one day ahead of the students as we are covering 20th Century history this year and my exposure to said field was cursory at best. And so I feel like I am just as much a student as I am a teacher. Since August I have been on the edge of my seat with shock and awe as I have investigated the past like some kind of explorer.

Assuming that most American high school graduates left school with the same sheltered/half-truth education that I did, I feel it a duty as an educator to shine the light of truth where there has previously been darkness, especially on the lesser known tidbits from our collective pasts. Let this be the first of those entries.

Did you know that the most famous duel in history is laced with irony? The duel between Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr really had nothing to do with politics or slander. What most history books fail to mention is that while the two statesmen were heavily involved in American politics they were also in a bluegrass band together and they both played the banjo. It was called “The Burilton Mountain Pickers” and they enjoyed traveling around the colonies playing family parties, barn dances, and various church functions. One of their most popular tunes was a little ditty they wrote together called “Competing Banjos.” The song was written to be an equal opportunity for the two virtuosos to display their picking prowess but Hamilton, who was kind of a showboat, insisted on taking an extended solo to end the song. Burr tried to express his frustration but was stymied by his band-mate’s pompous indifference when Hamilton told him to “Blow it out your butt.” Burr, at wits end from the constant upstaging by his musical compatriot, held his rage in until their next performance when right at the climax of Hamilton’s final solo, at the end of “Competing Banjos”, Burr bludgeoned Hamilton over the head with his banjo fatally wounding Alex and putting an end to “The Burilton Mountain Pickers.” Coincidentally, the name of the song was later changed to “Dueling Banjos” which only helped perpetuate the myth that an actual “duel” took place.

Free Time

I recently got back from a trip to the Midwest where my brother and I attended a multi day business conference. For lack of funds we drove instead of flew which means we had 1200 miles of sparsely populated desolation to consider through the window at 75 miles per hour. One of the states we drove through was South Dakota and while Tom drove I sat back, quietly singing along to the iPod set to shuffle, and was reminded of western movies that featured the same settings I was witnessing fly by. Movies like Dances with Wolves made me think of the Native Americans that used to live here back before they were “Native Americans” and before they were “Injuns” and were still “Indians.” The vast expanse of rolling hills that roll as far as my wife's eyes can roll, with no signs of civilization but the road in front of us made me wonder about the singularity of purpose of one who may have lived here before Anglos came and made everything complicated. I imagined your average Indian male waking between two buffalo hides, crawling out of his tepee where he meets his friend Shrieking Turtle. He stretches, does a 360-degree look around himself, and plainly inquires, “Well, what the hell are we going to do today?”

Of course, I understand they knew no different, but I’m left to wonder if after sharpening their ten thousandth obsidian arrowhead if they ever looked heavenward and asked, is there anything else? It almost seems that if they weren’t killing an animal or doing a rain dance then their lives were just about the passing of time. I think that is why "hunting and gathering" was so prevalent among the men. It was the only thing to do, and it got them out of the tepee a few days a week. They didn't have to go. I saw the movies. Buffalo used to walk right through their camps. Plus, thanksgiving teaches us that they grew corn and fish in their gardens. They had food sources close to home and when the women realized hunting and gathering was just an excuse for a guy’s weekend away they put a stop to it. And hence, the beginning of horse stealing and squaw-napping. It was all arranged with neighboring tribes to unload domineering wives. They just threw the horses into the mix to make it look indiscriminate.

I don’t want to use the word depressed, but I get a little depressed when I think of their lack of possibilities despite the simplicity they enjoyed.

“Let’s go steal something.”
“What?”
“Women and horses. What the crap else is there? I’m wearing a loincloth here. Our lives aren’t exactly filled with options.”
“Why don’t we see a movie?”
“A what?”
“I don’t know. I’m just being crazy.”

Anyway, I just really enjoy this iPod. I think I’ll get up and rain dance.