"What the heck is he doing?" I fumed under my helmet as I watched the curved windscreen on my dad's Honda 750 fade further behind me again, outside the prescribed 'safe zone'. Our vague interpretation of perfect formation riding was being compromised and, as a result, our potential vulnerability increasing. His periodic and unpredictable variations in speed had us passing and re-passing the same vehicles while others were free to pull into the accordion space oscillating between us. In the days before helmet-to-helmet communicators became common, hand signals and gestures were the primary method of communication while under way. For hours now I had, amongst other things, signaled and gestured my wing-man, Kevin, into maintaining a staggered lane position one-car length on my flank. His failure to do so not only defied my experienced admonitions, but threatened to expose us to every evil cager's brainless whim.
This section of Route 9 in VT/NH was not particularly busy given the time of day, but group riding protocol demanded strict adherence to certain time-honored norms; or so was my hard-wired and well-intentioned attitude. In the name of The Motorcycle Safety Gods, thou shalt follow thy leader's lead!
I was the alpha son to my father's alpha male. There had not been a motorcycle in his family or ours before I came along, but after years of schoolboy pestering I was finally rewarded with a 1971 Honda Mini Trail. I cut my biker teeth on this little 50 and took my share of lumps in earning the privilege. This was followed by a succession of larger capacity dirt bikes and increasing skill, risk and boldness. The rules were full gear and never ride alone, to which I complied all but one time (uh, I think). These rules didn't prevent a few scrapes, broken bones or broken hardware - but learning things the hard way is truly my gig. I would later get my street license without permission at 17 on friend Rob's Honda CB350; I didn't wheelie through an intersection, so I think that helped. Look out asphalt jungle, you ain't seen the likes of this ape yet!
It was many years and many bikes before I became aware that my dad had always denied himself the experience and thrill of motorcycle ownership. And so when I found myself trading the V-4 grunt of a Sabre 750 for the inline-4 scream of a CBR1000F, I gave him the 750. He and my sister both took an MSF course together, although someone had to do it twice. Fit, but not particularly coordinated or athletic, he dropped a bike on his foot and broke a toe. But he made up for it with determination and, uh, superior analytical thinking. How my sister came to get her first bike, a Seca 650, is another story.
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| Kevin and Sean in Hamilton, Ontario; pre-departure (Aug, 1996) |
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| Heading out on the highway - sans heavy metal thunder (Aug, 1996) |
Once he had enough miles of street experience I suggested that we take a week long trip together, from Hamilton, Ont to Cape Breton, Nova Scotia where he was born. Roughly a 2500mi round trip, in a loop through four northern US states to the ferry at Portland, ME then overnight to Yarmouth, NS. Our return route would take us northwest along the Trans Canada highway and past Lake Ontario through Toronto. He never said so, but I'm sure the prospect was both exciting and terrifying to him - maybe as much due to the switch in alpha roles as to his relative motorcycle road-trip inexperience. I must admit, unfortunately, to becoming a little intoxicated with my new role and found myself chewing him out a few times for making noob mistakes (all in the name of protocol and safety of course). He took a few verbal lashes during those first few days before re-setting the dynamic as only a father can. During another gas stop where I again recited a litany of errors and transgressions, I got a return earful that would shut the both of us up for at least the following two.
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