Born To Be Mild

The other day I was watching a movie that had a bunch of testosterone-dripping guys riding around on their choppers -- and it reminded me of my youth.

Well, one small part of my youth, anyway.

When I was 19, I purchased something I'd been dreaming about for years: A Harley-Davidson chopper.

What’s a chopper? Oh, man. Do I REALLY have to explain it?

Yeah, probably.

A chopper was/is a specially modified motorcycle – most often a Harley – that had its original handlebars, gas tank, front forks, seat and exhaust pipes replaced in a distinctive chopped, or “chopper” style.

Oh yes, and usually the addition of a “sissy” bar behind the extended seat where a passenger could lean back or just not get thrown off in a sudden burst of acceleration.

Biker gangs riding choppers were very big at the time. Does anyone remember “Wild Angels” or “Hells Angels on Wheels?” How about “Easy Rider”?

That iconic flick was the one that persuaded me to part with most of my hard-earned savings that summer and buy my own chopper.

And she was beautiful! Extended front forks, high handlebars – monkey bars, they were sometimes called – and a sweet gas tank painted in black metal flake.

It was exactly what I'd pictured myself astride, zipping down the road with its throaty growl rumbling between my legs.

Yes, it was all so cool – for about a week.

That’s when I discovered the other side of chopper ownership: How often they are always breaking down.

Unlike the protagonist in the classic book, “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,” I was the “romantic” type of rider: All image and no ability to keep the damn thing running.

Luckily, I had a friend who’d had a chopper and was much more of a “tools-and-engines” kind of guy. So when my bike broke down, I’d push it over to his place for some shade-tree mechanic-ing.

After several of these frustrating episodes, my friend grew tired of fixing my bike again and again. I guess our friendship just wasn’t that deep…

Anyway, my chopper became more and more of a motionless lawn ornament as that summer wore on – always needing some hard-to-find part or engine re-tune.

Looking back, if I’d had any REAL love of motorcycles, I would have tried much harder to understand the mechanical peculiarities of my bike and learned to fix it myself.

But my mind just wasn't wired that way. And I also came to understand that I was never going to be that testo-inflamed guy with the wind in my hair and bugs in my teeth.

In the end, I knew I was never going to be a “cycle guy.” I think I practically gave it away as Fall arrived and I realized that four wheels under me was much better than two.

I never had another motorcycle – chopper or otherwise – after that day when I watched my dream bike being hauled away – hopefully to a much more capable owner.

My fleeting “Easy Rider” days were over.

And likely not a day too soon.