Monday, 3 October 2016

Mr Grumpy Pants

The ancient Celts used to refer to the space between October and April in Britain as "The Long Dark." It's a miserable time of year, and it's just starting.


Sunday, 25 September 2016

Riding the 2017 Harley-Davidson Road Glide

I shot this video back in late August/early September when I was on the Harley-Davidson press ride in Washington state, then forgot all about it until today. It was shot with a Sena 10C (the same camera I used in this video), which appears to struggle when conditions are overcast. Probably not the best news for me, considering I live in Britain.

At least the audio is better than last time (thanks Nikos for telling me how to do that).

Ultimately, I rode three different bikes on the press ride. I'll put those reviews on this site one of these days, but in the meantime, here are the links to the articles I wrote for RideApart.

Wednesday, 27 July 2016

Low-speed thrills

I think I'm getting old. Earlier this summer I bought a one-piece rain suit to go over my riding gear. 

Yes, I live in the United Kingdom, so it will get heavy use, but there's no getting around the fact a one-piece rain suit is an old-man thing to buy. But I suppose it fits with other aspects of my motorcycling: the modular helmet, the high-vis vest, the never-gonna-take-it-off-road ADV bike... 

Harley-Davidson has a campaign at the moment encouraging parents to expose their children to motorcycling so they'll grow up and buy Harley-Davidson motorcycles (because, you know, every kid thinks their parents are cool). Based on my complete lack of badassitude, though, it's probably OK I don't have kids. I doubt anyone has ever looked at me on the road and thought: "Golly, I wish I looked like that guy."

Recently, to make things worse, I've been flirting with another old man facet to my motorcycling: riding below the speed limit. Actually, that may not really be an old-man thing. I've met dudes who were pushing twice my age who could make me look like an utter fool. It's more of a coolness thing — no one sings rock songs about obeying the speed limit.

In my defense, I usually ride at a "spirited" pace. There's a line of thinking in UK riding (and elsewhere) that the power of a motorcycle engine is a tool to be used in removing yourself from dangerous situations. This means that when it's safe and "reasonable" to do so, you twist the throttle and go, rather than hanging around in clumps of traffic waiting for someone to run you over.

But when I recently got to spend a week with the Indian Scout Sixty, its lack of screen naturally encouraged me to find quieter roads and adopt a more relaxed point of view. And to my surprise, I really enjoyed it.

I first started to dabble with slowness when I picked up the bike in London and rode 200 miles back to Cardiff.

Normally, my route home would have seen me stick to the M4, a six-lane motorway that stretches most of the breadth of southern Britain. And normally, I would be found in the fast lane (which is the right lane here in Bizarro World), only occasionally moving to the middle lane to make way for BMW and Audi drivers like my brother-in-law (who sees 120 mph as a comfortable cruising speed.) But this time I chose to hang out in the slow lane, intending to stay at or near the actual speed limit of 70 mph.

It's a lane into which I hadn't ventured often and I found it somewhat exotic. Firstly, there were the trucks. In the bureaucracy-loving European Union, large semi-trucks and some buses are fitted with speed limiters that keep them from exceeding 60 mph. That's 10 mph less than the speed limit. Similar rules apply for trucks in the UK.

I had known this was a thing, but never really paid any attention to it before. Now, though, keeping pace with the lugging beasts of the slow lane I found myself fascinated and baffled by this set up. Who thought this was a good idea? I mean, perhaps limiting the speed of enormous, monstrously heavy things makes sense, but letting them crawl along among vehicles that are regularly moving twice as fast?! It's a testament to the quality of British drivers that the country's motorways aren't perpetually bathed in flame.

Secondly, I discovered the peculiar thrill of drafting behind said semi-trucks. I had never bothered to try such a thing before because I generally lack the patience. Equally, it's a test of one's intestinal fortitude to ride so close. But I was delighted to discover that, yes, drafting actually works; it felt as if the Sixty's engine fell to idle.

Keeping my distance from the trucks, though, allowed an opportunity to check out other users of the slow lane: one or two white-knuckled kids who clearly had earned their licenses that week, a goodly portion of folk who have been driving since before the Suez Crisis, and, more delightfully, some old-school British cars that wouldn't stand a chance in any other lane. At one point I passed a Morris Minor 1000 — a car that famously can take more than 50 seconds to go from 0 to 60 mph. As I say, it was a unique and interesting experience.

As long as I was able to hold my patience I could sit back and enjoy a comfortable and incredibly fuel-efficient ride. I should note that the Sixty goes plenty fast, and I proved that to myself several times in the week or so that it was in my possession. But in the time since then, I've been experimenting here and there with über-slow riding on my own bike.

I'll admit that I struggle to keep it up for long. Eventually some part of me will snap and the idea of meandering along at speeds normally reserved for snowy days and Shriner parades becomes too much to bear.

But in those happy moments when riding slow seems novel and quaint, I find the whole thing to be downright relaxing. And as such, I've been pondering whether it's a technique I want to try to employ next month when I take part in my first Iron Butt ride (NOTE: I originally wrote this article in May; I have already done my Iron Butt ride). 

Hitherto, I had been planning on more or less locking in a speed that's just on the safe side of the lose-your-license cutoff in the UK, and hoping for the best. I had been assuming that getting to the various check-in points on the ride with a certain urgency would allow longer spells in which I could rest. And I know I will need rest because riding that far for that long is exhausting, especially at higher speeds. My beloved Suzuki V-Strom 1000 has a fancy aftermarket screen and heated grips, but it's still the case that noise, wind, engine vibrations, etc., take a greater physical toll as the speedometer climbs upward.

So, I've thought that riding slowly –– i.e., below the speed limit –– might actually turn out to be the better method of tackling this challenge. Yes, it will mean my rest breaks will have to be fewer and shorter, but perhaps by riding slowly it will mean I won't need them as much. Or maybe not.

Doing such a thing would no doubt spoil the joy of slow riding, and under the circumstances of needing to cover 1,000 miles in 24 hours I'd probably be able to remain patient for no more than 20 minutes. 

Perhaps instead, I'll just stick to my new habit of finding an abandoned road (extremely difficult in a country as densely populated as Her Majesty's United Kingdom) and riding at 20-30 mph below the posted limit. I know that sounds like a lame thing to do, but there really is a weird sort of joy in riding slow. I encourage you to try it –– if not simply so I won't feel like such an old man.


(Portions of this article were originally published on RideApart)

Saturday, 23 July 2016

In the Brecons

I know it's been a stupid long time since I last posted on this blog. That's because I seem to get busier every day. Some day I'll post here again. In the meantime, here's a video I shot yesterday in Brecon Beacons National Park.

Thursday, 26 May 2016

Ride review: Indian Scout Sixty

When I was 21 years old, I decided I no longer cared about political science and dropped-out of classes at my dreary college in Northern Minnesota on the promise of working in a tourist trap at Lake Tahoe. I packed a duffle bag, told my roommate he could keep, sell or trash everything else, and spent several days making my way to the Silver State.

My pickup truck had no air conditioner or radio; everything was barebones. I often look back on that trip, and my decision to make it, as being a pivot point in my life. In the Story of Chris, it's impossible to get here –– to the person I am now –– without first going there. So, I'd never undo the experience. But if I could be 21 now, in 2016, I'd make a change: I'd sell my truck and get to Nevada on an Indian Scout Sixty.

Because the Sixty is that kind of bike. It is a cross-the-country-and-figure-out-who-the-hell-you-are bike. A tell-your-grandkids-about-it-in-60-years bike. A motorcycle of the sort that inspires people to write novels and listen to The Sam Chase on repeat. A motorcycle your girlfriend will accuse you of loving more than her; and deep down in your soul you'll know she's right.

It's not perfect. The Sixty's chassis doesn't quite live up to the engine's promise, and Indian has cut some odd corners in keeping the price low, but it is a very, very good bike.

First Impressions

It's strange to call the Sixty small. It has a 1000cc engine, weighs in at 561 lbs. wet, and is 4 inches longer than a BMW R1200GS. It's not small. But when you drop yourself down onto its solo seat, just 25.3 inches above the ground, "small" is one of the first words that come to mind. Or, it is if you are 6 foot 1.

The good news is that it doesn't feel cramped. With its standard set-up, the Sixty is not really designed for someone my size, but it works well enough. Extended reach and reduced reach options are available to fine tune things. My friend Sash is a wee 4 foot 11 and she swoons over her time with the Scout, which is effectively the same bike, save the engine.

When I first picked up the Sixty in London, facing a 200-mile journey back to my home in Cardiff, Wales, I made a promise to myself to stop every 40 miles to stretch. I expected this motorcycle to cause ache in knees and back. To my utter surprise, more than 100 miles passed before I even started to look for a place to stop.

Engine and Transmission

The Sixty's liquid-cooled 999cc V-twin is undoubtedly the star of the show. Unless you hate happiness, you will love this engine. Effectively the same lump found in the full-size Scout but with different bore and stroke, it puts out a claimed 78hp and 65 ft.-lbs. of torque.

I'd say those numbers are more or less accurate. More important, however, is how usable are the power and torque. Indian Scout Sixty Power delivery is stupid smooth. Well, for the most part; I found some anomalous jerkiness when maintaining 30 mph in third gear. And even that is very subtle (I only noticed late into my time with the Sixty –– when I was searching for negatives so as to avoid having this review come off as a lovefest).

At that speed and in that gear, the engine is barely ticking over idle. The Scout's rev limiter kicks in north of 8,000 rpm but you'll never get there by accident. The engine is surprisingly relaxed even at highway speed –– 70 mph sees the tachometer only flirting with 4,000 rpm. All this means you don't get the rattling performance that some manufacturers claim as character. The engine simply does what an engine is supposed to do: it goes.

For me, the smoothness and calmness of the engine make it ideal for the bike's stated purpose of cruising. But don't be fooled. Twist the grip with a little more enthusiasm and the Sixty takes on a different personality; it's like that scene in films my fraternity used to watch, where the librarian tears her dress and lets her hair down. Something deep within this bike whispers to the rider: "Hey man, let's play."

And it is a whisper. The Sixty's exhaust won't get you in trouble with neighbors. The sound of the engine is that of a sleeping lion, a bass that rattles deep within an enormous set of lungs. A part of me would like pipes that allow the Sixty to roar, but I'll admit there's a certain charm in being understated.

Meanwhile, the transmission is smoother than I remember on the Sixty's larger sibling, the Scout, which means it is pretty much the smoothest American transmission I've encountered. First gear is announced with a gentle clunk, but shifting up and down in heavy traffic requires no greater effort than in many other bikes. Clutchless upshifts are manageable outside of first and second.

The Sixty is equipped with just five gears. But the nature of how those gears are set up means you genuinely don't miss sixth. If you're a cynical person like me, you'll suspect I'm stretching the truth when I say that. Certainly that's what I thought when someone first told me such a thing. But, to my complete surprise, it's true. The Sixty manages to do it all with five gears. Really.

Ride Quality and Brakes

Within the realm of what it's supposed to be –– a cruiser –– the Sixty's suspension performs admirably well, especially considering its price tag. On good, fair, or decent roads it handles imperfections with relative ease. Lean angle is generous enough that standard curves are welcomed and enjoyed.

But things get downright hectic when you push beyond those happy boundaries. Whacking into potholes will leave you struggling to stay in your seat, taking sharp corners with too much gusto will shred the pegs and put you in a panic.

That's what people always say about cruisers, though, and I feel the need to stress that these faults present themselves later than they would on, say, a Harley-Davidson Sportster, Yamaha Bolt (aka XV-950), or Triumph America. The problem is that the Sixty's engine is so much better than in any of the bikes I just mentioned. It wants to play. And that creates situations where the Sixty can suffer an identity crisis.

"Let's go, baby! Let's do this!" the engine will say as you power hard toward a bend in the road.

"Sweet Lord in heaven! What is wrong with you?!" the suspension will yelp as you go all kinds of wrong in said bend.

In other words, if you limit the Sixty to the sort of activity it was designed for, everything will be fine. But its fantastic engine will sometimes make that difficult.

The engine's being liquid cooled means no heat is felt on the legs, even when sitting still in heavy city traffic. However, I wonder if a passenger would be as happy; the Sixty's pipes get pretty hot. The plus side is that the bike still makes that air-cooled "tink-tink-tink" noise when you shut it off after a long ride. I loved this aspect of the Sixty and if Indian did it on purpose I think its engineers are geniuses for accomplishing this level of old-school feel on a modern bike.

The balloon-like Indian-branded Kenda tires are something I'd look forward to replacing if I owned a Sixty (which I've been seriously considering). They've earned a particularly bad reputation amongst British moto-journalists because they lack feel and grip in the wet. Having ridden the Sixty in Britain and Ireland I can confirm the tires' wet-weather inadequacy, but will say they aren't as bad as expected. The Sixty feels far more flickable than it looks, but also suffers a bicycle-like "floatiness" at speeds in excess of the legal limit. Not so much, however, that I would describe it as unsteady or worrying.

Brakes, meanwhile, are adequate. Especially within the aforementioned boundaries. You won't be doing any stoppies with the single-disc front brake, but I suffered no panics. In Europe, the Sixty is equipped with a rudimentary anti-lock braking system that is about as unobtrusive as ABS can be. Indian does not yet offer the feature on bikes sold in the United States, but I reckon it's only a certain amount of time until they do. And I'll bet the feature will be retrofittable.

The Sixty weighs a hell of a lot when you're muscling it around a driveway –– especially if that driveway has an incline. On the move, though, the weight is no hassle thanks to a low center of gravity.

Filtering (aka lane splitting) is easy. I mean, really, really easy. Off the top of my head, I can't think of a motorcycle I've ridden that's more effective at navigating through thick traffic. Though I wouldn't complain if the clutch lever were a little less stiff.

Comfort and Features

As mentioned above, the Sixty is more comfortable than expected. I am too tall for the standard set-up and had no screen, but was able to clock up just shy of 2,000 complaint-free miles over the space of a week.

Though the Sixty's seat is comfy it keeps the rider in a set position; you can't help but squirm after a while. Discomfort sets in at roughly the 100-mile mark, which I think is pretty good for a bike that wasn't set up for me and isn't targeted at long-distance riders.

Its 3.3-US-gallon tank is evidence of the latter. I'd normally complain about such a small tank, but the Sixty isn't too thirsty; 130 miles can be had before the fuel light comes on. So, something like 45 mpg reliably. Judicious riding will deliver better results.

Sans screen, the Sixty is most comfortable below 70 mph. Above that, you feel strain in your forearms. The good news, though, is I didn't experience the infamous cruiser head waggle at higher speeds.

The bike is minimalist, with a single display up front in the form of an analogue speedometer with digital information below. Mileage, trip meter, tachometer, engine temperature and gear indicator are all available via the display. The gear indicator isn't terribly reliable but you soon get used to the old-school method of keeping count in your head. Whereas the speedometer is spot-on accurate.

Out of the box, there's not much more to the Sixty in terms of features. Even bungee points are hard to find. I ended up strapping my bag to the rear shocks.


You wouldn't necessarily think of a cruiser as an all-the-time everyday machine, but the Sixty could easily fulfil that role. Especially if you're willing to splash out on an accessory rack and windscreen. It's ideal for lane splitting, it's comfortable, and it's relatively economical in terms of fuel consumption. It would be a great way to commute in style.

Thanks to its simple design, the Sixty is really easy to clean –– just hit it with a hose –– and belt drive means you never have to fuss with a chain. Changing the oil requires minimal effort, though you'll need a pretty shallow oil pan to accommodate the bike's ground clearance.

Rear tire valve access to check tire pressure requires a certain amount of dexterity and is all but impossible if the exhaust is hot, but I suspect I'm the only person in the world who checks tire pressure as much as they tell you to.

The old-school-styled round headlamp is surprisingly good at throwing light.

Build Quality

The Sixty is built to a price point, which is something you notice a little in the tires, suspension and aesthetic minimalism, but it is high-end inexpensive. The overall feeling is one of quality and durability. You could drop this bike and not have it bite you in the wallet.

In addition to the five-gear transmission, cost has also been saved in eschewing the chrome engine covers and cylinder heads found on the Scout. And the Sixty's seat is vinyl rather than leather. Personally I prefer the Sixty's look, and I feel that vinyl is less hassle –– especially considering how easy it is to remove/steal the Sixty's seat (no tools or keys required, just yank on it).

However, my biggest complaint about the bike is the cost saving that resulted in the Sixty's ugly, loose-wire-laden triple tree. It's a blemish on an otherwise beautiful bike and feels like a particularly strange cost-cutting measure.

On the larger Scout, the tree wiring is covered by a simple plate. Indian will sell you that plate, which pops right onto the Sixty, for roughly US $50. The absence of the plate feels like cost cutting for the sake of cost cutting. Though, to be fair, it's hard to think of anything else Indian could have shaved off on such a minimalist bike. Plus, it's an aesthetic sin you don't notice when riding the bike. It's easily covered; I found that space was perfect for a Kriega US10 dry bag. And, really, if the worst thing you can say about a bike is that it has some unsightly wiring, you're not doing too bad.

Chatting with a dealer about it, he and I half wondered if Indian didn't leave the wiring exposed on purpose, to serve as a quirky feature of the bike. Perhaps in 70 years a retro movement will see bikes of all brands copying the look of the Sixty's loose wires.

Final Verdict

Taken for what it is and what it is supposed to be, I'd argue that the Indian Scout Sixty is one of the best bikes out there today. Yes, you can get bikes that are faster, bikes that are cheaper, bikes that come equipped with more standard features. But overall, total package, the Sixty is hard to beat.

Very few of those other bikes will have people running out into the street to talk to you about it.

The Sixty can frustrate when its delightful package leads to thoughts beyond the perimeters of what it is and what it is supposed to be. I sincerely hope Harley-Davidson sells a bajillion Roadsters, if not simply to convince Indian that doing the same thing with its Scout/Scout Sixty platform is a good idea.

Back within the reality of what the Sixty is –– a cruiser –– one thing I really appreciate is how good a motorcycle it is at base price. You can always improve a motorcycle with aftermarket modifications, but I'm of the mind that the basic package should be good enough that those modifications don't feel like requirements. You can add to the Sixty, certainly. But you don't need to go diving into your pocket straightaway.

The Sixty is there to be enjoyed and loved as is. Simple, easy, fun, and very, very good.

The Three Questions:

Any time I review a bike, I try to think of it from a consumer's perspective, imagining that I'm being asked to spend my own money on the bike. In doing so, I always ask myself these three questions:

1) Does it fit my current needs/lifestyle?
Not really, but I like to think that with a little investment perhaps it could. Maybe. I don't know. The bike is good enough, though, that a part of me would like to try. However, I used to phrase this question as "Will it fit in my garden?" to which the answer here is no. The Sixty is too awkward to be maneuvered into the space I have for a motorcycle.

2) Does it put a grin on my face?
Yes. A huge one. The only time I was ever unhappy on the Sixty was when I had to give the keys back to Indian. Comfortable, fun, unique, and cool.

3) Is it better than my current bike?
That's a tricky one. On paper, the answer is no. But, as I say, the Sixty is a good enough motorcycle to make a person somewhat willing to forego the benefits of a Japanese bike for the inherent coolness of this one. Really, rather than being better than my beloved Suzuki V-Strom 1000, the Sixty is fantastic enough to make me ponder the practicalities of owning two motorcycles.

(Portions of this article were originally published on RideApart)

Friday, 13 May 2016

Exploring the Scout Sixty's Irish Heritage

When several weeks of gentle pleading recently resulted in Indian Motorcycle handing me the keys to a Scout Sixty, I knew exactly where I wanted to go: Ireland.

That's probably not what you were thinking. After all, the Sixty is a motorcycle imbued with more than a century of American heritage, seemingly designed first and foremost for the American road. But, as with so many American things, if you trace its history back far enough you'll find an Irish beginning.

In this case, that beginning is Charles B. Franklin, an engineer and motorcycle racer born in Dublin in 1880. There's a plaque commemorating Franklin's achievements outside the house where he was born. And, because among those achievements are the designs of both the original Indian Scout and Scout 101, it makes sense to ride the Sixty there.

My adventure starts, though, in Cardiff, Wales –– separated from Dublin by about 300 miles, roughly 80 of which are across the Irish Sea. I schedule a night ferry and set out to cross the breadth of Wales, which –– you probably didn't know –– is the birthplace of St. Patrick (yes, that St. Patrick). For me, the whole trip will be like this: tiny connections within tiny connections.

I learn of Prince's death just as I'm putting on my jacket to leave. Pointing the Sixty westward, I take certain pride in the fact its modern liquid-cooled V-twin engine was designed in Minnesota.

The roads are empty; the best time to travel across Wales, it seems, is after 9pm on a Thursday. This means I can relax and keep the bike below 65 mph. With no screen, that's where I'm happiest. The engine is capable of more (on another day I'll hit 105 mph) but going slow means not having to lean hard into the wind, not having to fight to hold on.

I've strapped a Kriega US10 bag to the triple tree and managed to secure an Oxford T50 Aqua rollbag to the fender, despite the lack of any bungee points. It's back-to-basics traveling. You know those hipster videos where some sexy tattooed person in a shirt that costs more than your monthly income straps a rolled Mexican blanket to the 'bars of a Sportster and takes six days to ride from San Diego to San Luis Obispo? That's how I feel: like someone cool.

No, that's not quite right. I feel legitimately cool. I like this vision of me. Everything feels right.

The Sixty's engine is smooth and drones into the darkness. To my surprise, despite the fact I am 6 feet 1 inch tall and the Sixty is mega-low, I am happy-comfortable. I arrive at the port too early, pull a Thermos of tea from my bag and wait.

After a while another motorcyclist shows up. He's just bought a BMW K1600GT in England and is taking it back to Ireland. Apparently he's saved a lot of money by buying it in the UK. We pass the time together trying to figure out what all the buttons and wheels and switches on his bike do. He delights in playing with the electronic suspension.

"Watch this, Chris," he says, making the bike go up and down. "Watch what she does."

I'm a big fan of techno whizzbangery, but the excessive amount of it on the K1600GT makes me appreciate the relative simplicity of the Sixty. Just turn the key and go.

Eventually, the handful of overnight travelers are allowed to board just before 2am. Four and a half hours later I roll off the boat at Rosslare with a lot more time to kill. Dublin is less than 100 miles away and the friend I'm staying with won't get home from work until 5 that evening. The best course of action is to try to get lost.

I adopt a tactic of approaching people and saying: "I'm trying to get to Dublin, but want to go by a really scenic route."

The Irish, though, know their country –– no wildly inaccurate suggestions are made. Not only do people give good directions, but offer suggestions of interesting things to see along the way. Even with tourist stops, though, I'm within The Pale by lunchtime, so I divert down into the Wicklow Mountains, the area that provides water for the Guinness brewery.

The narrow mountain roads here are of abysmal quality and too much for the Sixty's suspension. Fortunately, no one else is around. I slow to 10 mph and bounce along imagining I'm crossing the Himalayas. Every few miles I have to stop to re-secure the Oxford bag. There's something strangely fun about all this, but in hindsight I probably should have asked Indian to equip the bike with a rack.

This road was built by British soldiers in the early 1800s to allow them to hunt down Irish rebels. These days it connects a handful of charming towns, dotted by the odd pub or cafe in between. I stop to have tea and cake, and find myself in conversation with a 90-year-old woman who is baffled by Donald Trump. The Irish love to talk politics but her issue with him is a little less ideological.

"I can't understand how the hell any woman could go to bed with him," she says.

A little more than a century ago, the British would have still been patrolling these mountains. Charles Franklin would have been selling Indian motorcycles in Dublin and racing the bikes at the Isle of Man. He competed in the famous road race every year from 1908 to 1914. When World War I hit, a 33.3-percent tax on foreign luxury goods (such as motorcycles from America), designed to raise money for the British war effort, put him out of work.

Franklin landed on his feet, though, earning a position within Indian's design team and setting sail for Massachusetts in late 1916.

On my second morning, I have a severe hangover and have lost my voice from shout-talking with friends in the pub. This happens every time I come to Dublin, but today it's a little worse because I hadn't realized that the lager of which I consumed seven pints was 7 percent. I'm less resilient than I used to be...

I don't get moving until mid-afternoon. Eventually, though, I am steady enough to ride into the heart of Dublin. Almost exactly 100 years after Franklin left the city I find his house and park the Sixty in front of it to take pictures. Perhaps things were quieter when he lived here, but these days the road is busy, so I'm drawing a crowd.

"Jaysus! I never knew," exclaims one man after I explain what I'm doing. "I walk by this house every day, an' I never knew dat. She's a beautiful machine, man. An' yer man who's responsible was from right here. Dat's amazin'!"

As I take pictures he takes it upon himself to tell every passerby the story of Charles Franklin, which grows more elaborate with each telling. At one point, an open-top tourist bus is stopped in traffic and he's shouts up at them: "Do ye see diss gorgeous machine here? Diss amazin' American motorcycle here? It's the best motorcycle in the world, and the man who designed it was born an' raised right here in diss house!"

Franklin never returned to the house after 1916. He brought his family to Springfield, Massachusetts, in 1920 –– the same year he designed the first Scout. Two years later, he was responsible for the first Indian Chief. Then the lesser-known single-cylinder Prince in 1924, and the Scout 101 in 1928. The latter, of course, is the bike everyone remembers, the bike still favored by Wall of Death riders.

On this weekend the country is commemorating 100 years since the Easter Rising. Irish history is anything but clear cut, but some see that event as the beginning of the Irish revolutionary period –– the spark that helped lead to a free Ireland. Riding around on these streets, I wonder what Franklin must have thought about all that.

Of course, you can get too lost in thinking about these things. That night, my friend and I go to see an independent wrestling show and one of the bad guys is from Northern Ireland. The crowd chants "Sitch-yee ay-shun" ("situation" in a Northern Ireland accent) and he eggs them on in faux protest.

On my final day in Dublin, I pack up the bike under weak spring sunshine as my friend bounces his son on the Sixty's seat.

"Where to now?" he asks.

"I'm going to wander for a few days before catching the ferry back," I say. "I'm aiming for Tipperary today, then west to follow the coast."

"It's a long way to Tipperary," he says.

"So I've heard."

Sticking to smaller roads, I make leisurely progress south. The secondary roads, known as N roads, are gentle and undulating. The speed limit on them is 100 kph (62 mph), and Irish drivers are surprisingly respectful of the law. It all makes for an environment that leaves me imagining something more than looks has been carried forward from the Scout models of yore.

The Irish spirit is in there, too. The Sixty fits this place well. And the country's citizens somehow sense the connection. When I'm stopped, or even just moving slowly through villages, people walk out into the road to talk to me about the bike. Parents ask to have their children be photographed on it.

With the exception of mountain passes, most of the roads are good and I manage to avoid heavy rain. Even going slow, though, the smallness of Ireland reveals itself. I get from point A to point B far too quickly, so I loop back and ride the same roads again.

In this way I suppose the bike reveals its American nature; it makes me long for roads that never end.


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.


Wednesday, 11 May 2016

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.


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.


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.