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FOUR of us from the Friday Club, a ragtag group of media folk
covering the motoring beat and young execs from the auto industry,
were indulging in our passion for brew and brainless blabber at a
bar in Palanca Street, Makati, on a recent balmy night—a
Wednesday. Which only underscores how brainless the entire thing
really was. But no matter the day, so long as there were bottles of
cold brew.
Anyway, our rather insightful discourse on the
reason tokwa should or should not be paired with baboy was bluntly
interrupted when a guy on a Harley—ape bars, open pipes and
all—blasted down Palanca and drowned out every discreet, scheming,
witty or moronic conversation that was unfolding at the time. The
racket spouted by the V-Twin cut through glass windows, pierced
eardrums, muffled out music rock and chill-out alike. Necks craned
in the Harley’s wake.
When things quieted down, Vernon, he who adds
babes to brew and brainless blabber, asked me if all motorcycles
should really be that loud. It wasn’t the first time he had
expressed disdain over such matters, as I recalled he got pissed
when three guys near our sidewalk table revved their Japanese sport
bikes one night the Friday Club was in Rockwell. I knew noisy bikes
deeply annoyed him.
I, with help from the coquettish Jeff (at that
point we’ve momentarily lost Dong as he engaged in his usual SMS
professions of affection), assured Vernon that Harley-Davidsons
really sound that way. We weren’t completely honest, of course.
Harleys aren’t the least bit quiet, but they are not always as
loud as the one that bellowed past us. That one, as I’ve
mentioned, had straight, open pipes—a customization piece.
Now if you’re the type who is drawn to buy a
Harley, then you’re the type who won’t leave your bike alone.
You simply must customize it, transform it into your screaming
signature, your unique identity for all the world to see, hear
and—yes—get annoyed at. Which, come to think of it, captures the
essence of what motorcycling is about.
Thumbing through a months-old issue of Sport
Rider, I stumbled across a piece written by an evident bike guy. His
prose wasn’t particularly polished but there was no denying the
clarity of his thoughts on matters motorcycling—especially on
those that defined what motorcycling culture is.
He reminisced on how as a teen—on a day he
said he had always recognized he would never forget—he took his
first bike on his first ride around town. He recalled how scary and
fumbling those first moments were. Of how he felt so vulnerable
being exposed to traffic and the elements. Things every newbie rider
had gone through.
But as every experienced rider would later on
learn, that initial feeling of anxiety quickly turns into utter
delight. For the aforementioned writer, his joyful moment came when
another motorcyclist heading the opposite way waved at him—a
universal, almost obligatory gesture among riders. It was a
realization, he said, that the world sees him differently simply
because he rides a motorcycle—which again, is something
universally recognized by riders.
It’s a feeling that’s not always pleasant.
More often than not the views directed by the general public at
motorcyclists are negative ones. Not a day passes without me hearing
a single complaint against riders in underbones and scooters. A lot
of the time too, it’s me who does the grumbling.
On how this and that idiot stubbornly refuses to
move out of the fast lane when he’s 50 kph slower than the traffic
behind him; on how this and that idiot insists on wearing his helmet
on his elbow; on how this and that idiot couldn’t take traffic
signs and lights as orders and not mere suggestions. The list goes
on.
However, even conscientious motorcyclists are
not spared from public scorn. Mall parking lot guards, who never
fail to “Good-morning-Sir-Ma’am” me when I’m driving, treat
me like dirt when I’m riding. And it’s a lamentation I hear over
and over again from other bikers as well.
But I guess these things are understandable.
Because generally speaking, motorcycling as an activity is almost
always met with disdain. Bikers’ relatives hate the fact that a
loved one had chosen to ride. Bikers’ non-riding friends regard
their buddy as an idiot—and one who stinks, too. Bikers’
coworkers think they’re nuts. Society, as a whole, view
motorcycles as irksome at the very least and downright ominous at
worst.
Now not to justify the faults or defend the
braggadocio of most riders, but you see, motorcycling is supposed to
annoy people. Motorcycling is not supposed to please all or appeal
to everybody. Because by its very nature, a motorcycle brings
pleasure only to the motorcyclist riding atop it—or to fellow
riders, at the very least. True to its roots, a motorcycle was, is
and will always remain as a dirty-finger stab at convention, an
in-your-face trash talk aimed at a homogenized society. Simply put,
it’s rock n’ roll.
And it’s loud.
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