The Mayor of Alki
by
Harjeet Dhillon

Halfway across the West Seattle Bridge, Nicolai, my riding buddy, eases back slightly on his black Triumph Speed Triple. I pull out of my lane and with a twist of the wrist, my Suzuki SV650S roars ahead. The sun is sinking and the air rushing past my helmet has a chill that was not there an hour ago, when we raced across Lake Washington on a whim. It was Nicolai’s idea. He wanted to see if there was a sportbike scene over at the lakeside in Kirkland. Oh yeah, and the women. He wanted to check out the women. I have known Nicolai for all of two hours but we are getting along swimmingly.

We come off the exit and head toward Alki Beach, our bikes snapping at the tires of the car in front. Progress is painfully slow though and we have to crawl to a stop, which affords us the chance to engage in some people watching. To my right, a snake of humanity walks, jogs, unicycles, skateboards or rollerblades in spandex to some elusive promised land of spiritual nirvana and a low cholesterol count.

On our left, sportbikers headed in the opposite direction constantly pass by us on shiny sleek machines, headlights dazzling, and almost without exception, all throw out a lazy, low peace sign, the universal salute among motorcyclists. The grizzled old guys on Harleys ignore us, staring impassively ahead. They seem to regard us not so much as brothers but as bastard stepchildren.

We finally make it back to our starting point, where a hardcore gaggle of sportbikers still lingers, catcalling the import car drivers and collecting phone numbers from nubile young women as the evening light fades. The greetings are quick and the conversation flows freely. We are back in friendly territory, among comrades.

What binds us together is the rush of riding, an understanding of its perils, and defiance – sheer bloody-minded attitude that faces down disapproving parents and partners and counters ignorance and outright hostility, not just from the four-wheel herd but even from within the motorcycling community.
I began this endeavor as a curious outsider to this world, a writer in search of a story, but by the end I felt like I’d made a connection - I belonged. These people didn’t berate me, lecture me or ridicule me. On the contrary, they reveled in their outsider status and enjoined me to do the same. If my circle of squares has made me feel like a freak for riding a motorcycle, then it is these misfits that taught me to embrace that label. And vive le difference!

Motorcycles and the people who ride them have always elicited strong reaction one way or another, and like many riders I have just about given up on convincing my skeptical friends that no, I don’t have a death wish, and yes, I am aware of the risks. Among the general public, ignorance abounds and attitudes are still informed by sensationalist media reporting and outdated B-movie biker caricatures.

But it wasn’t till I traded in my sedate Honda cruiser for a zippier Suzuki SV650S that I found out that anti-motorcyclist prejudice hasn’t waned since it’s 60s heyday; it just shifted in recent years from the traditional American chopper riding outlaw to the sportbike crowd.
I decided to look further into this trend and talk to some of my fellow riders on the road. As if to confirm how desperately the sport needs some good PR, a fellow writing acquaintance remarked only half jokingly, “If you come back next week with a broken jaw, we’ll know you made contact”.

I headed toward Alki Beach, a popular watering hole place for motorcyclists of all stripes and colors from all over the Greater Seattle area and beyond. As a resident of the neighborhood, I am very familiar with the motor vehicle migratory patterns of the area. Anytime the sun peeps out and the temperature rises, the streets resound with the sounds of rumbling v-twin cruisers and screaming sports machines, much to the consternation of the neighborhood residents.

The riders of the cruisers and touring machines, often sporting Harley Davidson colors, usually congregate at one end of the beach, in front of the Alki Tavern, a hopelessly dilapidated dive bar, which in recent months has been sporting a blue tarp over the roof.
The sportbikers on the other hand gather at the other end in front of a block of café establishments, book ended by the Pepperdock Café, a greasy spoon burger joint and the Homefront Espresso, a juice and coffee bar.

If the character of the hangouts does not suggest how different the two camps are, the striking differences in demographics are obvious even to the casual observer. The riders of the heavy cruiser machines are typically dour white men in their late 40s and up. They typically don a uniform and a pose which can best be described as the Leather Guy in the Village People but without the camp irony. Underneath this bad ass demeanor, more likely than not, beats the heart of a dentist or lawyer. It takes a lot of money to look like a blue collar hero.

The sportbikers on the other hand are striking in comparison, a kaleidoscope of skins tones and dialects, ranging in age from early 20s through early 40s and almost all ride brands with names that end in a vowel. In both camps, women riders are somewhat rare but elicit friendly attention and respect when they roll by.

I pull into the curb opposite the Pepperdock, take off my helmet and observe for a while. Compliments on one’s bike are accepted currency at such gatherings and once the conversation flows, invitations to barbeques and group rides are generously exchanged.

I strike up a conversation with Jeff - or “J” as he prefers to be called - as he dismounts from his Suzuki GSX-1000R. “J”, 38, cuts an imposing figure with his body builder physique, shaved head and goatee. If anyone were going to break my jaw, it would be “J”. He works as a bouncer at various Seattle nightspots. On this occasion however “J” is nothing but a polite and thoughtful ambassador for motorcycling. I ask him to talk about why motorcycling in general and sportbikers in particular provoke such hostility among the public.

“People who are afraid of motorcycles, know of someone who died on one, or they just don’t understand,” he says, “It’s just like Rock and Roll. It’s the Devil’s work.”

“If they got to know the person under the helmet, they’d find a cop or a doctor or a lawyer. For a lot of people it’s just how they relax, how they blow some frustration. I think it’s better to get on a motorcycle and blow some frustration than go sit in a bar and get hammered.”

Unfortunately two of “J”’s riding buddies chose to mix the two with deadly consequences, each crashing fatally on consecutive Sundays in June 2003. In their memory, he carries their names in decal letters on the tail of his bike. “They were good guys who made bad choices,” he laments.

He compliments me on my skull ring, which I wear more in tribute to the great Keith Richards, the pharmaceutically fortified guitarist with the Rolling Stones, than to make any bold statement about my motorcycle affiliations.

He then shows me a tiny bell in the shape of a skull that hangs from the underside of the tail of his bike as a good luck talisman, and whose gentle chime reminds him to take it easy on his bike, to enjoy the journey, rather than rush to the destination.

“I’m scared of it,” he admits, looking at this bike, “Bones only go so far. That’s why I have this little skull to remind me.”

I don’t expect this comment. It takes a mature and painfully honest individual to admit that his own wheels intimidate him. But it’s a good attitude to have when riding one of these unforgiving machines. “J”’s bike provides a good example of the awesome power that he must harness responsibly when he twists his right grip. His Gixxer has a top speed of 176mph and from a standing start reaches 60mph in just 2.7 seconds.

One could argue – and some with nanny like tendencies do - that no-one needs such a machine, a two wheeled land missile that will reach 100mph in first gear, a $10,000 machine that cannot be bested by exotic, four wheeled Euro hardware costing 20 times as much. It could also be argued that no-one needs a 6400 pound SUV which gets 13 mpg and shares its name with a slang expression for the act of fellatio. But I digress.

While “J” maintains a healthy respect for his machine, he regrets the incidence of young men who buy such machines as their first bike.

“There’s a lot of bravado factor in their decision,” he says shaking his head. “When I see a guy with a hot bike and I detect attitude I tell them, ‘Man, I hope you have good life insurance ‘cos I don’t think you’ll be riding with me in a few weeks’.”

“Another reason these guys buy these bikes is to get girls,” he continues. “You get a lot of attention on a sport bike.” This is an understatement. In the short time that I’ve owned my bike, I have seen longing stares from car drivers, been goaded to race or do stunts on the highway by other sportbikers, and most unexpectedly, been the recipient of come hither smiles and smoldering stares from young women. If my long-suffering wife knew what a babe magnet bike I unwittingly talked her into letting me buy, she would probably make me trade it in on a Segway.

I witness an odd but illustrative scene on Alki that turns the familiar hooker and john scenario on its head. As the sportbikers huddle and chat about their machines, young women, alone and in groups, repeatedly cruise by in their cars at a snail’s pace. Eventually, Steve, a doughy young man in his twenties - who bears a disconcerting resemblance to Cartman in the animated show South Park - steps out in front of a car, and squats down to talk to the occupants of the vehicle while a line of cars builds up. After a minute or two - in which time no-one dares to honk the biker - he breaks away triumphant and comes back smiling, bearing a scrap of paper with phone numbers scrawled on it. In the next 20 minutes, he will add three more numbers to his tally. The Devil’s work indeed.

During my conversation with “J”, passing motorists, bikers and pedestrians wave and call out to him. It’s uncanny how everyone seems to know him.
“I’m the Mayor of Alki,” he jokes, “Everyone knows me.”

He makes to leave to meet with some friends, but not before we promise to hook up for a ride some time. “If you’re on two wheels, you’re a brother,” he says with utmost sincerity.

Later on I manage to find someone to ride with. Nicolai, a 23 year old Bulgarian from Edmonds is busting to take his black Triumph Speed Triple for a dash to the beach in Kirkland to see what the scene is like there. The ride is a blast and I am pleasantly surprised and relieved by the fact that he rides responsibly and respects my need to take it easy on my bike, which is still being broken in.

Over two unseasonably warm spring weekends, I met with many sportbikers, of all ages and backgrounds. The riders that I met were not thugs, gangsters or lowlifes, just regular guys with a passion for their sport and a palpable spirit of comradeship for other riders. The average motorist chooses to see reckless speed freak with a death wish, but I would implore that motorist to look closer. Without exception all the riders that I talked too were fully kitted out in protective gear and full-face helmets in contrast with much of the Harley crowd.

And if sportbikers look like they’re in a hurry, maybe it’s because they’d rather spend as little time in the proximity of motorists as possible. Motorists might have a lot more respect for motorcyclists if they spent just one day riding pillion on public streets. Perhaps then they’d think twice before reaching down to fiddle with their shiny in-car entertainment rather than concentrate on the road ahead. Maybe they’d think better of yakking on their cell phone when driving through busy city traffic. And perhaps they’d wait till they got home before they started their college reading assignment (yes, really).

I may be biased but my sympathies and loyalties lie with my brothers and sisters on two wheels. We have a bond forged out of a common love for the freedom and exhilaration that riding brings, and an understanding of the danger that lurks all around. We even acknowledge membership in this club by giving an approaching rider a wave.

Most motorcyclists, whatever their ride and whatever their style are familiar with the scornful term “cager” to refer to motorists. It is commonly understood to describe a person who prefers to quite literally travel in a steel box. But perhaps that isn’t the real meaning. Maybe the term “cage” is a metaphor for the closed mind of the driver behind the wheel of an SUV or minivan, who, contemplating a motorcyclist in the lane next to them, asked, “What on earth are they thinking, riding one of those things?”

Keep the shiny side up and the rubber side down.