Off Two Wheels

On this day two years ago I sold my motorcycle.

It was not supposed to be that way. I’d been riding actively for six years, with some 30,000 miles under me in that time, on three of my bikes and a few borrowed ones. I rode more than I drove, and did some things on two wheels I never could have on four.

I liked bikes before I liked cars, as a little kid in Bosnia. In my hometown, driving was optional, and a lot of people rode mopeds and scooters to extend their range and speed up transit a little bit. Full-fledged motorcycles were rare, but a neighbor of my grandparents’ had a few different ones throughout the years, always parked outside his house. I remember they were mostly fully faired sportbikes, though at one point I saw a flashy cruiser instead.

In college I took a riding class and got my license, and some time after graduating got my hands on my first motorcycle, a blue Suzuki SV650S. By that point I’d been a few years removed from said class, and I was afraid of the bike, so I putted around the neighborhood a little bit, never got used to it, and sold it after a while.

Years later I wanted to do it right, so I took the class again and bought a bike right away, a Kawasaki Ninja 500R. I bought it in the Bay Area and rode it 400 miles home to Los Angeles over two days, with effectively no experience riding outside of parking lots. To this day I remember that adventure quite well. It started with riding the bike around the parking lot near the seller’s place, to be just a bit used to it before hitting the road. I then rode on a big boulevard for a few miles to get some practice at speed, and then entered the freeway, which was surprisingly easy. It got dark before I got to my hotel, so I found a different one in a tiny town, and have since stopped by it again several times, in a sense thanking it for saving my butt that night. The following day I made it home, the most notable memory being the moment I exited the freeway in LA, when someone immediately cut me off, welcoming me back to the urban jungle.

I crashed that bike in my only real accident barely a month later. I broke my thumb and learned not to be too cocky. Uncharacteristically for me, I stubbornly fixed the bike, which was mostly fine, but in need of a new cockpit. A “streetfighter” is a sportbike with fairings removed, usually because of crash damage according to lore—since it got into a fight with the street—and that’s what I did with mine. Since it was kind of shitty by that point I affectionally called it the Shitfighter for the rest of our time together. It was very, very orange, in spite of the color officially being “Kawasaki Yellow”, and that became its signature meme.

I replaced it after about a year and a half with a natural successor of sorts, a gray Yamaha XSR700. The new hotness was retro looking but functionally modern, and provided further room for modifications, though this time not necessitated by crashing but inspired by want. I took a low speed skills course with this bike and rode it all over LA, for both commuting and fun. Unfortunately for my finances, within six months I’d found its successor, and three months after that sold it to a friend.

My last bike was the one. It was a black Yamaha FJ-09, and it was the perfect bike for me. Upright seating position, slightly swept back footpegs, mahoosive windscreen, giant top case, and an absolutely brilliant three-cylinder engine. The bike was made to fit me both in terms of fit and riding style. In our four years together we traveled up and down California, did numerous miles in and around LA, filtered and lane-split through traffic, carved canyons, got groceries, preserved mental health during peak pandemic days…

When I met my wife, we lived just far enough from each other that dating had suspicious odds of success. I was only willing to date someone living inconveniently far—it’s an LA thing—because I could skip a lot of the traffic on two wheels. In the two and a half months we dated before moving in together, I’d ridden to see her numerous times, and truly believe that ability partly enabled us to build the relationship we have.

My usual itch for something new kept rearing its ugly head, but I could literally never think of another bike I wanted more. When my friend who bought the XSR from me was moving out of town, I bought it back, thinking I might enjoy having a physically smaller bike for what had become predominantly city riding. After just a few rides I decided to keep the FJ after all.

Sadly, in 2022 my wife got sick. We were always very COVID-cautious, but she got bit and never got better. Between Long COVID, ME/CFS, and everything else she’s been dealing with as a result of the infection, our life rather quickly started looking quite different. She became more reliant on me than either of us ever expected, and the reality of that responsibility couldn’t be ignored. Over time I found myself riding less and less, weighing the risks more heavily than ever before, and eventually the time to hang up the helmet came.

I got lucky that a friend I’ve ridden with wanted to buy the bike from me, so I got to see it go to what I knew was a good home. It was bittersweet, but necessary. And since nothing’s changed for the better about my risk profile, it remains so, sadly. I miss riding more than I really know how to express.

---

---

Thanks for reading! You can keep up with my writing via the feed or newsletter, or you can get in touch via email or Mastodon.

---