Reason 3,212: They Root for You

There is the obvious danger and the occassional brutal exposure to the elements but the good reasons still keep pouring in. A stoplight means you head to the front of line. A drawbridge means you congregate to banter at the bridge precipice. So why a motorcycle? I´m fresh off an eight-day camping binge. Some of the sites were magnificent . . . facing the crashing, turbulent surf with backs to a freshwater lake and not a soul in sight . . . as far as camp sites go -- knockout drop-dead gorgeous. There is no way -- none -- that I could navigate my way halfway up Brazil´s coast, not stay in a hotel, sleep in some of the past outstanding nooks with, let´s say, a bus, car or helicopter. Time and time again, I´ve ferreted this small, simple engine over sandy paths, into thin brush, and through neglected muddy roads gloriously into a chunk of woods (or beach, or bluff, or Patagonia) that would be otherwise elusive, too remote. Getting there, going where you wouldn´t think to go, returning to what I know best -- it lights a certain pride. Maybe it´s a Pacific Nor´West particularity. Maybe everyone has it. The manageable motorcyle really helps out. That´s just reason one. It´s also an admission ticket into a loose fraternity. I might draft behind the slipstream of a truck with another rider. We're unable to exchange a word. When their exit comes up, they'll flash a thumbs up or the "Hang Loose" before drifting off the highway. (Close your fist. Extend just the pinky and thumb. Rotate. Yup, "Hang Loose", that's the one.) Then, topping off at a gas station, people see the backpacks lashed in as passenger and come up to explain an adventure from their past. They might recommend a good sight along our way or even a shortcut. One guy just wanted to prattle on about the dozen different types of motorcycles he had once owned. All of them part with the same blessing: "Suerte." ("Good luck.") It's not just other bike owners. Everyone else is aboard. In two of the hotels, the workers seemed to like the trip we were trying to piece together. Sure, just park ´em in the lobby, they said, no need to search for a garage. Push it right through the front door and prop it back in that corner. It´s not like the thing will beep when you pop it into reverse. It doesn't even have reverse. Or the two construction flaggers. The first knocked his hat off as if my ferocious current of wind blew it off. (I was slowing down.) The other flagger further along twirled his flag in a rapid figure 8, as if I were first to cross the black & white checkers of the Indy 500 finishline. (I was going really slow at this point.) That's rattling off a couple of reasons. Scooter babes wink at you, too. I hear helicopter babes are more frigid.