Enthusiasts are kinda weird, aren't we? I say that with all the fondness and recognition possible. I am one, after all, and I love our brand of weirdness.
But mostly, I love our passion.
Like, do I necessarily need to know the intricacies of how one team of engineers decided to package a specific bike? Unless it's one that I own or will own in the future, probably not. But that doesn't mean I won't enjoy hearing how excited you are when you tell me all about it.
That passion, that point where a single engineering choice has moved you so much; it matters. Especially in a world and a time when our attention spans are all so short. If it held your passion that strongly, for that long, then it's definitely meaningful.
And the thing is, I think that's what draws most motorcycle enthusiasts together, regardless of our (or our bikes') age.
It's a uniting factor that's difficult to define in exact terms, but that is nonetheless there. It's not finite and concrete; rather, it exists in the space of how bloody excited we get about the bikes that we love. It's all about the passion, in any decade, and regardless of what era the bikes we're so passionate about come from. You can tell when it's real; there's something that comes through when you're having a discussion with someone that's far more than just tossing horsepower and torque figures around like so many walking spec sheets.
Some time ago, I got an email from a very nice reader who had somehow concluded that I was much older than I actually am from the bikes that I choose to write about. Or possibly, from the bikes that I own and have written about; I'm not really sure. Part of that was probably that the reader was, themselves, an older person (I know this because they said so in their email), and so they saw me through that lens. Which is fine, except that I'm not.
But it's a bit funny to me in a way that I think will only be funny to anyone who's also spent time in automotive enthusiast circles. Over on the car side, people don't blink twice if you're a 20-something but talk about how a bucket list trip for you would be getting over to Goodwood, or how your dream car is a Buick GNX. Or if you're a 30-something and your hot take is that you'd take a 1969 Toyota 2000GT over any year Jaguar E-Type any day of the week. (Gimme that vintage 2000GT any day of the week and twice on Sundays, just for the record.)
It's just a normal and accepted part of car culture that, as an enthusiast of any age, you'd appreciate the depth and breadth of automotive history and have formed opinions and automotive crushes and wish lists accordingly.
But why isn't it the same way with motorcycles?
I have some ideas about where the differences come from, although I can't prove any of them. Some of it likely stems from the difference in how both vehicle genres are perceived culturally. Cars are something that are part of people's lives from beginning to end, regardless of whether you're an enthusiast or not. Even if you don't drive them, they're still around you. Not quite as ubiquitous as air, but close.
In the US and Canada, motorbikes are ridden more by choice than necessity, and they also have a reputation for being more dangerous than cars. Those differences undoubtedly color our perceptions of them. If you're in a culture where motorbikes are as (or even more) ubiquitous than cars, it's likely quite different. I can't offer an informed opinion on this point, as I've only visited but not lived in those places. Funnily enough, although I have family in a place that's ruled by motorbikes, they don't really ride!
And yet, ultimately, I think those who are motorcycle enthusiasts and those who are car enthusiasts may have more in common than we might always realize.
Usually, in both cases, it's about passion; whether it's in ourselves or in those we bond with in the hobby or that we can sense from the engineers who made whatever bike or car we're head over heels for at the moment. Quite often, it's all of the above, or at least a combination of some of the above.
While not every enthusiast will ever work on their own bike or car, a lot of us do. Maybe we try it, decide we don't like it, and move on; or maybe (more likely) we develop a potentially debilitating (at least, to our wallets) propensity for picking up this weird tool that only works on one model and that weird spare part that only fits two! entire! models and then squirreling them away for the future. (Entire spare parts bike for your baby, anyone? I see you in the back there, trying to shrink away from this question uncomfortably. You can't hide.)
From years of observation, chatting with fellow enthusiasts, visiting events, and so on, the conclusion I've come to is that, ultimately, it's about that sense of passion. I can't tell you how many people I've had comment after I've talked about my VF500F Interceptor, who've told me that it was their first bike and they loved it. I love that for them, and I'm so happy it made such a great impression on them!
But that's not why I, specifically, felt the need to get my hands on one in the 21st century. I was technically alive at the time they were new, but I couldn't even have reached the foot pegs, let alone actually ridden it. (I was probably too busy asking Santa for Pound Puppies at the time.)
Comparing my VF500F and my Hawk GT650, even though they're less than a decade apart in age, it's not difficult to see the changes in thinking that went into engineering both of these bikes. There are a lot of strange choices on the VF500F (you actually have to remove a piece of the frame to access the water pump on the VF500F, which is extra funny/questionable since getting inside is part of regular maintenance), while the Hawk seems more thoughtful in terms of whoever's going to have to maintain the thing throughout its natural life cycle.
And more than that, of course, there's the fact that even if I bugger it up badly, I can even attempt to work on either of these bikes. As I've discussed more recently, it's at best difficult and at worst completely impossible to practically work on a lot of newer bikes unless you have ready access to a dealer's computer.
But those are practical concerns, and I started this ramble talking about passion, dammit.
And really, that's the thing about certain older bikes. You can practically feel the passion radiating off of them. The more you dig in and see the weird, wonderful and/or terrible choices that engineers made—and the choices they took, whether they ultimately stuck the landing or not—the clearer it becomes that these bikes were designed by living, breathing people.
People who cared. Not faceless, soulless design by committee. You can always, always tell when someone cares, no matter what it is that they're doing.
I'm not saying that doesn't still happen in the modern era, but I am saying there are fewer examples, and that it doesn't come through as strongly. To enthusiasts, that perception of passion is like catnip. Like a fine single malt. Like the most delicious dessert you've ever tasted.
It's what moves us. And if you're a fellow enthusiast and you've read this far, thank you. Let me know what kind of gorgeous, weird old bike(s) you love in the comments!
