We’ve a few ‘go on us’ recently, to use an Old School expression of the day.
Let’s see. David Bowie at 69 years. The Eagles’ Glenn Frey at 67. Jefferson Airplane’s Paul Kantner at 74. Not to mention the Afro-haired creator of Earth, Wind & Fire, Maurice White, also 74. He helped us transition from rock into disco (and pick up younger chicks more easily).
None of them were famous for riding motorcycles, but their music was the soundtrack to our youth. In this pre-internet-download age, we heard them on LPs scratched by too many wild parties or tapes that would occasionally warble as the panel van hit a bump in the road. The more sophisticated types listened to them on eight-track stereos or even on reel-to-reel tapes.
Some of us made do with Casey Kasem’s ‘coast to coast’ singles countdown of their hits booming out of a waist-high valve radio. We’d scored this old relic, in walnut veneer and with a curtain covering the speaker, at the local secondhand shop and installed it in our garage workshop.
Interesting days and an era that was never going to last for ever.
But do the lives of these seventies rock gods give us a roadmap for the future?
Paul Kantner was co-founder of Jefferson Airplane, that ultimate hippy-trippy sound machine. He went on to form Starship with Grace Slick and was the only person to play in all incarnations of the band. Sounds a bit like the typical seventies rider you see now in vintage racing.
Like the others mentioned above, he never gave up on his love of music and performing.
And so it is with motorcycling. With such a choice of makes and models there is no reason not to keep riding.
More likely than not, the person taking off the helmet at the servo after parking a blinged-up sportsbike will have a grey crewcut, not the pomaded quiff of a thirty-something.
Some people may scoff at this but I reckon it’s part of our generation’s ‘never say die’ attitude.
We see no reason not to keep on doing what turns us on. ‘If it feels good, do it’ was our seventies mantra.
But sometimes it’s easy to feel guilty about our selfish obsession with motorcycles and riding.
For example, in the lead-up to Harley-Davidson’s Centenary celebrations I had travelled twice to the US within months on launches.
When I got the invite to the actual celebration my workplace was under the pump. Torn between hedonism and responsibility, I asked my boss if I should go.
His reply came in the form of a question: “Do you think you will be lying on your deathbed saying, Gee I’m pleased I didn’t go to Harley’s 100th?”
The other day I saw a whimsical magazine quote from Stephanie Sheene, that ultimate London dolly bird of the late 60s and early 70s. “The 70s were like one big summer. Then you wake up one morning and realise that you had a really good time then, but now it’s all gone.”
Does it really have to be like that?
Last week I was killing time at an airport when a middle-aged cleaner came across to wipe down the café table I was sitting at.
He asked me what article I was reading. It was AMCN’s mini-feature about the Harley factory designer’s flat-track-inspired Sportster project, one of my favourite custom bikes.
“I used to own a Yamaha V-Star but I can’t ride two wheels anymore because I’ve had this replaced twice,” he said patting his left hip.
“So now I’ve got a Can-Am Spyder. It gives me a similar feeling but I miss not being able to lean over into the corners. You’ll see a lot of people like me on Can Ams,” he added as he shuffled off.
Ride on, bro, I thought to myself.
By Hamish Cooper
