Motorcycling One-“Oh Sh*t”-One
By: Chase Stockwell
Tags: Goal Setting, Satire, Motorcycle, Humor, Bike

Twenty-six times more likely to die compared to a car crash, but hey, now you have a ‘fun fact’ for life.

I’m in love with biker culture.

Now, I know that this may be surprising to hear. After all, I don’t show my affinity for “the iron horse” very often; I’ve never ripped a cig in my life, keep a neatly trimmed beard, and have baby smooth skin, devoid of scars, tattoos, tattoos of scars, and scarred-up tattoos.

If I do my mid-life crisis right, this will be the result.

A few weeks back, a friend and I were talking about dream cars. In an effort to stifle my constant harping after she couldn’t come up with one, she retorted, “Well, what’s yours then?”

I hesitated. “You know,” I began. “I’m not really sure what I would like.” Hypocritical, I know. Eventually, I mumbled some big, dumb Ford F-150 truck that I had seen advertised during a Super Bowl commercial. I grimaced as I said it. I like to think that I’m a unique individual, and this answer just felt like I followed a script that checks the box that yes, despite my former housemate’s insistence, I am a man.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’ve never been a car junkie, nor the second coming of JiffyLube Christ. Hell, I’ve never even made my computer background some random luxury vehicle. (Seriously, somebody should do a study of what percent of elementary school kids that have Corvette’s on their Windows screens drop out of college. I kid, I kid, but you know what I mean).

And you know, I thought about it some more. What do I really like? Because when I see a car, I’m all about practicality. I get that people take out a second mortgage to get something that goes 0 to 60 in time it takes me itch my kneecap…actually, I don’t.

But, just for the sake of the argument, let’s say I did. How do those people feel when they gun it on the 520 bridge late at night to prevent the road’s camera capturing a clear image of the license plate and drive over toll-free? Badass, I figure. Hopefully not invincible. Definitely not laid back.

Reference for out-of-state readers

So I took those words, and applied it to my own interests. What did I think was cool? As someone who makes fun of everyone and everything that dares to put itself into the disparaging public eye, what did I think was un-ironically badass?

I guess this story requires some context. Motorcycles have been ingrained into my genetic code. Grandpa Stockwell, a lifelong Canadian farmer, was a huge motorcycle head. By the time he past, he had a rotating cycle of 8–10 bikes at his arsenal. He rode those things until the last minute that he could.

This is not my grandpa, but you get the idea. Wish it was though, ideal three-quarter life crisis bod.

My dad, as this crazy mechanic’s offspring, was thrust on bikes ever since he was 13 years old. Growing up on a stockyard in Denton, Texas, where chasing the tumbleweed across the town was the key to finding the end of the rainbow, motorcycling was the only way to get around. He started with a tiny, 150cc “tyke bike” and worked his way up from there.

I can (maybe not proudly) say that this part of my family is responsible for part of a hole in the ozone with how much my grandpa and his sons, my dad included, rode.

My dad said that for his high school graduation, my grandpa took him on a two week, 1,175 mile, biking trip from Denton, Texas to Detroit, Michigan. C’mon, the image of my old man, who can’t stay awake through a 21 minute bout of George Lopez on Nick at Nite if you held a gun to his temple, swerving in between cars going 85 on his bike as he rode across the States. That’s un-ironically badass.

all. my. friends. know a lowriderrrrrr.

But I’ve done some cool stuff too, I thought to myself. I’ve ran three marathons across two continents (three total lol, slow your roll), and last March, completed my first ‘100 mile week’ of running just to make my last college Spring Break somewhat memorable, otherwise covid would’ve won. But all this motorcycle stuff was next level. Sure, I could have my frolics, but nothing puts hair on your chest quite like revving that Harley engine.

So, I decided to do something about it. Two years ago, I enrolled in one of those Harley introductory biking courses. Even though I was the youngest, smoothest, and by far the least careful of the other participants, I felt confident. I don’t say this often, but this time, genetics were on my side.

I memorized all the instructions for how to use my newfound “motorcycle powers” for good instead of evil, and scored a 100 on my motorcycle written exam. I felt like Jango at the Police Academy in 21 Jump Street. My smarts were all in them libros.

Do yourself a favor and rewatch this movie.

And just like Jonah, I needed (still need) a Channing to help me figure out how to ride the damn bike. Filtering for my life, my She’s the Man superstar came in the form of my iPad navigating, wine tasting father.

So, after a week of practicing gear shifting, engine stalling, accelerating, braking, engine stalling again, and riding so many ‘figure eights’ until I would’ve pinned the tail on the donkey’s eye socket, I took the riding exam. In fairy-tale like fashion, I crushed that test. And by crushed, I totally mean that I got the minimum score needed to pass. But you already knew that.

This is where we leave our hero, motorcycling license in hand (when he hasn’t misplaced it) searching for the next step on his journey.

I re-invigorated my thrill of riding a few weeks ago, when my dad rented a Harley Davidson CVO for the weekend, and we cruised through every parking lot you can name… because you know, parking lots have names. And, other than one spectacular stumble during dismount, I was right at home on the bike. It felt like that rugged, gravely, hunk of metal that had attracted me to motorcycling in the first place. And after that day, I knew that I had to make this my dream ride.

this cool and all, but how do you get it out of here.

You know, I really don’t know what I wanted to accomplish by writing this bit. Maybe to just have an answer to my favorite vehicle that isn’t super lame. Or maybe to connect closer with my now deceased grandpa, and use motorcycling as a vehicle of tradition, where my dad has graduated to the teacher, and I the student, and together, we are able to properly grieve my grandpa’s passing through motorcycling hand signals… Nah, that’s probably too deep.

I might just be to say the goal out loud. That one day, not only will I be able to ride like the back of my hand, but even have that motorcycle of my own. That would be pretty sweet. Until then, we’re googling ‘leather jackets’.