I know this may wound some of the sensitive, limpid-eyed souls among you, but we are not one big happy motorcycling family. We are not brothers of the handlebars, and we are not some cheery fraternity of two-wheeled stallions rumbling down the highway of life.
A valid argument could be mounted that once, around the time that mastodons bristled with the spears of the Neanderthal hunters, we were indeed some kind of brotherhood. A weird commonality bound us together, and it was a time when the motorcycle called to only a chosen few.
Then what happened? Lots of things, actually. Not the least of which was the formation of various volunteer-based organisations that set themselves up as representatives of the whole. And, as is the case with all such creations, they invariably became peopled with committee-loving creatures who actually represented nothing but their own interests and views and liked nothing more than to attend meetings.
There was a push to make motorcycling socially acceptable and respectable.
There was drive to make motorcycling more accessible.
And as these insipid opinions began to gain traction with the policy makers and government myrmidons, so did it come to pass.
In a few short years, the very essence of motorcycling became diluted, neutered and to a great degree became some kind of sad imitation of what it once was.
And then it began to fragment, which was exactly what was always going to happen. The purity and truth and validity of riding became some idiotic scramble for broader social acceptance................................
.....................................a vast and very disparate group of 11,000-odd motorcyclist gathered in the space of two weeks. There were bone fide outlaws, commuters, HOG members, racers, scratchers, learners, tourers, dirt-riders, and crusty old bastards who had been riding since the Roman Empire marched its legions across the world.
And they had nothing at all in common.
Hell, they didn’t even like each other.
The motorcycle did not bind them with commonality!
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