My wife isn’t what you would call a huge motorcycle fan.
She doesn’t enjoy riding. And she’s not crazy about the fact that I do.
It’s not a matter of fear or safety. Sometimes I get the feeling she’d like to see me crash. Just a little. Something to teach me a lesson. Maybe leave a small scar.
No, her issue is one of money. Bikes are expensive. Every dollar spent on parts or gear is one less dollar to throw at our bills. Or a Hawaiian vacation.

Because I want to stay married, I don’t push it. And when it comes to owning bikes, I buy used and stick to just one.
It’s a bit of a problem because it is so hard to find a bike that’s good for everything. Dual sports will always come up short on the street, crotch rockets aren’t comfortable for long distances and cruisers are boring. Sport-touring bikes seem a logical middle-ground but I’ve found they don’t quite satisfy either.
My wife, meanwhile, is not the least bit sympathetic to this conundrum.
And she’s not alone in her indifference. Fellow riders are constantly grousing about their inability to spend freely. To achieve the Ducati-BMW-Harley trifecta.
Of course, many spend money secretly. And the all time champion of such deceit is a riding buddy I’ll call Tom.
Tom, a painting contractor, developed a small fetish for Buell motorcycles when the
manufacturer announced it was ceasing production.
At a dealer close-out sale one sunny afternoon, Tom wrote a check for not one but three Buells, putting a more than $30,000 dent in his bank account with a quick stroke of a pen.
For some reason it didn’t occur to him that his wife would soon be wielding her own pen over a stack of divorce papers. As a stop-gap measure, he had the bikes delivered to a rented storage unit until he could figure out how to break it to her.
But instead of coming clean, he just … kept the bikes at the storage unit. Forever. Whenever he wanted to ride, he would make up an excuse and head for his bike pad. Kind of like he was having an affair.
Maybe that’s what we’re all doing in some small way.

It sounds too good to be true — and it is.
The description of the nifty sport-touring bike hits all the right notes: One-owner, garage-kept, low miles and dirt cheap.

My heart leaps as I guide my cursor to the tiny pictures on Craigslist and scan the posting for a phone number.
It’s perfect. Just what I am looking for. And it’s only an hour’s drive away.
So I call. Get the dude’s voicemail. Leave a message. Is it too early on a Sunday morning? Nah.
I settle in to wait for his return call. But after staring at my cell phone for five minutes, I jump in the car and head in his direction. He’ll call me while I’m on the road and I’ll get first dibs on the fine machine.
Sure enough, my phone rings a half-hour later and it’s the dude. He’s willing to show the bike right away. Sweet!
I ask a few quick questions, scrawl an address on a piece of paper and hang up the phone.
I’m feeling very good about this. And before you know it I’m at the exit.
That’s when the fun starts. The neighborhood is dicey and dude’s house is no different. A couple of slammed Civics and a ridiculous monster truck are out front. There’s an empty bottle of malt liquor in the gutter. I knock on the door and dogs bark.
Could a decent bike come from this?
The dude appears. He’s about 20. He says, “Hello sir. The bike’s over here.”
He lifts a tarp and there it is. It’s hard to recognize as the same bike in the pictures. But it is the correct make and model.
Close inspection reveals the bike’s got several major oil leaks, bald tires and lots of little scratches and dents – the kind that don’t show up in pictures. The exhaust looks modified and the rear fender looks like it was cut off with a hack saw. The license plate is mounted vertically, under the fender well.
Within 60 seconds I’m ready to leave. I don’t even want to hear it run, much less test ride it.
The dude is talking, though, and I don’t want to be rude. He’s explaining a special modification that increased the horsepower. Something about a dyno test.
“This thing is faassst,” he says with a knowing smile.
I act impressed, nod approvingly when he fires it up and then … say good-bye.
“I’ll call you.”
Of course, I’m lying and I feel a twinge of guilt as I put him in my rearview mirror.
But more than anything I’m kicking myself for my impulsiveness. I didn’t ask enough questions up front and violated my own used-bike buying rules. Insist on pictures. Ask about maintenance records. Never, never buy from young, wannabe-racers. And try to stick to bikes in fancy-schmancy neighborhoods.
As I drive home I think of these things. I’m going to get this right.

I thought I wanted a Harley. But two things happened.

First, I saw the price tag for used bikes. The going rate for a late model Road King in the Bay Area is upwards of $12,000. At that price you’ll get something that’s 7-10 years old with no less 20,000 miles on it.

It’s a hard reality borne out on in weeks of Craigslist research. There are a few “bargain” Road Kings to be had for as low as $7,500 but you get the impression they’re tired machines that have hauled one too many fat men on one too many poker runs.

It gave me pause, especially considering the relatively short lifespan of a Harley.

Still, I was not deterred in my pursuit of the mighty Hog until one other thing happened.

I rode one. Or three, actually.

Salesmen at two local dealerships were kind enough to hand me the keys to three bikes: a 2002 with 25,000 miles for $9,000 and two ’05 Road Kings – one with 35,000 miles and the other with 64,000 miles — for about $13,000 apiece.

My impressions were not good. Coming off a BMW, it was immediately apparent that these bikes are not built well. It seems Harley uses cheap materials and things don’t fit right. Cables aren’t routed well and sheet metal seems tinny. Function is an afterthought.

Certain American cars of the 1980s come to mind.

Riding a Road King is no less a disappointment.

The 2002 rattled and coughed as I wrung it out on a country road. I instantly ran up against bike’s rev limiter. And I wasn’t going much over 60. The newer bikes were slightly better but they too seemed clunky and slow. The one with the lowering kit scraped its running boards in the parking lot.

Sheesh!

I voiced my concerns to the affable salesman, who nodded as if he’d heard it before.

“True, true,” he said. “But you gotta remember, you’re not just buying a bike here. You’re buying a lifestyle.”

As he spoke, an elderly couple in leather chaps and vests strolled by. They started talking to another guy wearing a black Harley T-shirt.

I’m not looking for a new lifestyle, I thought. I’m looking to ride. And you know what? A Harley just won’t do.

Apropos of absolutely nothing, I’m posting a link to the Taoist Biker’s glossary, which reveals, among other things, new ways to be profane without offending your grandmother. I especially like his no-nonsense definitions of common expletives and his unwavering allegiance to southern universities.

Click here and have yourself a chuckle: http://taoistbiker.wordpress.com/the-taoist-biker-glossary/

I’m an addict. I admit it. There’s nothing I can do.

I’m hooked on lane splitting, the grin-inducing and perfectly legal maneuver that allows me to escape my otherwise grid-locked existence.

The fun is two-fold. First, I can avoid traffic jams and the misery that comes with breathing car exhaust and melted plastic fairings.

More importantly, I get to whiz by everyone else in a high-speed slalom that is part down-hill skiing, part Indy 500.

It’s always just a bit scary when you’re sneaking up behind a car, poised to shoot the gap. There’s the possibility that a driver might change lanes suddenly or slam on the brakes.

And some cars are harder than others to get around. The Ford F-250 pickup with its hyper-extended mirrors is my least favorite vehicle to come across. And for some reason, hybrid drivers appear to be somewhat unpredictable.

But I’ve had no incidents so far, knock on wood, except, of course, for a ticket for going too fast between cars. The CHP officer who wrote me up said a bike is not permitted to go 10 mph faster than traffic when lane splitting.

Yeah, right.

I guess I’m just fortunate that it is allowed at all. California is one of the few states to permit it.

Anyway, here are a few tips and observations for successful lane splitting:
1. The ideal time to do it is when two cars are side-by-side. That way they can’t change lanes.
2. Be smooth. Don’t swing out wide before and after passing cars.
3. Pass cars quickly and before they notice you, if possible. It leaves less time for nervous drivers to hit the brakes or swerve.
4. Watch for sudden lane-changers in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
5. Be nice. Don’t act like you’re entitled. Drivers are watching you and they’re bigger than you.

I’m always on the look-out for trivia about my hometown of Santa Rosa.

And here’s a piece: While writing his biker-gang epic about the Hell’s Angels, Hunter S. Thompson was savagely beaten by the thugs and treated at a hospital in my humble burg.

His book is one of the coolest accounts of the bad-ass Angels, who continue to roam the North Coast of California and maintain a headquarters in Santa Rosa.

Here’s an excerpt from the book, Hell’s Angels, A Strange and Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs.

“Postscript

On Labor Day 1966, I pushed my luck a little too far and got badly stomped by four or five Angels who seemed to feel I was taking advantage of them. A minor disagreement suddenly became very serious.

None of those who did me were among the group I considered my friends — but they were Angels, and that was enough to cause many of the others to participate after one of the brethren teed off on me. The first blow was launched with no hint of warning and I thought for a moment that it was just one of those drunken accidents that a man has to live with in this league. But within seconds I was clubbed from behind by the Angel I’d been talking to just a moment earlier. Then I was swarmed in a general flail. As I went down I caught a glimpse of Tiny, standing on the rim of the action. His was the only familiar face I could see … and if there is any one person a non-Angel does not want to see among his attackers, that person is Tiny. I yelled to him for help — but more out of desperation than hope.

Yet it was Tiny who pulled me out of the stomp circle before the others managed to fracture my skull or explode my groin. Even while the heavy boots were punching into my ribs and jolting my head back and forth I could hear Tiny somewhere above me, saying, “Come on, come on, that’s enough.” I suppose he helped more than I realized, but if he had done nothing else I owe him a huge favor for preventing one of the outlaws from crashing a huge rock down on my head. I could see the vicious swine trying to get at me with the stone held in a two-handed Godzilla grip above his head. Tiny kept him mercifully out of range … and then, during a lull in the boot action, he pulled me to my feet and hurried me off toward the highway.

Nobody followed. The attack ended with the same inexplicable suddenness that it had begun. There was no vocal aftermath, then or later. I didn’t expect one — no more than I’d expect a pack of sharks to explain their feeding frenzy.

I got in my car and sped off, spitting blood on the dashboard and weaving erratically across both lanes of the midnight highway until my one good eye finally came into focus. I hadn’t gone very far when I realized Magoo was asleep in the back seat. I pulled off the road and woke him up. He was jolted at the sight of my bloody face. “Jesus Christ!” he muttered. “Who’s after us? You shoulda woke me up!”

“Never mind,” I said. “You better get out. I’m leaving.” He nodded blankly, then lurched out to meet the enemy. I left him standing in the gravel beside the road.

My next stop was the hospital in Santa Rosa, nearly fifty miles south of the Angel encampment. The emergency-ward waiting room was full of wounded Gypsy Jokers. The most serious case was a broken jaw, the result of a clash earlier that evening with a pipe-wielding Hell’s Angel.

The Jokers told me they were on their way north to wipe the Angels out. “It’ll be a goddamn slaughter,” said one.

I agreed, and wished them luck. I wanted no part of it — not even with a shotgun. I was tired, swollen and whipped. My face looked like it had been jammed into the spokes of a speeding Harley, and the only thing keeping me awake was the spastic pain of a broken rib.

It had been a bad trip … fast and wild in some moments, slow and dirty in others, but on balance it looked like a bummer. On my way back to San Francisco, I tried to compose a fitting epitaph. I wanted something original, but there was no escaping the echo of Mistah Kurtz’ final words from the heart of darkness: “The horror! The horror! … Exterminate all the brutes!” ”

I was walking down the street, talking baseball and spring training with a friend, when a guy on a Harley roared by.

The conversation stopped until we could hear our voices once again.

“Talk about your Boys of Summer,” my friend said. “That’s what I call the Noise of Summer. And it’s coming early this year.”

He was right. With the mild weather, bikers were getting a head start on the riding season. Not only could you see it but you could hear it.

The long-standing debate over loud pipes came to mind.

Some insist they save lives because people in cars hear you coming. It’s a hard point to argue if you’ve ever had a driver change lanes on you as you’re doing 80 on the freeway or had a car pull out in front of you in an intersection.

People get hurt. People get killed.

The flip side is the noise is annoying. Sure, it commands attention but it disrupts everything around it. Thoughts are forever lost. Nerves are frayed. And people cop an attitude about motorcycles.

As my friend points out, the safety argument falls flat when you consider that many Harley riders — no doubt the biggest offenders — place little importance on safety equipment. Half-dome helmets and sleeveless vests won’t do much to protect you when you’re sliding across the pavement.

Former Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger, himself an avid motorcyclist, took a stab at solving the problem before leaving office. He passed into law an anti-tampering bill that sets fines starting at $50 for anyone riding a bike with a loud, modified exhaust. Police can’t pull people over for noise, but if they stop you for another violation and your exhaust system doesn’t have a federal emissions stamp on it you will get a fix-it ticket.

However, the law only applies to bikes built in 2013 or later, so expect at least one more noisy summer before anything changes.