Each of us has probably been advised not to judge a book by its cover, but my experience as a motorcyclist confirms that those of us who ride are often judged. price that way. Nor does it help that the media and popular culture frequently portray motorcyclists as noisy badass cyclists or reckless crotch rocket squids.
But that’s not who I am. Friendly, constructive and respectful, I am the definition of non-threatening. Have a question? I have tinnitus in my ears. Need help? I will help.
When I ride, I make a concerted effort to be an ambassador for all cyclists. I stop for passersby, let other vehicles pull over and make room for people with dogs or horses. When riding a bicycle, I am always open-minded, especially to the elderly and families with children. I leave a generous tip for the wait staff. I say hello to the people in uniform. Honestly, it doesn’t take that much effort, and if non-riders have a good feeling about someone they meet riding a motorcycle, the next time they think of a motorcycle , they will be able to associate it with something positive.
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Let’s look at a few typical cases. Car trips in my hometown in Massachusetts often find me in Quabbin Reservoir. On a particular day in March, the sky was crystal clear and cold as I flipped through my reservation. Water spilled over the 400-foot stone spillway, indicating that the reservoir had reached capacity. I continue up the Quabbin Hill Road and at the turning point, bend to the right towards the Summit Tower. From there, I could enjoy beautiful views of the valley and the mountains beyond. The unpaved parking area was a mound of mud, so I parked at the edge of the paved road behind the lone car there.
As I walked towards the tower, a little girl, probably about five years old, spun around when she heard her name, turned to look at me, then fled behind her parents. I offered a friendly greeting, but my presence was clearly met with suspicion.
Even though I gave them space, I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation: The girl was begging her mother for a quarter so she could see through the coin-operated binoculars. “Sorry,” her mother said, “I didn’t bring any.” A hopeful look at her father was also returned with a “Sorry.” The girl’s expression changed from expectation to disappointment.
I had a quarter. I took it out of my pocket and held it up for Mom’s approval. Seemingly surprised, she nodded in agreement so I gave the coin to the girl. The young man gave me a wide grin and thanked me.
“My daughter is a few years older than her,” I told her parents. “She always loved looking through those binoculars.” They laughed. 25 cents changed me from someone best avoided to someone with a daughter.
Stopping to be a good Samaritan has long been a habit of mine, although it is not always appreciated. A few summers ago, while riding in the remote Northeastern Kingdom of Vermont, I came across a pickup truck parked on my shoulder. One tire was flat, so I pulled over to see if I could help. A young woman and her children are in the van. I parked in front, took off my helmet and kept a distance that I considered respectful, asking for help. The driver raised her hands: No! She doesn’t know me and my intentions are honorable, so I can’t blame her.
My family was expecting me to be home in a few hours, and I could leave, but my paternal instincts told me that this young family was vulnerable. Another dad who used to ride shared with me his story of simply staying in place until the proper help arrived, so even though this driver didn’t trust me to help, I still decided to wait until the help she trusted came.
“I have a family and I don’t want to think they’re trapped,” I tell the driver, keeping that respectful distance. “I’ll just stay here with my bike until the police come.” She was looking straight at me but didn’t respond. I went back to my bike and reached into my bag for a snack.
Sometime later, a Vermont police cruiser, with its characteristic green color, appeared. I waved and the light came on. The soldier pulled up beside me and got out immediately.
“What is going on here?” he requested.
I explained: “I saw the truck overturned and stopped to help. “The woman said no, but it was just her and the kids, so I decided to stay until her trust came in. My family is expecting me to go home to Massachusetts, so I really need to go now.”
The soldier pointed an authoritative finger towards me. “Wait here.” He walked over to the van, spoke briefly with the driver, then turned around. “Thank you for staying,” he said. “Ride safely.” The woman waved to me from the truck. I waved back and she smiled. The motorcycle guy changed from an unreliable character to a caring father who stayed until help arrived.
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Being friendly rarely harms you, especially when we ride motorbikes. That way, non-riders can appreciate those of us who aren’t outlaws or thugs by default. They can only realize that motorcyclists are no different from them. We just love the ride more.
