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Sun filtered through the trees as I pushed my new Yamaha MT-07 out of the garage, into the crisp fall morning. I glanced over at the black Honda CB300R already burbling its little single-cylinder exhaust note as it warmed up in the driveway. Was I nervous? You bet your biscuits I was. My daughter, freshly graduated from her Motorcycle Safety Foundation course, stepped out of the garage pulling on her gloves.
The neighbor's horses didn't appreciate our early morning presence, and thundered off across the pasture, presumably in search of better company. I zipped my Alpinestars jacket, as her Bluetooth headset connected to mine with a beep. "Head and eyes up, right?" I asked her. "Right," came the reply in my headset, although I was pretty sure I could hear her eyes rolling in her helmet, too.
My dictionary says that the word "fledge" comes from the Old German word "flucki," which meant "capable of flying." The swallows that build in our barns every year kick their young out of the nest after about six weeks to ensure their success in life. Alabama allows a rider to get a motorcycle-only license at 14 no matter how many feathers you have, which I thought was much more reasonable.
I watched her mount her bike and ease down the driveway to the road. My headset crackled, "I'll wait for you at the stop sign." She's ready, I told myself. As we headed down the tar-and-chip county road, I reminded myself not to be too preachy. Passing on your hobbies to a teenager can be a delicate undertaking.
We struck out for the 19th Annual Barber Vintage Festival, one of the largest assemblages of vintage motorcycles, and even larger gatherings of vintage motorcyclists, in the world. The weather for the event had been perfect all weekend, and this morning was no exception. We inhaled the dewy scent of countryside in the morning as we wound past cow pastures and over the Mulberry Fork of the Black Warrior River.
With the temporary paper tag fluttering on the back of her new bike ahead of me, I watched her lines through the meandering curves of Alabama's back country. Trying to ascertain from the back of her helmet whether she was scanning for possible hazards, and looking through turns ahead of her, I watched her left foot smack the shift lever down a gear as we climbed a steep section of pavement. Once, as a new rider myself at the same age, I had run out of fuel halfway through my first glorious interstate top-speed run on my 1982 Suzuki GS450. It was an undignified way to end that particular experiment, and I wondered how many similar lessons she will learn in her journey.
Teddy Roosevelt said "There is no effort without error and shortcoming," and I do believe that The Hero of San Juan Hill would agree that to let our kids dare to risk will lead them to "know the great enthusiasms." It also occurs to me that old Teddy would probably have an admiration for the sport-bike experience if he were around today.
Our route led us through three counties, staying off the interstate, and through small towns incorporated during FDR's New Deal and the Farm Resettlement Act. We rolled into Leeds, Alabama, established along long-forgotten crossroads of Native American paths on the banks of the Cahaba River. The area was teeming with bikes of all types, from supermotos headed down from the twisties of Highway 25 to tourers exiting the interstate, prompting a little anxiety for my newly minted rider alongside. "Wow, that's a lot of traffic," she squeaked into her mic as we approached a particularly large intersection.
Minutes later we were rolling past the gates of Barber Motorsports Park, flanked by other riders also headed to vintage bike Mecca. We coasted down into the motorcycle parking fairway, listening to the wildcat scream of two-stroke race bikes on the track down below. The sounds of live music and smell of food-truck delicacies wafted toward us as we made our way through the BMW Motorrad Fan Zone pavilions.
"I have to get a T-shirt while we're here!" she said, while we wound through vendor booths toward the swap meet and endless mountains of sun-faded, pinstriped gas tanks just waiting to be added to your latest restoration project. This is her third time at the Vintage Festival, but previously always as a passenger. This year, she owns it. Her own bike, her own gear, her own safety, and her own decisions brought her here. She's the future of motorcycling, and we need to nurture and encourage this.
We sat munching our lunch on the grass, watching AHRMA vintage sidecar rigs flying past with the passenger counterweight leaning precipitously off the side of the machine, seemingly scraping the asphalt as they exited Turn 8 and screamed down the back stretch.
"You want to give it a try?" I asked.
"No, but I want to ride on the track!" she said.
Her burgeoning racing aspirations were interrupted by the carnivalesque barking from a red, white, and blue wooden structure nearby. The American Motor Drome Company was warming up for their show, and we meandered in that direction. We climbed the creaky wooden staircase to a 360-degree platform that surrounds a vertical wall of boards below the viewer. Watching the performers careen around the "Wall of Death" on old Indian Scouts, she stretched out her hand with a $5 bill folded in half lengthwise. Amidst the thundering V-twin roar, and the smells of fuel and exhaust, the rider swooped up and down the board wall in oscillating patterns to grab the money from the onlookers. Mini-me laughed when he snatched hers as he passed.
Riding home in the waning afternoon sunlight, I was mentally exhausted. Passing on these experiences to the next generation is how motorcycling will survive. Her excitement is one of newfound freedom right now, more than the machines. We only have these young minds to mold for a short while before they fly off on their own. The best educations don't happen at a desk, but rather engaged in everyday adventure. In the meantime, this old dad is looking forward to capturing some memories on the road while we learn.
