Bikes that made me: Two Buell XBs made me fall in love with motorcycling

If I was enjoying that donut after stripping off my motorcycle gear as I walked into the office, then the bike I likely had parked outside was a BMW R 1200 RT in boredom brown, a shockingly competent machine. This story isn't about that bike, however. Why? The R-RT was a fantastic appliance, but Virginia Woolf didn't write "She shines in the grocer's shop in Sevenoaks with a candle-lit radiance, stalking on legs like beech trees, pink glowing" about her refrigerator. What machine came before, so worthy of my praise? A Buell XB12 Lightning Long, black on black. Or, you could say, chocolate frosting on a chocolate donut.

The XB series is, to me, a perfect example of how sometimes one man's vision can actually be amazing. The ethos of mass centralization, rich torque, and a few neat engineering tricks gelled into a package whose flaws made it more alive instead of more annoying. It's the only bike I've had twice, once to get me into motorcycling, and once to get me... back into motorcycling.

My first XB, a 9 CityX (how urban), was my entry point to the hobby. Yearning for a motorcycle since I was a child, my parents stipulated that I had to move out if I wanted to get one. When I moved to the San Francisco Bay Area for a disastrous year of engineering study, my Buell was there to keep me company. Nights consisted of endlessly walking the streets of San Jose, punctuated by burrito acquisition at La Victoria. But days? On the days when I wasn't doing a piss-poor job pretending to study, I would ride the captivating mountain roads of the South Bay. I was not a lost, underachieving young person when I was retreading the lush curves of Highway 9. I was not spiraling or broken when I explored the far side of Mt. Hamilton with my GS500-riding Taiwanese ex-scooter-racer friend. I was reveling in the pool of midrange shove and feeling the XB9 smile at me, encouraging me to keep moving, even if I couldn't encourage myself.

The Buell taught me what college didn't, like how to ride when your clutch cable snaps, or the specific burning sensation that accompanies a leg suddenly removed from a freezing cold air stream and thawed in a messy bedroom. I sold that bike before I left San Jose in disgrace, but it wouldn't be my last foray into Buell.

Lightning strikes, Buell chapter two

After spending a year back in my childhood bedroom gathering credits and resolve at community college, I enrolled at Cal State Northridge and finally closed the door on my dreams of being paid to build cars. A combination of a spine-shattering crash and an effort to finish my third car build had put me off motorcycles for a few years, but upon renting a room close to campus I felt that familiar urge swirling again. A few sports cars all had me asking "Why am I not on a motorcycle?" And so I finally took to Craigslist and found what I really needed.

I didn't know it at the time, but the XB12 I bought would be another important friend to me as I made the critical pivot from washed-up hot rodder to middling engineer. More than the bikes that preceded or succeeded it, the XB beckoned to me like a silent dance partner. It could be the background for a listen to Florence and the Machine's "High as Hope" or just as easily Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Green River." It invited me to bond with my favorite roommate as he helped hang it from the two-by-six pergola beam outside our small rental house, seemingly the most sensible way to remove all the suspension for rebuilding. It didn't hurt that said roommate owed me a favor from when I put out (using cat litter) the fire engulfing his Triumph Speed 4 due to his overuse of starting fluid. After getting the suspension rebuilt by Race Tech, the bike continued to be my favorite date, accompanying me to Formula SAE testing and whisking me through the snow-covered Angeles National Forest. Those formative days spent on the Lightning Long led me to one point.

The point is that these are the bikes that made me because they made me fall in love with riding. Whether I was succeeding or failing at making something of myself and regardless of whether the tides of self-esteem were high or low, I always wanted to spend more time on an XB. Their identity still lounges somewhere in my brain, asking me to sit and remember the little things like the constant bar pressure required at low speeds or the notches in the frame that made it easy to knock out steering head bearings with a flathead. The big things it doesn't even have to ask, because I could never forget.

For me the best machines, appliances and firebreathers alike, can make the mundane compelling. Right alongside the memories about the rain-soaked jugs billowing steam at a stop light, up there with finding the rhythm of California Route 1 (and sleeping on my friend's floor on that road trip) are the donut rides. Late at night, when the equations started collapsing on themselves and my rented room felt small, I had my excuse to fire the XB into life. Muffler flap closed, I politely wheeled along the suburban streets to the 24-hour donut shop. Cruising back on my own little B-52, I reveled in hearing the V-twin breathe, tiny ring of heaven tucked into my tail bag. Repeat as desired, or as much as life will let you.

I sold the bike to a friend's dad's friend for needed money but I stipulated that he had to sell it back to me before listing it anywhere. He still has it. I know exactly why.