The road of life twists and turns and no two directions are ever the same. Yet our lessons come from the journey, not the destination.

Let me try to explain...

There is a group of people who ride bikes who truly are a breed apart. They appreciate both the engineering and the artistry in the machines they ride. Their bikes become part of who they are and how they define themselves to themselves alone. They don't care what other people think. They don't care if anyone knows how much they paid for their bike or how fast it will go. The bike means something to them that nothing else does. They ride for themselves and not for anyone else. They don't care whether anyone knows they have a bike. They may not be able to find words to describe what it means to ride, but they still know. They might not be able to explain what it means to feel the smooth acceleration and the strength beneath them. But they understand. These are the riders who park their bikes, begin to walk away and then stop. They turn and look back. They see something when they look at their bikes that you might not. Something more complex, something that is almost secret, sensed rather than known. They see their passion. They see a part of themselves. These are the riders who truly understand about the journey.

The Unwritten Rule


It’s a simple rule…When you get a motorcycle, you join a club. Enrollment is automatic, and you cannot opt out. It's a club that you will always be in, right up until the end, or until you wise up and sell the bike to invest in a safer, more practical mode of transportation. But until then, you are part of the club.

Motorcyclists wave at each other.

It started back when motorcyclists were rare outlaws on the road, a way to communicate a sense of commonality. It came from an “us against the world” place, but it is now more than that. It’s an acknowledgement of solidarity with a group of people who are clearly not entirely in the conventional camp. The appeal of motorcycles extends far and wide these days. Unfortunately, like any club that has grown too large, it has become mired in vacuous debates and split into a thousand splinter factions. Older riders hate squids; cruisers hate sport riders; Harley riders hate everyone, including themselves. Maybe they don’t like Japanese bikes. Maybe they don’t like “hippy looking” types. Maybe they just got done beating their spouse and their hands hurt. Some people have prosthetic limbs. Perhaps they’re too blind to see you pass by. They could be Republicans or hate people who look like Republicans. Doesn’t matter! Don’t be a tool… Simple rule… Wave