The year is 1996. I’m sitting on the back of a newly built Harley-Davidson, taking a quick break from a voyage ride on a family friend’s motorcycle as he runs in to pay for gas. He’s also buying me some stylish shades to protect my eyes on the ride. Life couldn’t be better. I’ve spent hours watching him work on this project in the garage, I’ve handed him tools occasionally, obviously I feel like I took part in building it.
I’m feeling extremely cool, perhaps even a little too big for my britches. I’m a pre-teen with delusions of mechanical grandeur. I dream of pulling up someday on a sweet motorcycle of my own. Wrenching in my own garage, with my own tools, and all the expertise needed to fix the many toys I plan to own someday. Impressing my peers with the “cool chick” vibes that come with the previous stated persona.
At that time, I was the proud owner of a glorious little kick-start Yamaha scooter that I had purchased with my hard-earned lawn-mowing money. Sure, the max speed was only 35-ish miles per hour, but I had my mother follow me in her car on busy streets, so it didn’t hold me back one bit. I even painted my helmet with the (cringe-worthy) claim “Born to Be Wild” as one does when they harness such intense speeds on two wheels at a young age.
Then it all happened so quickly. I was probably tossing my hair or looking around to see if anyone was taking note of how mature I was. The next thing I knew the Harley shifted, and I was on the ground with one leg pinned beneath a scalding hot exhaust pipe while my friend rushed out to scoop up his beautiful machine — never-scratched chrome and paint — off the pavement. I was so upset by my screw- up I didn’t even notice the huge burn on my leg, and I certainly didn’t care to mention it later. It’s amazing I didn’t die of embarrassment that day. Somehow, I lived to tell this tale.
He was shockingly kind about the whole incident. Picture a tough biker, with an intense Fu Manchu moustache, sun-leathered skin, dressed in black with tons of tattoos. He didn’t so much as raise his voice or question how I managed such a bone-headed fail. Needless to say, I used my burn to show off to the fellas, so at least I got some street cred out of the whole fiasco.
I’ve been around motorcycles my entire life. Riding to softball practice in the summer on the back of my father’s V-Max, getting dropped off at school on a Harley and attending camping trips with packs of bikers and their families. Some of my earliest and fondest memories are riding in a sidecar with my little sister, my mother on the back of the bike beside us. It’s no wonder as soon as I was old enough, I got my motorcycle license and started crafting a financial plan to eventually buy my own ride. I’ve been a gearhead ever since …
Motorcycle Classics is officially under my care, and I’ve enjoyed a reoccurring theme on many of the pages of this issue. Memories influence our passion for classic bikes. They compel purchases and aid in restoration decisions, such as the stories of the Honda CB350 or the Vincent Black Shadow replica. I appreciate tales of generations sharing a bike, like in the Smith’s Dream letter or the Mitchell family and their history with the Kawasaki H2. We all have a backstory that fed our fascination with riding. What’s your story? Send me a note and include a photo or two.
I am honored to take over Motorcycle Classics. I have spent years editing the pages of this magazine and look forward to taking the lead. Editor Hall has been an excellent mentor over the years and will be sorely missed.
Thank you for your continued support. Until next issue,
Christine Stoner
