David Wilcox on Motorcycles

Tuesday, September 07, 2010

My first impression of the Honda pc800 was that it was a shameful disgrace of what a motorcycle stood for.

You couldn’t see the  engine at all.  The seat was way too comfortable.  There were no hot exhaust  pipes to burn your leg on.  It was super quiet and it didn’t vibrate. It would  run forever with no maintenance, so you didn’t even have to know how to work on  it.  The only person who would want a bike like that was someone who wasn’t even  a biker.  Like maybe if you just wanted to go down to the beach one summer day  with your girlfriend and she just wanted to wear her bathing suit.  Cognitive  dissonance.  What’s wrong with that?  Well, everything’s wrong with that!  It  will bring down the whole industry.  Motorcycles are in danger of losing their  motorcycle-ness.  It must be stopped.  And it was.  Nobody bought the pc800 and  it went out of production.  I have a white 1989 pc800 that I have enjoyed for  twenty years, and when I rode it to the top of Mount Mitchell yesterday, people  were still commenting that it looked futuristic. “Is that new?” they asked.   “No,”  I said, “I’ve got a lot of miles on it.”

When Nance and I go to the farmers’ market on  Saturday morning, we take the old pc800 Honda.  We gather four bags of fresh  veggies and eggs and honey and whatever else, and we walk back over the the  motorcycle.  Somebody always says: “How you gonna get all that home?”  And I  turn the key and open the trunk.  The pc800 has a big waterproof trunk that can  hold four bags of groceries.  The rear seat just hinges up with the top of the  trunk and then folds back down again.  Sounds more like a hatchback car.   In  fact, it has the same nitrogen filled shock absorber that lifts the lid.   Motorcycling should never be this easy.  I mean, there should be laws.   Concerned citizens should be calling their senators.  What’s at stake is the  sacred covenant between man and machine.  Every good biker knows that the  machine makes the man.  It should to be difficult to start.  You have to know  the trick. Its should be very loud.  It should require protective clothing  because of the exposed whirling belts and chains and hot metal. Primitive  machinery for the primitive man.  Everything about it should say:  “Damn the  practical and convenient!  I am the brave explorer risking everything for adventure!”  Which would be great if you were using the bike for adventure  instead of using it to look like an adventurer. I need to revive my song about  target marketing non conformers.

I’m ashamed to say that the quirky motorcycle I ride  is an 800cc called a Pacific Coast or PC.  As in PCH, the twisty road along the  west coast.  Or, as in Coasting along Peacefully.  Now, I’ve had other bikes.  Until I was 18 and started into guitar, motorcycles defined me.  Motocross was  the most exciting thing I knew about. Later, I had street bikes too.  There were  four in the garage at one time, and most of them I was proud to talk about.  And  then there was the pc.  Not cool.  Body by Tupperware.  It is so not a motorcycle.  All it does is get you where you’re  going quickly and smoothly without drawing attention to itself.  What good is  that?   Wouldn’t that ruin America?  If people start accepting practical  solutions to logical problems, we could lose our tribal identity.  We might  forget what sets us apart.  And then we would be in danger of seeing what we  have in common with everyone else.  I know that I’m extrapolating philosophy  from motorcycle design, but some people say that the way you do anything is the  way you do everything. And the anger that was elicited in the biker community by  the PC’s practical utilitarian design is telling.  It’s as if it were the  breakdown of everything.  Two decades ago, the pc800 was shunned into oblivion.  We knew back then that in America, motorcycles should be about where we come  from, not where we are going. The classic American motorcycle is a primitive  design that shakes and barks when it’s running, and leaks oil the rest of the  time.  Imagine the guy sitting on his bad-ass chopper just talking to his  buddies.  He’s been there for hours, parked outside the bar.  It’s as if his  bumper sticker reads:  “We’re not going anywhere!  We’re America!”