02
§ adventures
That's Cool, But It Isn't a Motorcycle
Everything that happens, happens for a reason they say.
You can tell it’s getting close to Spring because this young man’s fancy turns not so lightly to thoughts of motorcycles and the Pacific Ocean. I have had several defining moments in my life, one of them was when my parents brought home a movie about Jacques-Yves Cousteau which kick-started my love for the ocean, and the other was getting to ride my Uncle Robin’s motorcycle. Jacques Cousteau will need to wait for another day. I’ve always had a love for motorcycles. When I was a very small child, my parents got me a little plastic motorcycle to “ride” around the driveway. It had a thing on the gas tank that I could spin around that would make a motorcycle sound as I raced to each corner of the driveway. When I was a little bigger, I got a proper bicycle that looked like a dirt bike, and it even had shocks! I loved that bike, and to make it more authentic, I used clothespins to attach hockey cards to the forks so they would make motorcycle sounds against the spokes of the wheel. Life was good, until one day my arch-nemesis Arm Shawnstrong* stole it, stabbed it repeatedly, and threw it in Duffin’s Creek—ahhhh, youth. (* name changed to protect the guilty but a minor at the time) I can’t recall which summer it was, but I know we were still in Pickering when my Unce Robin came by with his motorcycle. I was much too young to know anything about it other than it had two wheels a throttle, and Robin offered to take me for a ride. Looking back on this, I wonder just how my mom felt about this, or if she even knew. A quick side note: I also grew up listening to stories of my dad riding motorcycles across Africa. And even more stories about riding through the rain into Oregon, along with grand and harrowing adventures with my mom on the back heading back to Vancouver, and accidents, oh the accidents. My love of motorcycles started with my dad and was solidified that Summer day on my Uncles bike. Robin had me climb up on his bike, telling me to be careful of the hot exhaust pipes, and sit on the gas tank—or at least very far forward on the seat. My feet could reach the top of the cylinder heads. Robin strapped a helmet to my head, started the bike, and revved the engine.Every fibre of my being was alive.
We drove down the street towards Becker Milk, and he told me to put my hands on the grips. I did. He then told me to “Give it some gas.” I did. In my mind, we did a burn-out and wheelie down the street with us barely hanging on. In reality, I rolled that throttle hard and didn’t want to stop twisting—this would be a feeling I still fight to this day; it’s a wonder I never raced motorcycles. I have no recollection of riding back to the house other than it was one of the best moments of my life, and I had a huge smile. If I know myself, I probably told my mom I did a wheelie and skidded around corners dragging one knee and that Robin fell off, and I jumped the Snake River Canyon. I have a penchant for hyperbole. So, it’s coming up on Spring 2022, I have a garage full of motorcycles, and today I reached into “Dropbear’s Cup O’ Stories” and saw one from Panda that reads, “Three-wheeled motorcycles are not motorcycles.”
This is true. Three-wheeled motorcycles are not motorcycles. Allow me to explain.
Many years ago I was asked to write an article for a magazine on the new CanAm Spyder. To facilitate the writing of said article, the magazine arranged for me to pick up one of these bikes from Bow Cycle and spend the day on it. My job would be to write a review, and I could write whatever I wanted, as this wasn’t an “advertorial.” In a previous life, I spent seven years as a motorcycle instructor and Provincial Examiner for “‘A’ Driving School”—cleverly named to appear at the front of the phone book, while at the same time being really specific about what they did: We’re a driving school. Layers. There are layers to this brand. I have ridden many motorcycles and miles over the years and was not beholden to any one style or brand. I’m brand, model, and displacement agnostic. Months and years later, I would be reviewing the Zero Electric Motorcycle and then the BMW Urban Assault Vehicle GS1250 Adventure, but those stories are for another day. Off I went on my spiffy new CanAm Spyder. It has two wheels on the front and one at the back—the mullet of motorcycles: Business in the front, party in the back. It has saddlebags, a windscreen, and a comfy seat. It has all the motorcycle things while at the same time taking up a whole lane of traffic.
This is not a motorcycle. Motorcycles have two wheels, you can lean deeply into corners, and I imagine is what flying a fighter jet inches from the ground would be like. The CanAm Spyder is not this. It’s something different. It’s an open-wheeled racecar; it’s slot-car racing in real life, is fun as hell, and anyone can ride them. But it is not a motorcycle.