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 Copyright Twistgrip Magazine 1999

Ah, yes, Sunday morning rides: certainly one of motorcycling's most enduring and best-loved institutions. While there are few pleasures more life-affirming than a motorcycle ride with close friends come Sunday, it's amazing how quickly a good thing can turn calamitous -that is, if you ride like my henchmen and I.

Sure, we always start our rides with lawful intentions and polite manners, but our bloated egos usually seem to get the best of us. This innate lunacy compels us to risk life and limb rather than back off the throttle and risk being labeled sissies. Of course, the results are often grim: one moment the scene looks like a glossy magazine ad, the next like a horrific crash video. Funny how it all seems to happen with the speed and grace of a train wreck....

I remember my pal Brett and I shining up our badass cycles early one fine Sunday morning back in '79. My trick Suzuki GS1000EN and Brett's cool Kawasaki SR650 were, perhaps, a bit too much for a couple of seventeen-year-old partyheads. We'd been invited to join a Sunday ride, a first for us. Our hearts were pounding as we pulled into the parking lot where 18-20 of the local hotshots, on all manners of machinery, were waiting for us. Even the routine ride to the jump-off point was exciting. It was a big thrill to be part of the "in" crowd, and I remember the intoxicating feeling of empowerment that riding in such a large group gave me. Wow! We finally got to the twisties: now was my chance to show my stuff, to prove to everyone that I was worthy. Ha! I think it was only the second corner before I overcooked it, crossed the double-yellow, ran off the road, swerved around a towering redwood tree, and re-entered the road like I'd planned the whole thing. I remember feeling pretty sheepish at breakfast, as the gang told me to take it easy, slow down, mellow out. Did I? No way. After breakfast, we were motoring down an infamous stretch of road when I again overcooked a right-hander, and crashed big-time into a ditch. Brett, who was directly behind me, was so mesmerized by my outstanding riding technique that he, too, decided to join me in the ditch. Not to be outdone, another rider named Chris dog piled his Honda 550-Four on top of both of us. There I was on the bottom of the heap, screaming as my exhaust pipe burned my leg. I recall Chris shouting at us that it was our fault he crashed, though I wasn't sure how, as he was behind us. The rest of the gang untangled us, made sure we were okay, then continued on their merry way. It was a very slow and depressing ride home for Brett and me. The front wheel of my bike was severely bent, and I could only manage about 15 mph before the shaking became too violent. Brett's Kawasaki fared slightly better, but my two-month-old Suzuki barely resembled the gleaming beauty that had left the house earlier that morning, and the look on my dad's face as we pulled into the driveway made me feel even worse. Also, my shoulder had a nasty puncture wound that oozed for weeks. But was any of this my fault? Heck no! I was merely an innocent victim of a Sunday morning ride gone awry.

Then there was my little mishap on the world-famous Sunday Morning Ride north of San Francisco. It was a special day as my GS1000EC was about to hit the 100,000 mile mark --quite a feat for any bike, let alone one I'd been thrashing for years. I remember making a brilliant pass around two newer sportbikes, then pitching it over hard for the upcoming corner --too hard, apparently. My centerstand touched down and levered the rear tire off the asphalt, causing the bike to whip around backwards at maybe 80 mph. The ensuing crash was spectacular, according to witnesses. I shredded my leathers and thoroughly wadded my Suzuki --I think it was the tree it hit that really made the difference. What a lousy way to treat a classic machine with 100,014 miles on it, huh? Another Sunday morning found a group of us riding on a hot August day. New to our tribe and out to impress us was Doug, on his sano GSX-R750. He blasted around me to chase down my pal, Mark, on a Katana 600. Bad move. Doug panicked on a blind, rising bend and ran straight off the road. He flew over a barbed-wire fence (with commendable style) while his bike slid under the fence and halfway down a steep ravine. It took us an hour to manhandle his GSX-R the rest of the way down the ravine, across a creek bed, through a pasture, and back onto the road. Did I mention it was a 90 degrees out? Other than the usual abrasions and a badly bruised chest from clobbering a tree stump, Doug was still in one piece. His formerly pristine GSX-R still ran fine and handled well enough, but all the bodywork had been plucked clean, giving the Suzuki a lean "streetfighter" look. Doug was a tad shaken, so I let him ride my comfy GS1000C while I piloted his tattered Gixser. As if that weren't enough, later that day Mark and I had to evade an ornery sheriff, leaving another of our group stranded when her Yamaha ran out of gas in the middle of nowhere. But that's another story....

Then there was the time Steve, Mark and I decided to take a nice little Sunday morning dual-sport ride. We agreed to take it easy and forgo heavy duty off- road armor, as it was far too warm for such gear. Mistake. Mark got distracted and ran off the road into a creek bed filled with big rocks. Ouch. I recall feeling somewhat nauseated as I dressed his bloody knee; it was split wide open like some gruesome anatomy lesson. Off to the hospital, end of ride. Mark ruined yet another fine Sunday ride when he hit a guard rail at, oh, maybe 100 mph. Some people will do anything for a helicopter ride. A no-nonsense highway patrolman grilled our group in the blazing sun, curious as to how such a catastrophic accident could occur in a 30 mph zone. I dunno. Bad luck, maybe?

I'm sure Jim will forever rue the day he crashed his Moto Guzzi LeMans into that enormous blackberry thicket --we never did find the fuel tank. Eric made a name for himself (The Deer Hunter) one rainy Sunday morning when he mortally wounded a buck with his Yamaha Fazer. Eric knocked himself silly but still jumped back up and started kicking the shit out of the dying animal while shouting obscenities at it. Classic! Jon was on his CBR1000 when he caught his foot underneath the peg on a high-speed sweeper and nearly ground his toes off. Or how about the time Steve wedged his GPz550 under a guard rail ten minutes into the ride? Or the time Don did the same to his KZ650 just as we left the restaurant to head home. I'll never forget the time John crashed his 400-Four into a huge puddle and nearly suffocated when his helmet packed up with thick mud. Legendary! Ron had been on me like a cheap suit when his Katana 1100 suddenly disappeared from my mirror-- that's never a good sign, is it? I whipped my DR650 around and high-tailed it back to the scene of the boo-boo. Yuck. In a classic case of poor judgment, Ron had chosen not to be encumbered by a leather jacket --a sweatshirt was plenty that warm morning, he'd proclaimed. Yeah, it did soak up the blood and tissue rather well. We adjourned to Ron's place, got suitably liquored up, and then I was nominated to scrub Ron's grisly wounds while he soaked in the bathtub. The water turned crimson as I scoured away at the deeply-embedded asphalt and gravel, giving literal meaning to this column's moniker. Big Ron took it like a soldier and kept the screaming to a minimum. Steve even videotaped the macabre occurrence. Sick, huh?

Soon after, we made it mandatory to carry a donor card and pre-tagged body bag on our Sunday rides. That's when I started thinking that things were, perhaps, a little out of hand. I was reaching the gore-saturation point and was growing weary of angry spouses and family members accusing me of crippling and/or disfiguring their loved ones.

Yeah, I have plenty more stories of carnage and mayhem, bloodshed and pain, but I'm sure you'd rather not hear about the aftermath of our post-ride parties, would you? As the years pass, I have discovered a truth: the fewer, the merrier. At one time I enjoyed pulling together 5 or 10 fellow enthusiasts to share the special camaraderie that a Sunday ride can bring. What transpired, however, was all too often disastrous: beautiful new bikes became mangled wrecks, bodies broken, lives shattered --and sometimes that was just leaving the parking lot. Now, I usually go it alone, or with Mark if he has his license and isn't hospitalized that week. But sometimes I miss those crazy days of savagery and violence, when life was cheap and road rash was a badge of courage.

Yeah, sometimes I miss that madcap, visceral experience we remember fondly as... The Sunday Morning Bloodbath.