The Wave
By Tom Ruttan
CYCLE CANADA - APRIL 2002

The bike's passenger seat swept up
just enough that I could see over my
father's shoulders. That seat was my
throne. My dad and I traveled many
backroads, searching for the ones we
had never found before. Traveling
these roads just to see where they
went. Never in a rush. Just be home
for supper.
I remember wandering down a back
road with my father, sitting on my
throne watching the trees whiz by,
feeling the rumble of our bike beneath
us like a contented giant cat. A
motorcycle came over a hill toward us
and as it went by, my father threw up
his gloved clutch hand and gave a
little wave. The other biker waved
back with the same friendly swing of
his left wrist.
I tapped my father on his shoulder,
which was our signal that I wanted to
say something. He cocked his
helmeted ear back slightly while
keeping his eyes ahead.
I yelled, "Do we know him?"
'What?" he shouted.
"You waved to him. Who was it?"
"I don't know. Just another guy on a
bike. So I waved."
"How come?"
"You just do. It's important."
Later, when we had stopped for
chocolate ice cream, I asked why it
was important to wave to other bikers.
My father tried to explain how the
wave demonstrated comradeship and a
mutual understanding of what it was to
enjoy riding a motorcycle. He looked
for the words to describe how almost
all bikers struggled with the same
things like cold, rain, heat, car drivers
who did not see them, but how riding
remained an almost pure pleasure.
I was young then and I am not sure
that I really understood what he was
trying to get across, but it was a
beginning. Afterward, I always waved
along with my father when we passed
other bikers.
I remember one cold October morning
when the clouds were heavy and dark,
giving us another clue that winter was
riding in from just over the horizon.
My father and I were warm inside our
car as we headed to a friend's home.
Rounding a comer, we saw a
motorcycle parked on the shoulder of
the road. Past the bike, we saw the
rider walking through the ditch,
scouring the long grasses crowned
with a touch of frost. We pulled over
and backed up to where the bike
stood.
I asked Dad, "Who's that?"
"Don't know," he replied. "But he
seems to have lost something. Maybe
we can give him a hand."
We left the car and wandered through
the tall grass of the ditch to the biker.
He said that he had been pulling on
his gloves as he rode and he had lost
one. The three of us spent some time
combing the ditch, but all we found
were two empty cans and a plastic
water bottle.
My father turned and headed back to
our car and I followed him. He
opened the trunk and threw the cans
and the water bottle into a small
cardboard box that we kept for
garbage. He rummaged through
various tools, oil containers and
windshield washer fluid until he found
an old crumpled pair of brown leather
gloves. Dad straightened them out and
handed them to me to hold. He
continued looking until he located an
old catalogue. I understood why my
dad had grabbed the gloves. I had no
idea what he was going to do with
the catalogue. We headed back to the
biker who was still walking the ditch.
My dad said, "Here's some gloves for
you. And I brought you a catalogue as
well."
"Thanks," he replied. I really
appreciate it." He reached into his hip
pocket and withdrew a worn black
wallet.
"Let me give you some money for the
gloves," he said as he slid some bills
out.
"No thanks," my dad replied as I
handed the rider the gloves. "They're
old and not worth anything anyway."
The biker smiled. "Thanks a lot." He
pulled on the old gloves and then he
unzipped his jacket. I watched as my
father handed him the catalogue and
the biker slipped it inside his coat. He
jostled his jacket around to get the
catalogue sitting high and centered
under his coat and zipped it up. I
remember nodding my head at the
time, finally making sense of why my
dad had given him the catalogue. It
would keep him a bit warmer. After
wishing the biker well, my father and I
left him warming up his bike.
Two weeks later, the biker came to
our home and returned my father's
gloves. He had found our address on
the catalogue. Neither my father nor
the biker seemed to think that my
father stopping at the side of the road
for a stranger and giving him a pair of
gloves, and that stranger making sure
that the gloves were returned, were
events at all out of the ordinary for
people who rode motorcycles. For me,
it was another subtle lesson.
It was spring the next year when I
was sitting high on my throne,
watching the farm fields slip by when I
saw two bikes coming towards us. As
they rumbled past, both my father and
I waved, but the other bikers kept
their sunglasses locked straight ahead
and did not acknowledge us. I
remember thinking that they must have
seen us because our waves were too
obvious to miss. Why hadn't they
waved back? I thought all bikers
waved to one another.
I patted my father on his shoulder and
yelled, "How come they didn't wave to
us?"
"I dunno. Sometimes they don't."
I remember feeling very puzzled. Why
wouldn't someone wave back?
Later that summer, I turned 12 and
learned how to ride a bike with a
clutch. I spent many afternoons on a
country laneway beside our home,
kicking and kicking to start my father's
'55 BSA. When it would finally sputter
to a start, my concentration would
grow to a sharp focus as I tried to let
out the clutch slowly while marrying it
with just enough throttle to bring me
to a smooth takeoff. More often, I
lurched and stumbled forward while
trying to keep the front wheel straight
and remember to pick my feet up. A
few feet farther down the lane, It
would stall, I would sigh, and then
begin kicking again.
A couple of years later, my older
brother began road racing, and I
became a racetrack rat. We spent
many weekends wandering to several
tracks in Ontario-Harewood, Mosport
and eventually Shannonville. These
were the early years of two-stroke
domination, of Kawasaki green and
750 two-stroke triples, of Yvon
Duhamel's cat-and-mouse games and
the artistry of Steve Baker.
Eventually, I started to pursue interests
other than the race track. I got my
motorcycle licence and began
wandering the backroads on my own.
I found myself stopping along
sideroads if I saw a rider sitting alone,
just checking to see if I could be of
help. And I continued to wave to each
biker I saw.
But I remained confused as to why
some riders never waved back. It left
me with almost a feeling of rejection,
as if I were reaching to shake
someone's hand but they kept their
arm hanging by their side.
I began to canvass my friends about
waving. I talked with people I met at
bike events, asking what they thought.
Most of the riders told me they waved
to other motorcyclists and often
initiated the friendly air handshake as
they passed one another.
I did meet some riders, though, who
told me that they did not wave to
other riders because they felt that they
were different from other bikers. They
felt that they were "a breed apart."
One guy told me in colourful language
that he did not "wave to no wusses.''
He went on to say that his kind of
bikers were "tough, independent, and
they did not require or want the help
of anyone, whether they rode a bike
or not."
I suspected that there were some
people who bought a bike because
they wanted to purchase an image of
being tougher, more independent, a
not-putting-up-with-anyone's-crap kind
of person, but I did not think that this
was typical of most riders.
People buy bikes for different reasons.
Some will be quick to tell you what
make it is, how much they paid for it,
or how fast it will go. Brand loyalty is
going to be strong for some people
whether they have a Harley, Ford,
Sony, **** or whatever. Some people
want to buy an image and try to
purchase another person's perception
of them. But it can't be done. They
hope that it can ... but it can't.
Still, 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 took 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 understand
why they wave to other motorcyclists.
They savour the wave. It symbolizes
the connection between riders, and if
they saw you and your bike on the
side of the road, they would stop to
help and might not ask your name.
They understand what you are up
against every time you take your bike
on the road ... the drivers that do not
see you, the ones that cut you off or
tailgate you, the potholes that hide in
wait. The rain. The cold.
I have been shivering and sweating on
a bike for more than 40 years. Most
of the riders that pass give me a
supportive wave. I love it when I see
a younger rider on a "crotch rocket"
scream past me and wave. New riders
carrying on traditions.
And I will continue in my attempts to
get every biker just a little closer to
one another with a simple wave of my
gloved clutch hand. And if they do not
wave back when I extend my hand
into the breeze as I pass them, I will
smile a little more. They may be a
little mistaken about just who is a
"breed apart."

 

Either I have read it before or something like it. Wave threads get put on here often and sometimes they get tedious. I am too old and set in my ways to care who thinks what is cool or not. I don't care what others do but I wave when I can. I wave to other jeep drivers when I am in the jeep. I wave to other boats when I pass them or they pass me. I wave to my neighbors, family and friends. Most wave back. The ones that don't wave don't bother me----it is their loss or gain. I am surprised by myself commenting on another wave thread---must be the weather. Cold and wet.