One thing you have to say in favor of COVID-19—if you’re semiretired and somehow still among the living—is that it gives you a lot of extra time, not only to ride motorcycles, but also to practice guitar.
I was noodling around on my ancient Gibson ES-335 electric in the garage-band corner of my workshop the other day and, as usual, gazing across the room at my latest two-wheeled acquisition. It’s a 2020 Royal Enfield 650 Continental GT I bought last spring, done in a paint scheme that Enfield calls “Black Magic.” This is essentially a cafe-racer-style motorcycle with low bars, gold trim on the tank, and an optional solo saddle. I also added a set of Enfield-exclusive S&S mufflers, made in Viola, Wisconsin.
Yes, Wisconsin-made pipes on a motorcycle from India, a commercial nexus I did not foresee while attending high school 30 miles from Viola in the ’60s.
In any case, the arrival of this bike in my garage was all but inevitable. I saw an identical GT last year in the showroom and knew instantaneously I’d have to figure out how to get one. Bang, just like a door slamming shut in the wind. Decision made.
This has happened only a few other times in my life—Triumph TR6C, Norton Commando, bevel-drive Ducati 900SS, Velocette Venom, Harley XLCR, Ducati 996…
OK, I better stop there, or the list will get embarrassingly long, and I’ll be naming three or four other Ducati and Triumph models, not to mention the Honda CB400F and the Vincent Black Shadow I sold everything I owned to buy—back when they were still relatively affordable.
Ry Cooder may be a fool for a cigarette, but I’m a fool for a good-looking motorcycle. And if that bike comes in black and gold, and has nice engine architecture, I’m really in trouble.
But back to guitar practice.
I realize that not everybody practices guitar in a workshop with a motorcycle parked in the foreground, but I almost never do it anywhere else. In fact, I generally take great pains to park a favorite bike at exactly the right angle for optimum viewing while I sit in the band corner on my shop stool. Sort of a dual infusion of bliss, like an IV bottle of Demerol with twin hoses. Although anyone visiting the garage would find the sight of the motorcycle a lot more blissful than my guitar playing. There’s a perfectly good reason the Rolling Stones didn’t call me when Mick Taylor quit.
Anyway, there I was strumming on the Gibson and pondering the black Continental GT, when I realized I’d never actually learned how to play one of my favorite songs, which is “1952 Vincent Black Lightning” by Richard Thompson. The national anthem of the cafe-racer culture.
Known, I’m sure, to most longtime motorcyclists, it’s the story of Red Molly and James, two rocker types in England who jump on James’ Vincent and ride down to Box Hill, which is a scenic summit in Surrey, just south of London. James is a troublemaker, and the story ends badly, but before he dies, he hands Red Molly the keys for his Vincent to ride.
My own ’51 Vincent, incidentally, had a kill button but no keys, I guess on the theory that any thief intrepid enough to start the thing deserved to own it. And maybe be knighted by the queen. But the rest of the lyrics show an insider’s touch, a superb depiction of the excitement and charm of classic bikes and the cafe-racer era. The song even mentions the motorcycle marque “Greeves,” a word you don’t hear every day coming out of your stereo speakers.
The decision to buy another bike with low bars, rearsets, and a solo saddle was a bit retrograde for a man cruising smoothly into his 70s, with only a few potholes and road seams here and there. In recent years, I’ve shied away from committed sportbikes (as has most of the market, I might add) and gravitated toward bikes with legroom, higher bars, comfy seats, and the ability to head down a bumpy gravel road without fear of death.
When I announced my intention to get the GT, several friends suggested I’d probably be a lot happier, in the long run, on the more upright and conventional RE 650 Interceptor. Especially as an only bike. But I don’t want an only bike. I’ve already got an RE Himalayan and a 2014 BMW R 1200 GS, possibly the two best motorcycles I’ve ever owned for attacking a wide range of roads while sitting comfortably upright. I could live with either one of them the rest of my life without any tragic sense of deprivation.
But what I wanted was a jewel, a lithe yet sharp tool for sweeping pavement that would somehow condense the better sensations of all the sportbikes and trackbikes I’ve owned in my life. While looking really good in the garage all winter.
And I’ve not been disappointed in the Continental GT. It handles beautifully and intuitively, shifts with the precision of a Swiss watch, and has a smooth, torquey engine that emits the kind of deep, resonant purr that always reminds me of the inboard engine on a vintage Chris-Craft runabout. Sounds good even with the stock mufflers. When I ride this thing, I feel like I’m about 16 again, attacking back roads and snapping the tarmac into focus while blurring the tunnel of trees with speed.
Dangerous illusions, perhaps, for a gent of my age, but still a large part of what I love about this sport.
That said, I don’t ride very far. I often go out all day on my Himalayan or the GS, but the Continental GT is about a two-hour bike for me. I’m pretty comfortable on it, but still have to get off about once an hour to flex my hands and wrists. After a short rest—and maybe an energy bar on a park bench—I’m good to go again. But I won’t be riding it to California by way of Alaska any time soon.
I’ve put only about 1,300 miles on the bike this past summer, while racking up a combined 6,000 on the other two. But that’s OK. It’s a precise instrument for a certain kind of riding, and that’s what I bought it for.
That and guitar practice.
As Red Molly said to James in another era, long ago, “That’s a fine motorbike.”
Nice to know we still have them. Now with fuel injection and real brakes. And keys.
