"Just Start at the Beginning..."

It's been said that there's nothing so intimidating as a blank page.

I've never really had that problem. Ever since I was a kid, I've always seen blank spaces as a challenge. If it was a clean sheet of paper, I felt the need to either write a story or draw a picture on it. That long stretch of silence between two people? Count on me to fill it by opening my big mouth. An unexplored field, mountain, or forest? It's a sure bet that my footprints will soon be decorating the landscape. New experience? I'm in!

But for some reason this whole motorcycle blog thing seems particularly daunting. Maybe that's because I could easily point to ten friends who know more about motorcycles than I do. Or to plenty guys who ride better than me. Or ... You get the picture: there are probably folks better equipped for the job. I'm hoping, however, that my passion for motorcycles and my ability to put that longing for two-wheeled adventure into words will ring true.

As a professional writer -- one who's actually made money (not easy!) and won awards (easier than you might think) for stringing words together -- I was taught that when you don't know where to start, it's best to just start at the beginning. Straightforward stories are told that way ... with a beginning, a middle, and an end.

Here we go.

My first motorcycle was a Kawasaki KZ-something-or-other. 1980? 1981? I dunno. Couldn't even tell you with 100% certainty what size it was. And if I ever did have a photo of that bike, it's long since been lost. Motorcycles were strictly verboten growing up, because they were "much too dangerous," but that didn't stop me from wanting one. My dad had once owned a little Yamaha 50cc scooter for a few months; that was the extent of motorized 2-wheel transportation in the Hopkins household. Closest I got to a real motorcycle was way back in high school (shortly after the invention of the wheel, if you're curious), when my martial arts instructor used to give me rides to the dojo on the back of his bike.


When I was finally out of the house and on my own, I walked into the first dealership I saw, picked out a pretty one that caught my eye, and plunked my money down. I didn't really know what I wanted ... didn't really know what I was getting ... and as a starving college student at the time, it was a sizeable chunk of change. I most definitely had the Jones to be a motorcyclist, though, even if I didn't fully comprehend exactly what that meant.

The shop prepped the bike, shook my hand, and tossed me the keys. There was only one problem: I had never ridden a motorcycle in my life. When I told them this, they took maybe 5 minutes to show me the obvious things: brakes, clutch, shift lever, throttle, etc. "You'd better ride around in the little subdivision behind the shop before you get out on the main roads," they advised. This was Memphis, TN, and as I was to learn a few months later, those who travel about on four wheels can be merciless when it comes to their two-wheeled brethren.

I took the shop's advice. Taught myself how to shift gears, how to turn, how to use the brakes, all in the confines of that quiet little neighborhood. Within the first 15 minutes, however, I ran wide in a corner, hit the curbing, and went down. Crunch! My brand new bike was on its side. There was a hole in the knee of my jeans through which could be seen my first applique of asphalt on skin, a cheese-grater-like tattooing otherwise known as road rash. Damage to the bike was minimal, just a few scratches, but my shift lever looked like a double-helix from having been run up against the curb. I managed to get the bike into first gear and creeped dismally back to the Kawasaki dealership, where they were nice enough to remove and reshape my shift lever without laughing too loud and making me feel any more humbled and embarrassed than I already did.


As I hinted above, the Kawasaki only lasted a couple months (I promise we'll get to that story eventually). Seven weeks of traction and eleven months in a cast later ... and there I am, undaunted, buying a Honda, a 650cc Nighthawk to be precise. A 1982 model, I believe. Black with silver foil striping. And from that point on, limping or not (I've been limping for the last week, in fact, the result of an unplanned dismount from my dirtbike last Sunday), I've been on motorcycles most of my life. Cruisers at first, then sportbikes, dirtbikes, and dualsports.


Motorcycles have taken me to some great places over the years and introduced to me to some of the most amazing people. They've taught me to use all my senses, to open up and soak in every aspect of this mind-boggling journey we call life. They've helped me fill the blank pages in my mind with memories that'll last me well beyond the point where I can still swing a leg over the saddle.

Stick with me here at Ride Oklahoma, and we'll share some of those stories, old and new.