Everyone perhaps has a hot college story; the following events are true.
I had a 1974 Honda 450 while I was attending a northeastern university, having bought it new perhaps six months or so before I graduated from High School. Having previously only ridden friends' minibikes and small dual sport Hondas, the son of a friend of my father's taught me how to ride on the street. On my new Honda, I used to follow him everywhere on his BMW 750 and in all kinds of weather. He was quite experienced, having toured much of the eastern seaboard on the BMW. A former Marine, he would yell at me at stop lights and pick me apart for every little thing I did wrong. How he saw what I did while being behind him, I will never know. Later that spring, he reluctantly signed me off as being "incompetent and soon to die." He was a good teacher, however, and to this day I still have all my fingers and toes.
Aside from joy riding it whenever and wherever I could, the midsized Honda was the perfect platform for my commute of about 100 miles each way to my parent's house and for having some wheels - and fun - while at college. The institution at the time did not allow lower classmen to have a car on campus, so having a motorcycle was the perfect weapon. I could stuff it in just about anywhere for a perfect spot and it spent its down time covered and chained to an inconspicuous emergency door at my dorm that no one ever inspected. The unlit place even had a roof. I had brought it to college late in the first semester of my freshman year and I still remember those crisp fall and spring rides, sometimes with a girl on the back. Undoubtedly, nothing beats a bike for not only exploring new territory, but also for feeling and smelling it. Somehow, you just get to know a place better from the seat of a motorcycle. Clearly, the same experience could not be had with a car and, for me, a twenty something smartass, having a bike in college was euphoric. It was my freedom, my escape and my identity.
I still ride to this day and for many of the same reasons.
A change of majors late in my freshman year necessitated that I attend summer school so that I could catch up and be prepared for the following semester. I rented an apartment above a stereo store with three other guys who were also making such a change and it was a short commute to the campus. Of course, I had my bike and commuted rain or shine, then having only a green Army jacket and work boots for rain duty. Sometimes, I scammed a ride with the other guys.
Although it is almost cliché, there were four or five nursing students in the only other apartment in the building, which was across the hallway. I had a girlfriend already, so chasing them around was never at the top of my priority list. Plus, I was too busy on nice summer evenings riding my bike and exploring the great roads, or meeting the other guys at pizza places. And maybe studying. Nevertheless, to kill the midweek boredom, we would occasionally host impromptu beer and wine parties, or just get together with our neighbors to watch TV. While I was certainly pleasant to everyone, I would never "hit" on or otherwise get overly forward with any of the girls, nurses or not. In fact, I don't remember any of us ever doing so to a great extent and our parties never got out of hand. It was simply neighborly, friendly fun to us, and nothing more. A group of people sharing their experiences and college stories, stuck in summer school, away from our real friends and family. Away from our young lives.
One of the nursing students, Eileen, would occasionally ask me about my bike, why I liked riding, where I would go and what I would do with it. I would relate to her some of the great roads I had been on, as well as some of the scenery I had seen and the special places that I had been. I also spoke some of the more intangible things that I have already noted above; the feeling of freedom on a bike, the ability to explore and just how it was helping me enjoy life as a young man. It was like explaining how great things were back on earth to someone you had just met on the moon.
As you might have guessed, Eileen soon asked me to take her for a ride.
Always up for a challenge and a new experience, I readily agreed. While not a raving beauty, she was kind of cute, but none of that had entered into my decision - she seemed genuinely interested in seeing what a ride on a bike was all about on a beautiful summer evening. Eileen was a shorter, perky, smiling, soft spoken woman who really didn't say much at times. But she was the type that, when she did say something, everyone listened. She had a reserved "presence" about her and was always friendly to everyone in our little group, male or female. Eileen was quite likeable and sometimes very witty, with perhaps a bit of "smartass" thrown in if you really pushed her.
We scrounged up a helmet and, with it being rather warm late in the given day, we didn't need or wear jackets. I remember the ride specifically. I had on a red "Bell Helmets" T-shirt having a large white, circumferential band around the middle with the "Bell" logo in the center. If you were a 70's motorcyclist, it was "the cool" thing to wear. It was also probably the only clean thing I had but, even if you were in half decent shape as I was, it made you look good. I remember her wearing a pinkish, what I would call in the day, "hippie" shirt, having ruffles about her midriff exposing a tiny bit of skin. It was an equally cool piece if you were a 70's babe. Oh, and no bra. With her being somewhat lesser endowed, it really didn't matter and, at the time, I didn't even notice. Until later.
We walked out to the bike, with Eileen exhibiting a bit of eagerness in her step. The Honda, of course, started right up and settled into that typical 70's parallel twin, rumbling idle. My 450 was completely stock and I kept it neat and clean at all times. I had to. It was my life and my freedom. If it needed something, I would quickly drum up enough cash to take care of it. But it was a Honda; it rarely needed anything.
