Motorcycle Week, New Hampshire
Throughout the length of our one-week stay we shared the highways and roads with motorcyclists. Thousands of them. A lot of Harley-Davidson drivers. With their roaring sound that the American company has even taken the trouble to copyright, lest another enterprising manufacturer emulate that dreadful, irritating roar. The louder the machine, the more powerful, right? The higher cost of gas wouldn't be of too much concern to motorcycle enthusiasts.
Bikers stayed overnight at a few close cottages. Can't blame our hosts. They're anxious for enough business to keep them around for yet a few more years. They've introduced, for the first time, a continental breakfast for Saturdays and Sundays; free coffee and doughnuts. And set up a washing station over in a green grassy area, where bikers can wash up their motorcycles last thing at night, first thing before setting off again, in the morning.
We've felt sorry quite often, for motorcyclists caught out in heavy thunderstorms. It's dangerous, the road slippery, and often enough over the years, during this same time of year when our spring trip coincides with motorcycle week, there've been dreadful accidents involving motorcyclists. They haven't much protecting them, they're awfully vulnerable, and they pay the price.
Of course, they're not much on wearing leathers, and too few of them take the cautionary step of wearing a helmet. How can they look appropriately tough, wearing helmets? Well, some solve that little conundrum by wearing helmets reminiscent of those worn by WWI German infantry. Thunder pots. Even so, the greater majority wear nothing to protect their brains; perhaps they haven't any, to protect.
When, on our third morning out, we stopped to gas up and pick up a newspaper before heading to our day's jaunt, my husband had a conversation with three bikers. They weren't driving Harleys. Theirs were big, gleaming BMWs. Turned out they were Venezuelans, on a long road trip. One spoke flawless English. They were happy with their adventure, planned to go as far as Newfoundland.
Their sole complaint? The reckless driving of the American motorcyclists. (These three avid bikers were more than adequately garbed.) But the scenery, the mountains, they said, were wonderful. Oops, perhaps there were a few more observations bordering on the critical. Didn't think much, they said, of the fact that motel operators had jacked up their prices because of all the motorcyclists. Nor did they think much of the sky-high gas prices.
They're not, after all, accustomed to high energy prices, given Venezuela subsides the price of gas for its population. The price of food and lodging may be high in Venezuela, and there may be a lot of unemployment, and too many poor people, particularly in the countryside, but gas is cheap. Hugo Chavez, in his ongoing war of words and ideology with the U.S. even gleefully subsidizes heating oil for poor Americans.
People find their thrills in various ways. For us, it's venturing into the woods and enjoying nature. For motorcyclists it's feeling free, the wind zipping through their hair, the landscape slipping quickly by. Who can blame them, after all? No more than one does people who climb Mount Everest, endangering themselves and considering it worthwhile because they're challenging their physical limits.
For cautious people like us, who like to experience our own little adventures, yet live to see another day, it's like exhibiting a death wish. One we have no wish to emulate. But we can, nonetheless, understand it, up to a point. So really, we don't have anything against the motorcyclists. And the neighbourhood merchants most certainly don't. Their money is as good as anyone else's.
Except that our favourite antique mall shut down early one late afternoon, leaving us and some other late-arrivals fuming. We were informed by someone who had just exited, that the manager of the mall just couldn't tolerate the roar of the motorcycles any longer, and decided to close early.
Bikers stayed overnight at a few close cottages. Can't blame our hosts. They're anxious for enough business to keep them around for yet a few more years. They've introduced, for the first time, a continental breakfast for Saturdays and Sundays; free coffee and doughnuts. And set up a washing station over in a green grassy area, where bikers can wash up their motorcycles last thing at night, first thing before setting off again, in the morning.
We've felt sorry quite often, for motorcyclists caught out in heavy thunderstorms. It's dangerous, the road slippery, and often enough over the years, during this same time of year when our spring trip coincides with motorcycle week, there've been dreadful accidents involving motorcyclists. They haven't much protecting them, they're awfully vulnerable, and they pay the price.
Of course, they're not much on wearing leathers, and too few of them take the cautionary step of wearing a helmet. How can they look appropriately tough, wearing helmets? Well, some solve that little conundrum by wearing helmets reminiscent of those worn by WWI German infantry. Thunder pots. Even so, the greater majority wear nothing to protect their brains; perhaps they haven't any, to protect.
When, on our third morning out, we stopped to gas up and pick up a newspaper before heading to our day's jaunt, my husband had a conversation with three bikers. They weren't driving Harleys. Theirs were big, gleaming BMWs. Turned out they were Venezuelans, on a long road trip. One spoke flawless English. They were happy with their adventure, planned to go as far as Newfoundland.
Their sole complaint? The reckless driving of the American motorcyclists. (These three avid bikers were more than adequately garbed.) But the scenery, the mountains, they said, were wonderful. Oops, perhaps there were a few more observations bordering on the critical. Didn't think much, they said, of the fact that motel operators had jacked up their prices because of all the motorcyclists. Nor did they think much of the sky-high gas prices.
They're not, after all, accustomed to high energy prices, given Venezuela subsides the price of gas for its population. The price of food and lodging may be high in Venezuela, and there may be a lot of unemployment, and too many poor people, particularly in the countryside, but gas is cheap. Hugo Chavez, in his ongoing war of words and ideology with the U.S. even gleefully subsidizes heating oil for poor Americans.
People find their thrills in various ways. For us, it's venturing into the woods and enjoying nature. For motorcyclists it's feeling free, the wind zipping through their hair, the landscape slipping quickly by. Who can blame them, after all? No more than one does people who climb Mount Everest, endangering themselves and considering it worthwhile because they're challenging their physical limits.
For cautious people like us, who like to experience our own little adventures, yet live to see another day, it's like exhibiting a death wish. One we have no wish to emulate. But we can, nonetheless, understand it, up to a point. So really, we don't have anything against the motorcyclists. And the neighbourhood merchants most certainly don't. Their money is as good as anyone else's.
Except that our favourite antique mall shut down early one late afternoon, leaving us and some other late-arrivals fuming. We were informed by someone who had just exited, that the manager of the mall just couldn't tolerate the roar of the motorcycles any longer, and decided to close early.
Labels: Whoops
posted by Pieface @ 6:51 PM
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