Popping my motorcycle cherry and the long, spotty history that followed

By Paul Fenn

Contributing Editor

The first motorcycle I ever rode was during the summer of ‘68 at an island in the Thousand Islands archipelago of the St Lawrence River. My parents had these rich American friends who owned the island, and they had three sons, all teenagers with long blonde curly hair and feral spirits. They talked about girls and cars and money and constantly threw firecrackers at each other from a seemingly unlimited supply, even though it wasn’t firecracker season. I was 8, fancied myself pretty outgoing, up for anything. I wanted to be them.

I was intrigued/terrified by this crazy family

The boys had cool American-sounding names like “Chip”, lived under zero detectable parental supervision, smoked weed semi-openly, and to them life was this endless, vicious play-fight. They went at it with wet towels rolled into whips, stealth noogies, wedgies, myriad practical jokes, slap fights, ball taps, mock drownings – you name it – but never to me for some reason. The way they drove the family power boat, an overjuiced Boston Whaler, around the open St Lawrence could only be called insane. But they were decent enough to teach me waterskiing – probably seeing me as an easy source of entertainment.

The parents had inherited vast wealth

The mom and dad had racked up a few broken marriages between them and had evolved into these fun-loving lushes who didn’t need to work. They drank epically, but skillfully. Different kinds of booze tied to times of the day or night: Bloody Marys upon waking late morning, shandy (beer mixed with 7up) before 2pm lunch, sangria and/or white wine during lunch, beer for afternoon suntanning, then after the afternoon nap which ended at the 7pm cocktail hour came scotch or bourbon, continuing through dinner preparation, then red wine with the 9pm dinner, and various liqueurs following dinner. We kids and our drunk parents played board games like Masterpiece and Clue, as the adults danced and cavorted ‘til 2-3am nightly.

They were Americans, doers

These boys’ parents had drunk so much they’d already both developed permanent slurs that would see them out. But they were productive, still managing to find the time to read classics, cook up elaborate meals, attend to the gardening and stage murder mystery role-playing games that lasted days. They were so damn funny and messed up and free, in contrast to my more well-behaved, but still fun-loving parents. I loved them and saw them once a decade or so till they died, quite recently and at ripe ages. 

One day, out came the motorcycle

A mini dirtbike of maybe 50cc, if I recall. No recollection of brand. It had no gears. Just pull the cord, crank the throttle and g’bye. They had these fun single-tracks that ran all over the island. I begged to ride it but my stupid parents wouldn’t let me. I still remember my mum saying, “Absolutely not! Motorcycles are for hooligans!” Once I’d looked up that word, I vowed to become one.

My first ride

Finally on a hot afternoon, the boys offered me a ride on the minibike, promising not to tell on me. I sat on it, cranked the throttle and took off. Instant love, and I seemed to be a natural. I did a long circuit around the island, returning a delicious half-hour later to three pissed off bros: "We said a quick ride." They'd only let me on it one more time after that, during which I smashed my big toe (riding barefoot) into a protruding tree root at speed. It hurt so much I was sure it was busted. I used this new fact to try to expand my bike rights – I needed it now for getting around the island – but my bid failed. So I limped around that island.

Seven years later…

Despite my best efforts, I would not get another crack at motorcycling till age 15. A friend’s dad had died young, leaving his three sons a sizeable insurance inheritance. They weren’t supposed to receive it until they turned 18, but all three wrangled it years before then. I recall it being in the range of $37,000/apiece, a truly dangerous amount to give a teenage boy. The middle brother was the most undone from the loss of his father. He took his cash, went out and bought a brand-new Yamaha RD400 – the white, gold and black one. I think it was the bike’s intro year.

I’d never tried a clutch bike

He finally let me try the RD one summer afternoon, only because he was certain I was too thick to figure out the clutch and throttle and would thus be unable to move it. I stalled it but once, then nailed it, fucking off down our street like Beelzebub himself was chasing my skinny teenaged ass. I already knew he’d modded the bike with better, way louder pipes. I later found out he’d ported and polished the motor and added K&N filters – not that I knew what any of that really meant yet, other than faster. The shock of that bike’s torque and horsepower and sound levels rattled me. I was shaking when I got off it. I was also bitten.

But the cure would have to wait

The next bike I rode wasn’t ‘til 1978. I’d left home at 16 and was now 19 or so, living on a farm outside Sylvan Lake, Alberta with a Halifax girl three years older than me. My wildest years. We paid no rent for a stucco and glass two-storey house on 57 acres of fenced-in grassy farmland on the town line. It was slated to be developed into a subdivision, so the owner let me stay for free. At some point, I befriended a Quebecois named Guy, a Yamaha mechanic in nearby Red Deer. He asked if he could park his trailer next to the house. I said sure. Next thing I know there’s a vintage 1950s 60ft trailer on blocks next door, along with Guy’s pitbull, Sheba. And two bikes.

Guy was given free use of a XS650 cruiser, a 500 thumper and a snowmobile by the dealer. And one fine spring afternoon during one of our frequent beer & bonfire parties, he and some other dirtbikers asked if they could ride in my field. “Rip it to pieces,” said I, “because that’s what’s going to happen to it anyway.” They went nuts, and soon a circuit had been carved through the weeds. I thrashed that 500 like it owed me money. The fever reignited…

Along came triple trouble

Suzuki's weirdest bike yet: the 750cc triple two-stroke water cooled water buffalo. I traded a VW bug for it, quit my job as a fracker/acidizer and spent the summer exploring Alberta on it, trails included. It lasted just the one summer.

And then nothing, for nearly a decade

For whatever reason, I never got around to riding or buying a motorcycle until at age 30, I found myself hitchhiking around Australia – Adelaide, to be precise. It was a used Honda XL350R dual sport. I bought it off a Japanese guy who’d finished his tour of the desert and was heading home. It sounded rough when I started it, but he assured me this was because it had been tuned for the high-temp environments he’d been riding. I bit, gave him a few thousand bucks and went to a bike store to buy gear. When I rolled in the shop bay, the tech yelled, “Turn that fuckin’ thing off before it blows up!” I thought he was being funny. Alas, the top end was shot. He quoted two grand and as many weeks to get it sorted.

I rode back to the guest house to find that Japanese bastard

He had made a fatal error: Forgetting his passport on the table where we did the deal, along with some postcards. I’d chucked the whole lot into a pocket intending to give it to him later, but after I got the bad engine news, I realized I had leverage. He returned that night and I flashed him his passport. He was so glad not to have lost it. I also flashed him the postcards, which he’d written in English to overseas friends explaining how the busted engine, and lack of funds to repair it, had caused him to cut short his desert trip – and that he was heading home, heartbroken. I had him. He gave me my money back and I hitched on to Perth. 

Finally, a real bike that runs… into trouble

In Rockhampton I found a clean Honda XL600R and sussed it out a few weeks, riding tar and dirt between Geraldton and Margaret River, while sorting it for hardcore desert use. I had no idea what I was doing, no idea how to fix bikes, just this crazy romantic notion of getting happily lost in the uninhabited Great Stony Desert for months, living on roo meat, emu and found water – or something. Lucky for me, that bike had a stalling problem that no mechanic could fix. I sold it for what I paid and hitched on up to Darwin. Had that bike not had that problem, I’d have ended up as vulture food. With certainty.

Finally, a real bike that runs… roads

In 2009 at 50, I decided I needed to get a proper dual sport bike once and for all. I bought a new BMW F800GS and commenced to making it into a giant dirt bike, a role it accommodated with severely limited success. Still, it proved reliable and fun enough to ride to Los Angeles and back, via Moab, where I rode trails for a week. But it was a dog offroad and weighed tons.

And that brings us to the SE era 

After five years and 95,000km, I sold the GS to a nice lady from China who fills containers with them and ships them back home. Then I got my hands on my current ride, the ultra-bonkers 2009 KTM 950 Super Enduro.

Apart from that first minibike buzz, it's still the most fun I’ve had vertically, not to mention legally. It is my crowning achievement. I still may someday own other bikes, but this one has managed to engineer its way into my soul and refuses to let go.

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