On a Steel Horse (Part 1)

Clinton’s Harley 48 Sportster 1200cc on an abandoned road in Bay City, TX. Photograph by Clint Kuss.

Have you ever been apart of something that was much bigger than yourself or had a feeling so insatiable that you were hooked instantly, a sensation unmatched and unique to its self and unique to the individual? I think I am addicted. At least, I would compare it to an addiction, driving a motorcycle, trying to satisfy that itch you cannot scratch. When it comes to riding, there is a distinct sense of freedom, liberation, but with great risk comes a severe responsibility. Words will be pressed to give the feeling of riding justice. The smell of gas and passing road kill, the constant comforting vibrations, and the ever present looming threat of the infamous “texter” are but a couple parts of the hybrid colectif that is riding a motorcycle. It is one of those things you have to experience and even with my own close calls, fast runs, long rides, and spills; I am still not sure I could match the feeling with spoken word.

I make a choice every time I strap that flat burgundy helmet on and mount that gunmetal grey steel horse. One is to be in the balance, sure and unsure simultaneously. As for now, this hunk of metal is all I have. Rain or shine, I ride. Any road can be taken on two wheels: gate, no gate, pavement, gravel, dirt, and even the ones that don’t much look like roads anymore, those lost and forgotten throughways. The abandoned back roads that lead nowhere. But then again, isn’t “nowhere” just a matter or perception? Here is something to remember…getting lost is just a part of it.

Being a part of this biker community is more than just owning a motorcycle; it is a mentality, a lifestyle, and for not only me but also many others that chose to “chase the dragon,” it is a savior. I don’ t know if it is the danger element or the responsible disregard of said danger, but when I ride, its faster and harder each time. I am always pushing the boundaries and the bike is consistently instilling a fervent sense of courage and self worth in myself. “Death is always on the mind and never too far behind.” For me, riding is a time I can think; I mean truly think. My ears honed in on the engine roar and the dashed directing white lines have become one solid blur. A time when the trees go by so fast they seem to standstill and serene. Maybe it is the chaos that allows a scrambled mind to align itself.

Self portrait by Clint Kuss.

Jon Paul Burbank: It’s a passion that you feel through every part of your body, in every vein that runs under your skin. It’s just something you can’t get away from once your there. It’s like a drug…you get hooked. That’s the best way I can explain it. Everyone has their own vice, cigarettes, alcohol, weed. Motorcycles are the same way. Riding relieves the stress. It’s damn near therapy. It’s a way to get away from the problems of life.

Most cats that we ride with are average everyday people like myself: mechanics, military vets, animal vets, construction workers, you name it. I myself am a working musician, chef, and full time student. Both my Uncle Richard, a construction worker himself, and Uncle Ed, a boat captain here on the Mississippi, have been riding motorcycles for as long as I can remember. I used see them pulling up under the carport on their Harleys like the knights and cowboys of some distant dreamland. And there I was, that young boy saying, “That’s going to be me one day.” The fact that people from all walks of life find a haven in this community and are willing to work together without a notion of profit other than the fulfillment of seeing a friend up and riding again is incredibly uplifting. But the omnipresent helping hand extends much farther than simple mechanics and pep talks.

One bright morning, Jon Paul and I were working on his bike after one of his many accidents and his father showed up. A shorter stocky fellow, he was in tears and proceeded to hug me ever so tightly. It was the kind of hug received at funerals, an embrace of consolation after a death, but in this instance, no one had died. “What am I supposed to do Clint?” he asked, I can’t lose him too.” And what was I supposed to do but hug the man back a man who helped raise me and even change my diapers? I assured him that everything would be okay though I knew that phrase was about as true as saying, “Your shit doesn’t stink.” It was a reminder that riding a motorcycle and taking that risk not only affects the rider, but also their family and friends. A simple fender bender can prove tragic if two wheels are involved.

Clinton: How do your loves ones feel about you riding and how do they express it. How does your father’s perspective differ from your mother’s before she passed?

Jon Paul: My father is like a little worried schoolgirl. Always worried when I’m on it but I know it’s a parent thing. With my mom, she was worried too but at the end of the day she knew I would make my own decisions and I was always careful and safe with what I did, mostly. “Be safe.” It’s like all she would tell me. I kept that in my head every time I got on the motorcycle. The other loved ones in my life that I have known many years, way before I started riding think I’m a “crazy wild one” and shouldn’t have chosen the path I did and got on a bike. [Shrugs and chuckles]

Part 2: Where It All Began

Editor’s Note: This story is one of a series reprinted from the book A Guide to South Louisiana: Stories of Uncommon Culture. Each author was a student in Rachel Breunlin’s “Storytelling and Culture” course for the Department of Anthropology at the University of New Orleans in the Spring of 2017. The Neighborhood Story Project sponsored the project as part of its mission to publish collaborative ethnography in high quality books in which the authors receive royalties for their creative labor.