This last winter, I replaced my old worn out Cycle Works exhaust pipes with a new set of Vance & Hines ‘Short Shots’. They are shorty exhausts, and barely reach to the passenger footpegs. The look good, and…man are they loud! I mean, I expected them to be loud, but…dang. They are LOUD.
With these pipes on the bike, there is no sneaking around. No silently gliding through town, or slipping quietly in and out at all hours. Oh, no. When you have Short Shots, everyone knows you are coming. That’s okay, because I don’t sneak anywhere, and loud pipes have saved my bacon more than once. Besides, I have good throttle control, and can keep the sound to a reasonable level when I want.
But….dang.
I mean…dang.
These fucking pipes are so loud it is incredible. Makes my old Evo motor sound like the coming of a Panzer unit.
It’s just a tad (or two) beyond what most would consider polite and acceptable sound. Yes, since getting these pipes, I have become That Guy. You know, the guy who rides around not giving a hoot if you and your grandma don’t like it. The guy who old people shake their fists at: the one who Concerned Mothers carry on about.
In the murky bog of the blogosphere, there are countless angry people who seem to do nothing else but complain about pipes (and bikes) like mine. We are the ones, brothers and sisters. We are the ones who bring the wrath of heaven down upon us, the ones who risk eternal damnation for out lack of decorum and politeness. We are the ones who drag the world down to a fiery hell with our crazy loud murdercyles.
It’s true; these are no pipes for fence-sitters.
If you want to keep from bothering or offending people, you don’t have these pipes…at least not for long. If you wanna rock the world with your monstrously loud bike, they are the pipes for you. But if you wanna sit on the fence and try to please both the cagers and your need for sound, they are the wrong pipes. Maybe that’s why RevZilla sold them so cheap (that and maybe the fact California and a few other over-regulated Nazi states have made them illegal ‘race modifications’).
You see, motorcycling has slowly been transformed from a fringe activity into more of a mainstream bit. This means trying to make bikes that fit the sensible expectations of their sensible riders. The sound has been toned way down, to the point of a near-whisper. Four hundred horsepower bikes whiz by as silently as a Prius. Of course, the manufacturers have left a token sound, one that will remind you that you are riding a facsimile of a motorcycle. This token sound has been carefully crafted to ensure even grandma won’t have an objection. It has been tamed enough that your wife will let you buy a bike like that…anything but that loud-ass Iron Pony sitting in corner with shortie pipes on it.
These are they type of bikes that you can glide through your gated community on, after a weekend day out playing biker, and not incur the wrath of the Homeowners’ Association.
Yep, those new bikes are oh-so-quit. Oh-so-polite. Oh, so soundless. In fact, they are likely quieter than the motorcycle toys for kids in days of yore: the ones with ‘real motorcycle sounds.’
That’s okay; to each his (or her) own, is what I say.
The thing is, the world does not reciprocate. Despite all the big-wheeled pickups belching diesel smoke and blatting through their Thunderheaders, it is me and my bike people seem to focus on. No one complains about the semi-truck using jake brakes, or the train coming through town at noon, blaring out decibels like a heavy metal band with an unlimited sound budget. Oh, no. It’s me they focus on. Something (or someone) they can (try to) put their finger on.
Here comes that damn murdercycle again. That guy just has no respect for decency, for peace and quiet. Yep, John and Jane Q. Public love to hate me.
The other day at the gym, a guy came up to me and gently accosted me about my pipes. Of course, he felt totally comfortable about telling another citizen what to do (or not do do) in public. After all, it has become our new national pastime – playing cop wannabe with each other, and trying to proscribe and prescribe behavior of others.
He’s a really nice guy, and he said it all in the nicest, most inoffensive tones. It was hard to be angry at the guy. He was just doing what everyone else does…and for ‘my own good’ and the good of the community. He was basically (yet nicely) telling me that what I was doing (riding around on a loud motorcycle) was definitely Not Okay.
Yet oddly enough, he didn’t jump at the chance when I told him that no one who complains is willing to buy me a set of quieter pipes. He sure wasn’t. Not only did he want me to change my behavior to meet his expectations, he wanted me to do it at my own expense.
As a sanity check, the next time I saw a sheriff’s vehicle parked at a reservoir I often go to, I rumbled up and said hi. After a brief chat about the weather, I rolled off (with normal throttle control). The cop didn’t say a thing. Next time I was near a cop vehicle on the road, I gave the throttle a goose. The cop didn’t blink an eye. Hell, I figured I was absolved. If no cop grabbed me and gave me a loud noise ticket, I was just fine.
Of course, this is one of the few times I put any stock in what a cop thought. Still, I wasn’t above using their lack of action as an official blessing of my pipes and their noise output. Rationalization is a great thing, ain’t it?
So here I am, about to set out across America, with my loud pipes that no one but I seem to approve of. Will I be greeted in every small town with shaking fists and angry police? Have I become Public Enemy of Quiet Number One? Will even hardened bikers (the real ones, not RUBs or weekend riders) shake their heads in disgust at my blaring pipes? Will friends and nomads I meet refuse to ride with me on my Trail of Noise across America?
Yeah, people get mad when their quiet is disturbed. No matter that the entire modern world is one constant sound barrage from a variety of sources. They expect the peace of their bedrooms in public…unless it is noise they want to hear. They expect to rule the public landscape as they do their own domiciles; with themselves as the sole arbiter of what is and is not acceptable.
Well, ya know…fuck that.
And as much as I like to get along with folks…fuck you, if you don’t like it. I am a biker, and there are going to be many things you won’t like about me.
Now I admit, the pipes were even louder than I thought they would be. If I had my choice, I’d have maybe even toned them down a wee bit. But now they are here, they are bolted on and they are mine. I’m damn glad, too. Not only are they a tangible piece of performance equipment, they are a constant reminder to me.
As a natural ‘people pleaser’, I am often over-concerned about what people think or feel. These pipes remind me to get over it. No matter how much I care what people think or feel, they could generally give a fuck less what I think or feel. No one makes the slightest effort to accommodate my sensibilities, so it is insane that I would take any effort to accommodate theirs. After all, respect and consideration are two-way streets.
So I’ll just ride on as I am, unapologetic and downright gleeful.
That’s right, here I come! Make room. Gang way. I’m freaking glad you know exactly where my bike is by its sound. You sure don’t seem to using visual cues. I’m glad that when I accelerate, you think twice about cutting in front of me (only to then go slower or hit your brakes). I’m happy that pedalers get back in the bike lane when they hear me coming. I’m positively gleeful that the noise of my pipes cuts through the rap blaring on your sound system, so you can hear me. I’m damn glad that the sound of my loud pipes disturbs your texting as you drive, and makes you look to see what is coming.
Hell, yeah. I have slowly come to love these pipes. (Actually, not that slowly).
This is how all motorcycles used to be; loud and a bit nasty, not for everyone; a bit out of place in society, a bit on the edge of the mainstream sensibilities of the cagers, the car-bound, the Box People. I like that. In fact, I downright love it.
Blare on, Short Shots.
Let the murders (flocks) of ravens and crows scatter as I approach. Let the heads turn (or turn away). Let it be. Let me pass.
I’ll just get out into that empty space between the gaggles of cars and ride there, me and my loud bike.
I don’t need the sound of radios or CDs blaring at me out of performance speakers. I ride (in part) to get away from all that quotidian noise. I don’t need the sound of others babbling into a helmet headset. All I need is the open road, and the sound of my pipes. My pipes will never drown out the sound of the open road – they are the sound of the open road, wild and free.
I’ll still be considerate, and will idle through small towns and neighborhoods, my motor barely rumbling. I’ll pull in the clutch when I pass cyclists, or when it seems appropriate. I’ll still try to give as much or more respect than I hope to receive.
In the meanwhile, I’ll still be rolling along with my pretty damn loud pipes. Shake your fist at me as I pass, or give me the thumbs up, as your nature and attitudes dictate.
I’ll just keep on rolling, part of the diminishing herd, those rebellious and anachronistic loud motorcycles. Soon we may fade away like the buffalo, or the Model T, to be replaced by oh-so quiet and efficient foreign motorcycles. But until then, we’ll roll on unabashed, unapologetic – loud and wild and (at least for the moment, which is the only thing that counts) free.
Notes:
The Bike on the Featured Image is not mine. Mine is (to me) way cooler.
The You Tube link is to the background music and video that was playing in the other window as I typed this.
Tales of a Lone Wolf 