Machine lust and memories

There are moments in life where something small opens a door you forgot was even there.

Tonight was one of those nights.

When I was a kid, I didn’t even own a motorcycle at first. I borrowed one from a neighbor kid. I can still remember it perfectly: a Honda SL70. To me, it may as well have been a factory race bike straight from heaven. I was obsessed with it.

The kid who owned it had figured out pretty quickly how badly I wanted to ride. I’d do chores for him just to get a little seat time. Mow something. Carry something. Clean something. Whatever it took. I just wanted to ride that bike.

He was from a divorced family if I remember right, and his dad had bought him the motorcycle. His mom was never thrilled about it. But to me, that bike represented freedom, independence, adventure, and maybe the beginning of what I now jokingly call “machine lust.”

I loved everything about it. The smell. The paint. The quality of the metal. The sound it made cooling off after a ride. I could honestly just sit and stare at it.

That feeling never really left me.

A few years later I bought my first enduro bike. A green Yamaha 100. I can still remember the smell of that bike too. Funny how certain smells become time machines. I rode it everywhere. Curbs, gutters, fields, dirt roads. Eventually I tried to turn it into a motocross bike even though it absolutely was not built for that kind of abuse. I pulled off the lights, changed the fenders, and jumped the living daylights out of that poor thing until it was thoroughly worn out.

But that was the beginning.

From there it was motorcycle after motorcycle after motorcycle. Street bikes. Dirt bikes. Enduros. Eventually even electric motorcycles when I started a motorcycle company years later. Some of those projects were incredibly fun. We built some very cool electric dirt bikes with gearboxes and all sorts of interesting technology. But somewhere in the middle of building businesses and raising a family and chasing opportunities, it became harder to actually ride.

I always found my way back eventually, though.

A few years ago I had a Honda CRF450L. Incredible bike. Fast. Capable. Fun. But also the kind of bike that constantly reminded you it was basically a race bike wearing blinkers and a license plate. High maintenance. Always needing something.

And lately I kept thinking back to those earlier bikes. The SL70. The Yamaha Enduro. The bikes you could just ride endlessly without worrying about every hour on the engine.

So recently I got the itch again.

I wanted something simple but capable. A bike I could ride out of my driveway without a trailer. Something with lights and a plate that could legally hit pavement, but then disappear down fire roads and dirt trails. Something where I could leave Bend, take back roads all the way toward Sisters, grab lunch at Sisters Smokehouse, and never really feel like I was “commuting.”

Just exploring.

So I ended up acquiring a Husqvarna 701 Enduro. Barely broken in. A couple years old. The kind of purchase I always love because it feels like someone else paid for the depreciation while I still get the thrill of something practically new.

Tonight I finally took it out for a real ride.

I headed toward Mount Bachelor and started following random dirt roads as the sun disappeared. Some of the roads got rough and sandy. A few had little whoops and rollers where the bike got light and floated for a second.

And then it happened.

I had this visceral flashback to being young again.

Not just the bikes themselves, but the feeling.

The freedom.

The excitement.

The possibility.

And strangely enough, I flashed back to another motorcycle entirely. When I was around 13 or 14, I bought a completely wrecked Honda CB550 Four basket case. I tore that thing down to nothing. Polished parts. Painted pieces. Learned how to rebuild the engine. Put an aftermarket exhaust on it. Had the tank painted black with subtle colored flames that I thought were the coolest thing ever created.

I loved that bike beyond reason.

The funny part was I was years away from legally having a motorcycle license. But I rode it around anyway near the house. Eventually my parents, probably because I was already tall and working at a restaurant, let me ride it on the back roads to work.

Not dirt roads. Actual paved roads.

And I cannot fully explain what that felt like.

The smell inside my helmet.

The sound of the engine.

Riding myself to work and earning my own money.

It gave me this overwhelming sense of freedom and self-sufficiency. Even though I was still just a kid living at home, it felt like the beginning of becoming my own person.

I can still feel it when I think about it.

And honestly, writing this right now gives me that same little surge of excitement in my chest.

As I’ve gotten older, I sometimes wondered if that feeling eventually disappears. If the ability to get genuinely excited about something fades with time and responsibility and stress and all the things adulthood piles onto your shoulders.

But tonight reminded me it’s still there.

I still get that feeling when I discover a new technology. Or get excited about a business idea. Or watch my kids light up about something they want to pursue. But there was something almost primal about feeling it again on a motorcycle, on a dirt road, after dark, with cold air and dust and silence all around me.

It felt familiar.

Like reconnecting with a younger version of myself that never completely went away.

And honestly, I hope that feeling never leaves.

Because the moment you stop getting excited about things… I think part of you starts shutting down.

Tonight I rode dirt roads under the stars, made it home in one piece, and felt more alive than I have in a while.

And that feels like a pretty good reminder that no matter how old we get, there are still parts of ourselves worth rediscovering.