Why We Ride. Mark Barnes, PhD

      Dylan in mid-adolescence, with a used bike we rebuilt together from the ground up—and on which he eventually rode faster than his teacher.

      Foreword

      First, a bit of background might be in order. Motorcycle Consumer News, the first to publish all of the columns in this book, was established in 1991 as America’s first nationwide non-commercial motorcycle magazine—meaning that it would be completely subscriber-supported, with no advertising to pay the bills. The concept was considered crazy, considering that journalism has often—and not undeservedly—been called the world’s second-oldest profession for its incestuous relationship with advertising. Many in our business placed bets on MCN’s quick demise—yet it continues. MCN became a beacon for honest reviews, renowned for its focus on consumer education.

      My own transformation from counterculture artist/filmmaker to motorcycle mechanic/businessman to technical writer/editor was equally improbable, and I’m proud to report that I willingly lost my first writing job for refusing to promote a dangerous product manufactured by my publisher’s company, to spend more than two decades working for MCN (editor-in-chief from 2000 to 2016), concerned only about truth and accuracy. And strange as it might be for such a seemingly high-minded effort to be based on the rebellious activity of motorcycling, it was in fact the perfect subject matter; riders are notoriously fearless and independent thinkers.

      So, in addition to casting a critical eye on motorcycles and attendant products each month, MCN dared to broach editorial subjects that would be out of place in more conventional motorcycle magazines as well—Mark Barnes’ writing being a perfect example.

      In nearly twenty years of working with Mark, his “Mental Motorcycling” columns were consistently the most thought-provoking material we published. His insights into the motivations behind our common love of riding, many of them widely shared and others uniquely subconscious, not only helped us each make sense of what outsiders viewed as a reckless and unnecessary activity but also provided the basis for conversations we might all have with family and friends who couldn’t understand our passion for motorcycling.

      As riders, you should also know that Mark is much more than a perceptive raconteur and philosopher; he enjoys working on his own machines as well. Whether changing tires on his dirt bikes, keeping his personal watercraft shipshape, or learning the complexities of modifying the fuel injection on his street bikes, he savors the technical challenge and sense of personal fulfillment that only the wordless realm of working with one’s hands can provide. While up-to-date technical information changes rapidly in motorcycling, unlike the evergreen material in these stories, a collection of his technical writing and detailed product comparisons would be equally deserving of a book.

      If you have read Mark’s work previously, this introduction is merely a brief delay to the enjoyment to follow. If you haven’t, you’re in for a treat. This handy volume contains a wide selection of his writing, organized into important themes with new annotations.

      His personality also shines through in these pages. Thoughtful, charming, and modest in person, Mark is a careful listener and a wise counselor, traits that I’m sure predated his Harvard training in clinical psychology. He is a highly skilled rider, and it’s been my distinct pleasure to have shared thousands of miles of great roads as his riding companion. I’m certain by the time you finish reading this book, you will feel like I do: lucky to have made a true friend and full of new appreciation for our shared love of motorcycling.

      —Dave Searle, former Editor-in-Chief, Motorcycle Consumer News

      Introduction: One of Them

      It was a dark and stormy night… No—wait, that was Snoopy’s iconic opening line as a would-be writer (lifted from Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s 1830 novel, Paul Clifford—ain’t Google grand?). In my own case, it was a dim and snowy afternoon, circa 1994. Instead of sitting atop a dog house with a typewriter, I was huddled in the tiny half-windowed attic chamber where I’d locked myself away several years

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