A Vicious Cycle

Last weekend, I got out of Dodge and went on a golf trip with some college friends. We’re all spread out along the East Coast, so Ocean City, Maryland, ended up being a convenient middle ground.

Right before we left, someone in the group noticed a funny coincidence: our trip would overlap with “motorcycle week” in Ocean City.

The drive down from New York City was smooth … until I hit the Coastal Highway, the funnel into town. That’s when I saw them. At first, it was just one or two. But the closer I got, the more they multiplied. Hordes of motorcycles swarming toward this narrow spit of land — like they were on a pilgrimage. The motorcycle version of Mecca.

For the record, I know next to nothing about motorcycles or the culture around them. I’ve never even seen an episode of “Sons of Anarchy.” And here in Rockaway, the bikers who we have issues with wear a lot more spandex. So this was a bit of a culture shock.

What surprised me most was the sheer variety of bikers. For starters, there were the stereotypical guys: leather vests, no helmets, somehow always both bald and bearded, riding what I can only call “hogs.” They traveled in packs — some might say “gangs” … not me, of course.

Then there were the hobbyists. These guys rode bikes that looked like the kind police officers use — standard motorcycles with odd trunk-like features. Unlike the first group, these riders all wore helmets.

And then there were the three-wheelers, which truly baffled me. I wasn’t aware these counted as motorcycles. If balance isn’t required, isn’t it basically a car? Honestly, the spandex-wearing cyclists speeding on the boardwalk seem more entitled to a spot at this event. But hey, what do I know?

I also noticed quite a few people hauling their motorcycles to Ocean City in trailers. At first, I thought that was cheating — doesn’t it defeat the whole point? But after two hours of white-knuckle driving surrounded by bikers going 75 mph, I realized those were the smart ones.

Still, the craziest part wasn’t the bikers themselves. It was the number of passengers — usually women, from what I saw — riding on the back of motorcycles on busy highways. Just a helmet (sometimes) and a tiny bar behind them to hold on to. Not in a million years would I be caught dead (the likely outcome, I presume) partaking in such exploits. Those women have sure got some big … er, you know what I mean.

To be fair, whenever I wasn’t gripping the steering wheel for dear life, my actual interactions with the motorcycle crowd were nothing but pleasant. They were complete gentlemen — and gentlewomen — in every encounter. Although, believe it or not, there were not too many of them on the golf courses we were frequenting throughout the weekend.

There really was only one major problem that drove me nuts: the noise. One motorcycle alone is preposterously loud. Multiply that by hundreds, and there’s just not enough Advil in the world. I have no idea how anyone lives with that as their daily commute.

Ocean City turned out to be a lovely beach town with a whole lot of bikes. But given the choice, I’ll take Rockaway and our beach cruisers any day of the week.