A renegade in the land of the big wheels

Nothing beats the lifestyle of the badass biker.

Black leather jacket. Wind in your hair. Bugs in your teeth …

And best of all, that instant camaraderie that comes when you connect with all those other rebels of the road.

“Wait a minute,” sneered Tomas Lynch as I pulled my ride into the Rocket Market parking lot. “This is for motorcycles.

“What. Is. THAT?”

As I discovered Wednesday night, it’s not so easy being a two-wheeled renegade when the two wheels under you are hooked to a 49cc Honda Ruckus.

“That does have a definite Pee-wee Herman vibe,” observed another scooter critic.

This gathering of cycle enthusiasts is a Spokane tradition. On the first Wednesday of the month, dozens of road warriors ride their motorcycles to this South Hill landmark at 726 E. 43rd Ave.

They park their bikes. They eat and share their passion for the freewheeling philosophy.

Basil Steinle, who owns a beautiful 1978 BMW, told me that the Spokane Classic Motorcycle Enthusiasts is the organization behind this monthly meet.

It’s made up of mostly European and classic Japanese bikes, he said, adding that he’s been a member for 19 years.

I wouldn’t say that my Ruckus qualifies as anybody’s classic, but it’s definitely from the Land of the Rising Sun. Can you blame me for wanting to join this family?

So I zipped up my Schott jacket and pulled on my genuine Harley helmet with the “Hell On Wheels” sticker that I recently affixed to the front.

Then I revved up my Ruckus, which admittedly sounds more like a running blender than a serious motor vehicle, and headed farther up the South Hill.

Not to brag, but on my way to the Rocket Market I got a thumb’s up from a grinning 13-year-old boy, which, to be perfectly honest, is pretty much the Ruckus demographic.

This was confirmed by yet another biker I met at the gathering.

“I like it a lot,” he said. “I just haven’t seen anyone your size or age riding them.”

Well, every badass must start somewhere. Unfortunately, my younger dreams of owning a motorcycle were dashed by a father who sold life insurance.

Whenever I brought up the subject, he’d start reciting actuarial tables, filling my head with statistics and data about cycle-related bone breakage and brain injury.

Now that I’m older, I’ve decided to throw caution to the breeze by owning a scooter that won’t go much faster than 30 mph on flat pavement.

Hills?

That’s when things get highly embarrassing.

“I couldn’t get above 10 mph while going up Stevens the other day,” I confessed to Raymond Kling as we stood near the Rocket Market entrance.

“Stevens Pass?” Kling asked in a shocked tone.

“No. Stevens the street,” I said.

But all was not lost. Despite the mock warning from Lynch, I soon found acceptance into this enclave of easy riders.

“We welcome anybody,” declared Wayne Burley.

Cheryl Weixel, general manager of Empire Cycle, rides a groovy Triumph Scrambler. She assured me that my Ruckus was totally OK.

“It has a motor and two wheels and it goes,” she said. “Who gives a (bleep)?”

It definitely will get you from Point A to Point Z. Last summer, you might recall, my pal Scott Cooper and I rode Honda Ruckuses (Rucki?) all the way to my lake cabin – 145 miles north near the Colville National Forest.

True, it took about as long as driving a team of oxen to Seattle.

And true, the lack of a decent shock absorber lowered my lower lumbar by at least a foot.

But we did make it.

But I must confess. Looking at all the gleaming machines parked outside the Rocket, I felt like an SCC student gazing through a window at Harvard.

It was hard to not start lusting for the real deal.

Cool bikes everywhere.

There was flat-black Russian-made Ural with attached sidecar.

Richard Brooke brought his 2000 Excelsior-Henderson , a gleaming red-and-cream creation of chrome and steel.

“It has a lot of character,” Brooke said. “I figure when I can’t ride it anymore I’ll park it in the living room and stare at it.”

Barney Dasovich showed me his 1971 BMW.

“Feels like an escape,” he said of riding.

My buddy, Dave McCann, roared in looking like Steve McQueen on his low-slung Triumph Thruxton, a fast café racer.

I did find a kindred spirit in Bill Harris, who dared to show up on a 1980 Garelli moped.

This thing actually starts by pedaling it.

Harris is a moped freak. The Garelli was junk, he said, when he bought it for $200 and then carefully restored it to running perfection.

For a moment, I felt I, like, didn’t have the weeniest bike at the Wednesday rally. Then Harris told me that he had modified his moped to 70cc.

No doubt about it. I really need to get a bigger bike.