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People have asked me this numerous times and I have often told my story, but have never taken the time to write it all down. Until now.

When I was very young, perhaps 5 years old, an older cousin of mine got his firstborn motorcycle and gave me a ride on it. Somebody lifted me up onto the gas tank and my cousin showed me where to hold onto the handlebars, well inside of the hand grips.

(Note, this exercise is very illegal in the state of Illinois these days and in spite of my identifying this as a pivotal point in my life, I am not condoning any such illegal exercise in this happy-go-litigating age.)

I may still recall sentiment the engine vibrations as my hands gripped the inner percentage of the handlebars. I may still recall the adult voices – the loudest of which was my mother’s – telling me to hold on and urging my cousin to be careful.

And I shall never, never forget the sensation of rolling down the driveway underneath power and riding through the residential streets of Blue Island’s east side. I am sure we never got out of second gear – the speed limit on those streets is still 20 mph – but I do not forget the feel and sounds of the engine working through those gears and then revving back down to idle each time we came to a stop sign.

In all, we might have been gone for five minutes. To me, those were five minutes in heaven.

When we pulled back into my uncle’s driveway, somebody lifted me from my perch and set me back on the ground. With a thick Italian accent that was so mutual to me back then, one of the grown-ups asked me how I had liked my ride on the motorcycle. Without hesitation, I turned and pointed toward the machine to proclaim, “I want one of those!”

My mother started out hollering in Italian and I swear to you, she did not stop for the next 20 years.

Time continued on and there were a heap of more rides over the years. I soon came to idolize not only the cousin who had given me my introductory ride, but also his younger brother, who not only took up motorcycling as well, but also begun playing the electric guitar. To a young, impressionable lad as myself, they may as well have been gods.

Back in the early years, whenever I spoke when it comes to getting a motorcycle, the most general answer I received was, “When you grow up and get a occupation and you don’t live in my house anymore, then we may talk with regards to motorcycles. Until then, you better forget when it comes to it!”

Well, I grew up – sort of. I made it through college and got my primary job. Then I got another occupation and an apartment of my own. But I necessitated year-round transportation, so I purchased a car. I likewise had a girlfriend. Between the rent, the car payments and the girl, well, there was no cash to be saved for a motorcycle.

I got married – another pivotal point, and after 25 years, still one of the happiest days of my life – but there was no cash for a motorcycle.

We purchased a house. It came with a mortgage. Any cash that might have gone toward a motorcycle without delay got redirected.

I won a boat! It’s true, I looked in the bottom of a may of Diet RC Cola and soon became the owner of a 17-foot bowrider with motor and trailer. But even free boats cost cash and demand time – leaving little of either for a motorcycle.

We had kids. Two of them. At that point we could scarcely swing the mortgage, let alone receive pleasure from the boat or entertain thoughts of anything so frivolous as a motorcycle.

Well, the years went on and after a while, things started out to change, largely for the better. My career started out to take shape and as my net profit grew, I suffered a brief delusion of having discretionary income – ridiculous mortal that I was. We purchased a house in Plainfield, which genuinely isn’t very close to water, and for roughly two years that followed, the boat and trailer sat besides our driveway, unused.

In 2002, not long after my 41st birthday, I begun researching local probabilities for motorcycle rider training and speedily found the State of Illinois’ Cycle Rider Safety Training Program. For all of twenty bucks, one may learn basic motorcycling achievements thru a 20-hour program that combines classroom learning with hands-on training, using motorcycles and even helmets provided by the program. Such a deal!

I took the class and I failed – got too psyched out for the duration of the rider achievements share of testing. One of the instructors encouraged me to come back and try again. This time I passed with a near-perfect score on both the written and range-riding portions of the test.

This plus an $8 fee at my local Driver Services facility without delay enabled me to add the “M” class certification to my license.

At a good deal of point, I had convinced myself that earning my “M” would mark the end of my endeavor. Foolish mortal that I was…

A work associate of mine, upon learning of my accomplishment and apparently seeing a great deal of bull’s eye emblem on my back, without delay offered to show me a motorcycle that his son had purchased new but could no longer afford to keep.

In rapid succession: My associate permitted me to test ride his son’s low-mileage Honda motorcycle, I without delay made plans to trade my boat and applied the proceeds to acquire my original bike. Roughly 37 years after having had my basi motorcycle ride, I had at long last achieved my personal goal of motorcycle ownership.

That was May 2003. I have since owned a total of three motorcycles – one at a time – and logged almost 50,000 miles of blissful two-wheeled travel over the past nine years. Who says dreams don’t come true?

“Why do you ride a motorcycle?”

The truth be told, you could ask the same question of 50 motorcyclists and receive 50 distinctive answers.

Well, now you have heard mine.