Lieback’s Lounge | Motorcycle Commentary
Tore apart is an understatement; these musicians are already dead. Their art is what influenced me most, and I was equally as fascinated with their personal lifestyles.
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The drugs. The poor relationships. Their exit strategies, though Kurt’s was a bit more harsh than Scott’s and Layne’s. Playing music and hanging with some unique friends, I could have followed in a similar fashion.
But I had a savior, and it wasn’t the Lord. Nope. My savior was made of metal, oil and rubber—a Kawasaki ZR-7S, my first-ever street bike that I bought when I was 21. Money those days arrived after spending the days in brown uniforms while encaged in an aluminum truck that was either super hot or super cold.
The ZR-7S wasn’t my dream bike at the time—either a Ducati 996 or Honda CBR929RR—but it did what was necessary, and with serious comfort. Besides the Kawasaki’s annoying carburetors, which I ripped apart numerous times—mostly on the side of the road—the bike provided upright comfort for the many 800+ mile days of riding that followed.
My rock star influences were quickly replaced by the most addictive high that continues to control my soul 15+ years later—destination-less travel. Since then there were different bikes and multiple statewide and international destinations, but the “burn” began with that wrench-happy ZR-7S.
This is the platform that first took me to Tennessee, a ride my friends took every year for the now defunct Honda Hoot. I feel in love with that state, mostly due to the laid-back attitudes and amazing back roads. And at 21-years old, I also fell in love with a blonde.
That relationship never happened, and the idea of Tennessee romance continues to remain strong. But with a wife and kid at home, my Tennessee romance is now with Gentlemen Jack and good ole No. 7.
Besides those longer trips, the ZR-7S also took me on endless b-road rides in Northeast Pennsylvania—roads that were teenage favorites for, um, “mountain rides.”
Miles added up quickly, along with my knowledge of carbs; that first season of riding I had clocked around 15,000 miles. That ZR-7S helped develop my “Interstate Love Song,” one that was much cleaner than the troubling images Scott Weiland sang about. The bike created energy where energy was needed during a time when some friends and family members followed the ways of my teenage grunge heroes.
Since that first ride, I knew there was no turning back. Nothing could possible get me any higher than cranking on a throttle—not sex, drugs, or rock ’n’ roll. My moto addiction is stronger than ever, and it compounds every year.
And it all started with that slow ZR-7S that was plagued by carb issues. Regardless of all the troubles it gave me, the rewards far outweighed the mechanical negatives. Though that bike presented loads of issues, if I ever find one in good shape, it’d be hard to pass up.
Riding a ZR-7S again would ignite the ultimate renewed romance for riding—though I’m sure there will be some roadside-rebuilding carb arguments along the way. Is there ever such a thing as the perfect relationship?