Some stories just stick with you—the kind that make you smile, shake your head, and think, Yeah… that's where it started.
It really began for me around 1985. I was about 15, at Taco Bell with my sister one evening. A friend of hers showed up on a little bike—maybe a 250 or 300—but he was clearly in no condition to ride (drinking, maybe more). My sister talked him into letting her drive his car home while I "handled" the motorcycle.
How hard could it be? (Narrator: It was very hard.)
No license, no clue what a clutch was, and definitely no idea about gears. I took off in first and stayed there, redlining the poor thing at a blistering 15–20 mph the whole way. My sister pulled alongside, the friend wildly gesturing "twist the throttle!"—which I was doing, enthusiastically, in first gear. At a red light, a cop sat right next to me. Green light, pop the clutch… and hello, my very first unintentional wheelie. The front wheel popped up just enough to scare the hell out of me. The cop noticed I wasn't gaining any speed and pulled me over.
After we explained the situation—especially that her friend wasn't fit to ride—the officer just nodded and sent us on our way. No ticket, no tow, no "kid, you're an idiot." Different era, different vibes. We got him home safely, and that was my very first taste of two wheels.
Fast forward almost 40 years. I'd wanted to ride my whole life. In high school I bought Living with Your First Motorcycle and wore that book out. After the Marines, I'd wander into dealerships—eyeing matte-black Sportsters at Harley shops or Honda Rebels, Shadows, and Magnas—dreaming of freedom and the open road. My ex wasn't having any of it, so the dream stayed on hold.
Then came May 2023. I signed up for the motorcycle safety class without telling a soul. Friday night classroom, Saturday on the range aboard a Honda Rebel 300. I did well, passed the tests, and earned my endorsement. On that Sunday, which just happened to be Mother's Day, I called my buddy on the drive home and finally spilled the news—he was the first to know.
Monday I bought a brand-new 2023 Honda Rebel 500 ABS at I-90 Motorsports. Wednesday, May 17th, I Ubered over, picked her up, and rode home on surface streets in a half helmet. Thirty-five mph felt like pure speed. I made a couple of proud "cool guy" stops just because I could. When I pulled into the driveway, everyone came out to look. None of us knew this spark would turn into a full-blown passion. May 17th is now a personal holiday for me—I call it Rebel Day.
Those first months were pure discovery and quiet joy. I'd fire up the bike, ride to a coffee shop just to stretch my new "motorcycle legs," then keep wandering. I found my way to North Bend and the beautiful southern roads into the Mt. Baker forest—twisty, peaceful, perfect for a new rider still figuring things out. On the 4th of July I cruised through downtown Seattle; that ride has since become an annual tradition.
Then came Veterans Day 2023. I headed out to Federation State Forest near Enumclaw. The sky opened up in classic Pacific Northwest fashion—proper, soaking rain. My first real rain ride. I was soaked all the way through, even my leather jacket took days to dry out. When I finally got home I literally poured water out of my boots before going inside. I was drenched, grinning like an idiot under my helmet the whole way home. There's something special about those early rides. Everything felt new, a little scary, and completely alive.
I soaked up every riding video I could find—MotoJitsu®, FortNine, Be The Boss, Joe's Garage. One video on @MotoJitsu®, the creator Greg, does a little "experiment" by tossing a ballistic dummy head out of his truck at 40 mph—once in a full-face helmet, once in a half. The difference was… educational. That was enough to convince me to ditch the half helmet for good.
I also learned white helmets tend to be more visible, backed by research. Here are the direct sources:
I put nearly 8,000 miles on that Rebel in just 130 days. Mostly local, but full of heart. My big dream, though, was always cross-country hauls—seeing the country I fought for from the saddle, mile by mile.
That dream hit a turning point one day on I-90 heading east over the mountains. First time riding with strapped-on gear (maybe 35 lbs of camping stuff). Throttle pinned in 6th, engine screaming like it owed me money… and a big yellow school bus full of kids casually smoked right past me.
At that moment I knew: I wasn't a Rebel guy anymore. I didn't know exactly what kind of rider I was becoming, but this bike wasn't going to get me to those far horizons.
Winter brought some downtime, but when a dry spell hit in early January 2024, I went shopping. I rolled my little Rebel into the nearly empty parking lot at Jet City Harley-Davidson on January 7th, walked in, and just stood there like a kid in a candy store. My eyes widened as I looked at all the pretty!! OMG pretty pretty!!
A young woman walked up—cute, busty, exactly what a Harley Fit Specialist should look like. She smiled, stuck out her hand, and said:
"Hi, I'm Noelle. What brings you in today?"
With those words, this woman changed my life — sold me my first Harley, took all my money, and I'd do it again in a HEARTBEAT!!
To be continued in the Heritage Story…
