“Remember when sex was safe and motorcycles were dangerous?” goes the bumper sticker. Not-with-standing a large body of evidence that a ‘sickle will still rear up and whack you if you don’t respect its bad side, I can relate to the sentiment. And while bikes were ornery back then, so were the cusses that rode them. You needed a thick hide.

The iron horse used to be a cantankerous beast: mistime your kickstart swing and a backfire might snap your ankle; its incontinence would ensure you always wore a layer of greasy grime; using the controls was as good as a Bowflex workout; motorcycle clothing was mostly ex-military with all the connotations that carried. Add regular bumpstarting when the battery failed, lights and brakes that did neither, the necessity of carrying “tar arns,” a huge Crescent wrench, vise grips and a bottle of oil … Tough guy or not, you still looked pretty rugged when you got to your girlfriend’s parent’s front door. Bikers were (mostly) men, and the bikes they rode required a firm hand.

Modern motorcycles—even radical choppers—have a homogeneity that, by comparison, approaches a showroom full of washer/dryer sets. Now anyone with the experience of a training school tiddler can probably find their way around a Hog or a Hyabusa without difficulty. Electric start and fuel injection ensure a quick, clean getaway, while CAA and a credit card will get you home in the–now extremely unlikely—event of mechanical mishap.

But there’s more: except for a small though spirited female minority, motorcycling (from the front seat, anyway) was mostly the domain of men. And while I personally delight in the interest that many more of the smarter sex now take in our pastime, it doesn’t support the macho image motorcycling used to have. Not for those less secure in their masculinity, anyway.

Choppers, once the ultimate outlaw rides, have reached ludicrous levels of decadence. Jesse James’s rococo radial-powered roadster could only come about because all other more common engine configurations have been done to death. To me, Jessse’s creation simply begs the question, “why?” (Jesse, of course, would answer, “why not?”)

At the same time—and this should come as no surprise—the average age of the Canadian motorcyclist is increasing, linked inexorably to the baby boom median as it moves toward old age and infirmity. Go to any bike meet this year, and the archetypal attendee will be a balding, beer-bellied 50-something in regulation wear: chaps, leather jacket, beanie helmet and dark glasses. Like my young niece, who demurred when told she had to wear school uniform: “… but I wanna wear jeans and a tank top like everyone else!”

So, putting all this together, how attractive does motorcycling look to what the industry would like to be its target market: teens and twenties? Not very. Old farts—and I’d include myself—find motorcycling attractive because of the connotations it had when they were younger, not the way it is today.

Honda thinks it knows the answer to attracting young blood: a specially priced starter-bike-and-gear package. Thirty-six months of $149 buys you a CBR125R (adding a couple of “R”s to a model designation these days seems obligatory) and a set of Joe Rocket gear. But with just 13.5 hp, the little sportbike is going to be found wanting on city freeways, a speed-bump for the freight-train phalanxes of 300-hp SUVs.

If Honda’s plan gets more people on powered two wheelers, though, that’s great. And, of course, Honda will be only too happy to help them upgrade to something bigger.

But I’ve spotted a couple of trends that may cause Honda some consternation. Take a turn through Vancouver’s artsy, ethnic east side, and you’ll see groups of edgy young guys riding crusty old Japanese bikes, mostly smaller capacity air-cooled fours from the seventies and eighties. These aren’t restorations; rather, they’re street scrappers screwed together from wrecker’s yard rejects. The riders wear black jeans and “pudding bowl” helmets. Their downmarket streetfighters often sport low handlebars and homemade four-into-one pipes. Misfit gas tanks are common, as are seat covers made entirely from duct tape.

The whole is likely to have been carelessly spray-bombed matte black. As ratty as possible and still rideable seems the idea—and high on orneriness. As like as not, there’ll be a skateboard lashed to the back. I suspect a counter culture emerging, a cynical rejection of the Rolex riders and their showy, stodgy and ponderous lifestyle statements. These guys are not going to buy a CBR125R.

The median age of Canadian baby boomers, though, is still just 52, which I’m told is the new 32. Those not debilitated by testosterone loss and hemorrhoids are looking for thrills. Sales of big dual purpose motorcycles of the BMW GS type rose 30 per cent in the US between 2004-5, a trend that seems, subjectively, to be accelerating here as well. Of course, not every 52-year-old can swing their chubby thigh over a 34-inch high seat, but many can; and there’s the kudos of arriving at Starbucks dressed like you just crossed the Kalahari. Look for aluminum panniers and a GPS to be accessories-du-jour, flip-up helmets to replace beanies, and knobby tires to outsell whitewalls. Honda sadly, hasn’t listed a real dual purpose bike in North America since the Transalp 15 years or more ago.

Auction prices for popular classic British bikes like Bonnevilles and Commandos are also on the up (the latter perhaps because of the demise of Kenny Dreer’s putative recreation). And no one can question your commitment to motorcycling when your ride is kickstart only. I guess it’s why I ride old British bikes. I like to think it makes me different. Maybe I’ll ride my BSA Victor down to the coffee shop tomorrow …

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