The Importance of Character

I often hear "character" being described as a positive motorcycle attribute, so much so that Cycle World devoted a portion of last month's issue to the very subject of "character".

So while the talk of character gets tossed around, written about and discussed, what does it mean?  What does it mean when someone says their bike has character?  And, finally, is it something positive or negative about a motorcycle?

When discussing what constitutes character, I usually think it's a nice way of saying the bike is crap.  But the more I think about it, the more I begin to believe that line of thinking is wrong. 

To me, character means the bike is alive in some way and that the bike has flaws.  Everything that's alive, from worms to wolves to women, has faults and flaws.  Those faults and flaws are what what make up our personalities and make us who we are.  For example, I'm afraid of heights.  It's a fault of mine that makes me different from someone who isn't afraid of heights.

Motorcycles are the same way. 

A new Honda CB1000 is a nice bike.  It's relatively inexpensive, has good power and is well built.  I bet it has good handling, too.  It's a bike that will give you years of faithful service with minimal interruptions. 

It's also as interesting as a toenail.

You can be guaranteed that the Honda will start every time you go to ride it.  It also won't break down and leave you stranded on a lonely road next to a cornfield.  It won't run bad because it's hot, cold, overcast or Monday.  The ergonomics are well thought out and clutch is easy to use.  And, finally, it won't punt you into the weeds when you make a slight mistake.

In short, the Honda is a machine.  And as a machine, it is cold and lifeless.  It may as well have a place to store cold beverages and slots to make toast.

If we use the faults plus flaws equals character equation, my Guzzi would be the perfect example.  It has many faults and flaws.  It's loud, noisy, smelly and slightly overweight.  We're very much alike, my Guzzi and I.  It also doesn't run that well when the temps are below 50° F, drinks fuel like a full-size pickup and vibrates like a massage table.  I also get the feeling it would leave me stranded on a lonely road next to a cornfield, just out of spite. 

My Guzzi, then, is not a machine.  It's definitely alive and I often wonder if that's a good thing.  Why did I chose my Guzzi over the Honda, a bike that's better in almost every way?

Believe it or not, I think I know.

I said above that my Guzzi and I are alike in many ways.  I think that has a lot to do with why I bought it.  Human beings are flawed creatures; we all know that.  I think the perfection and precision of machinery scares us.  We don't want to be reminded that we're not perfect. 

The machine-like Honda will work for hours on end in any temperature while you will eventually get tired and need a rest.  When the Honda begins to age, it's life can be extended infinitely as long as parts are available to keep it running.  You will eventually die and nothing can stop that.  When a part breaks on the Honda, a new part can be installed and it will continue like nothing happened.  When you break your leg, it takes awhile for it to heal and there's no guarantee you won't have long-term effects from the injury.

So, to avoid being faced with our flaws in the face of a precise machine, we find one flawed like us.  We, as motorcyclists, will put up with a bike that cuts out in the rain or one that doesn't run well on Wednesdays or one with a ridiculous starting procedure.  We'll put up with these foibles because the bike is flawed like us and by extension, becomes a part of us.

So that's why I bought my Guzzi over a Honda CB1000.  My Guzzi has character the Honda will never have.  My Guzzi is an extension of my person because I know it's flaws and embrace them.  I embrace them the way I would another person's flaws.  That's what drew me to it in the first place.

Well, that or the carbon exhaust...