Death and Motorcycles

Stepping out of the loop.

Brandon died three days ago. As is the norm these days with acquaintances (and sometimes even friends) I found out randomly while on Instagram.

While I wouldn’t say we were close friends, and it had been years since I’d seen him, we knew each other well from the motorcycle industry, where I worked for ten years. He was an imposing presence to me until I got to know him, although I was intimidated by almost everyone when I first started. Our introduction was most likely due to Alex, who I became friends with rather quickly. He and Brandon worked together at the same shop, one that was basically my clubhouse since I had a mobile business, where I would linger and chat with the people who worked there. Alex and Brandon had a great rapport and I enjoyed their sparring as a spectator. I usually knew less about the subject matter and they were both particularly gifted in giving each other shit without crossing a boundary… maybe because, for them, it didn’t exist.

At first glance, I think a lot of people would have said I didn’t belong in the motorcycle industry. While I was passionate about motorcycles, my mechanical skill was very limited and I was more of a cat person than a road warrior. Of course, the general perception people have of motorcyclists usually does not match the majority of the people who ride. As far as the professionals, in my experience, the people working in the motorcycle industry are not just doing it as a job. I didn’t come across anyone who was making a lot of money and there aren’t many of steps on the ladder to climb if you want to move up. It can be transitional employment for a lot of people as it’s difficult to make a sustainable living in the Pacific Northwest, with a riding season that all but dries up in the winter. A lot of service techs get laid off for a month every year unless the dealership sells some other power sports equipment that keeps them busy when less people are riding.

Still, I wanted a way in and I found my niche as someone who could transport bikes to the shop when they weren’t running. I was cheaper than a tow truck and, assuming the bike rolled, most people didn’t need that kind of equipment to help with their situation. The idea came to me when I was in a similar position (due to the aforementioned lack of mechanical skill) and couldn’t find a good solution to my dilemma. For me, there was an underlying wish to be accepted into an industry that represented a certain kind of masculinity. I did love motorcycles: riding them on roads and trails, trying a few track days where I could push my limits, learning about the newest models, reading journalism about racers and world travelers, and doing a few long-distance rides alone, however, when I reflect on my desire to join in some professional capacity, I see that there was a longing there that was more complex. Lucky for me at the time, I didn’t have enough perspective to drive me out and I enjoyed many aspects of the job I created, most of all, the people I got to know.

Without working in the motorcycle industry, I would not have met Brandon. I wouldn’t have known his giant grin and heard his open, joyful laugh, as I enjoyed the jokes he made with me and his coworkers. He was always kind to me, as many were in the industry, and explained things I didn’t understand related to the machines he knew from the inside out, only making fun of me in way where it was all about the humor; some way in which laughing at me and with me were combined for the enjoyment of everyone involved. He was someone I was proud to know and I felt, in some way, that he protected me from others I would come across in my work. If Brandon was there, I had some sort of shield against the judgments of people who might look at me and think I didn’t belong. He was a real one. One of those friends who makes you feel like you belong in a place where you might feel like an imposter. If he thought I was alright, I was alright.

I’m not in the motorcycle industry anymore. When the Instagram story showed up in my feed, it was as if someone had texted me a gravestone. Just a photo with his date of birth and the date of his passing. It was too late to reach out; to make him that shirt he wanted; to get together with him and Alex to reminisce. I was out of the loop and when I tried to contact someone who was closer to him—someone I was closer to who is still in the industry—I botched it in a way that may have made me seem insensitive. While I knew it was not appropriate subject matter for texting, he didn’t answer when I called. I was desperate. I didn’t know what to do. I felt helpless without more information; without someone to talk to who knew Brandon so we’d be on the same page. I instantly wanted to be back working in the industry with direct lines to those I knew better at that time. I didn’t know who I could contact to find out more information. How did he die? Would there be a memorial? I wanted more information from real voices, I didn’t want to check for direct messages every fifteen minutes and see more people discovering the news through others’ posts. I knew I was on the outside and I felt lonely, longing for a way back in; longing to be connected to the people mourning Brandon as one of their own.

I sold all of my motorcycles. I moved out of the city where I had my business; where all of my friends I met during that time are still living and working. I snuck into that industry and then I snuck out. It was transitional for me. I don’t miss the job and I don’t miss working in the industry. The thing I miss the most is the connection to the other people who did. And I miss Brandon.