Something happened today that demonstrates my idea, and the ideal, of brotherhood as it plays out in life. I thought it might provide a good object lesson.

I have a dear friend who is a vendor for the waterstones I use in my business. Last week I placed an order for two stones, the total cost 85 dollars. A few days later the blower on our furnace self-destructed, the replacement cost was put on our credit card. To pay off that 500 dollar cost I called my best clients, but amassed only 220 dollars. My wife then informed me my friend would have to wait for his money.

Today after the gym, my wife wanted coffee from a local Barnes & Noble. When questioned about the cost, she informed me she intended to use one of the 100-dollar bills from my recent sales. I confronted her about the issue that my friend and the furnace company didn't seem to be an important issue to her, but pilfering one of my 100-dollar bills for fancy coffee was alright. You know me well enough to know we fought, and we're still not speaking.

To me, this is brotherhood. I promised, I gave my word. More to the point, this friend and vendor runs a small business like mine. No elves work for us, if we don't get paid and we don't eat. Our word is our bond. I wanted the stones, he sent them. He deserves to be paid.

So, a few hours ago I called him. My bank closed at noon, and the necessary transaction of "moving money" would have to wait until Monday morning. I told him I had sent the check, and when the money was moved he could cash the check. I would call to confirm. In most cases, my transaction will be done before the USPS delivers my letter.

A small thing. The world is made of small things. When I put on my colors I did not 'earn' a list of privileges. I signed on to lose. I'd lose my free time to dig latrines for our multi-club pig roasts if so ordered. I'd lose some personal safety. I would probably have to contribute more "brotherhood" than some other slacker members who did not take our oath as sincerely as I did. I joined the company of men, and made sure those ideals stuck, even now, some forty years later.

So when a newb or a poser or some guy on a Honda starts waxing poetic about his dedication to riding a motorcycle, I have some serious questions. In 1979 fellow member Lenny Stone died for me, and for all of his brothers. I went to the funeral, I saw his wife cry so hard people had to hold her up. I watched members of the FBI encircle the funeral home with unmarked Crown Victorias and use telescopic cameras to snap our pictures while we gathered in grief and sadness. I wept with my brothers.

You speak. It's a promise. You act. And if you cannot do that in all things--from writing a check to bleeding--then do not pretend you know about "brotherhood." You haven't a clue.

Last night I spoke on the telephone with "Locutus," he's a member of many knife sharpening forums, and a good friend. Unlike most of my friends, he is a retired veteran and police officer. A very straight up, honest man--the kind that chase us for handlebars too high, pipes too loud, obscured license plate...

We talked about the day we had, and I mentioned this thread. He understood the problem.

I may not have been a soldier or a cop, but the spirit of my beliefs runs about the same. How many times have you heard a guy say he loves his country, and then in the next breath brags about cheating on his taxes? Or he says he "supports the troops" but you find that a cheap yellow ribbon decal on his truck is the only thing he does. Or he biitches about the younger kids and morals, but you know he bangs every chick at the bowling alley.

Locutus shined his shoes every day before getting into his squad car. Now near 70 years of age, he acts as a volunteer advocate for abused and neglected children in Wyoming.

Same deal here. I rode with guys who's only real claim to the choir was wearing the same emblem. I say "emblem," not 'rags' or 'colors.' They were brothers in definition only. One such guy always 'borrowed' a few bucks from members--until they all put their stories together. Turns out he bilked hundreds of dollars from us--and the prez caught him. Dragged his sorry butt up before the entire club, made him admit his mistake, and then pay back every penny.

The key words there are "made him pay back." He had no honor or fiber to do it on his own.

If I say I'll meet you for coffee at 2:37PM in a chair facing east wearing my wedding ring, then set your watch. It will be you who is late. If some townie threatens you and you feel a jean jacket brush your shoulder, it will be mine. It is the exact same commitment played out in real time.

This is why BI63 and I bristled over this topic. This is why we refer to the modern present acts of such supposed commitment as "playing dress-up in your grandfather's clothes." If you long for such behavior while riding a bike, then remember you are an integral part of that lifestyle, as well. So if a guy gives you a dime because you're short when buying a cheeseburger, next time you see him you'd better pay it back.

BTW, a younger member of my club has owed me 20 bucks (the final payment on a knife) for over a year. I haven't even received a phone call in explanation. I wonder what our club founder would say about that...

I had a great conversation with BI63 on the telephone this morning. Mostly it was shucking and jiving, it sounded like both of us needed to tell a few jokes and lighten up.

But we also spoke about getting together this summer or early autumn. As you know, BI63 is a real iron butt. He thinks nothing of doing 1K miles to come drink my toxic latte' concoctions. I offered to sweep out the garage floor and put down fresh newspapers for a bed, even toss out a few fishsticks, but he declined...

As we do, we yutzed about this topic, not uncommon for old fudds who now have retired from 'the lifestyle.' You might be surprised to hear this, but I do not consider myself a 'biker' as we define it, and yet I feel I'm a brother. That explanation is quite simple.

I consider the "era" to stretch from 1947 until about 1971. For me, it certainly died by 1972. The Hollister incident made the magazines, and galvanized the idea of a 'biker.' But by 1971 MoCo began making a factory chopper, the new Ford Mustang was a Torino underneath, and the hippie-dippie protestors had graduated onto the corporate weath they claimed they despised.

During late 1972 I couldn't find a job in my skillset, and I was doing odd jobs and taking more college classes. My girlfriend and I had one car, and she would do errands and work while I was in class. Afterward, I would hang out at a local Rennebohm's for coffee and wait for her to show. I watched a lot of people.

I did a lot of soul-searching then, too. I was a full-fledged, real-deal bro at that time. No longer a punk teenager, but an old man biker of 22 years old. New kids were coming up, just as dumb and clueless as I had been, and not very committed. The campus was quiet now, the "war thing" was losing momentum. And along with all of the Aquarius crap, the age of the biker was dying, as well. Nothing was more clear to me.

I went inactive in 1974. Oh, I still saw the guys, rode the same bike, and in reality simply cleaned up my act. But the era was winding down, and both the fun factor and the idea of brotherhood was over. By Lenny's death in 1979 everyone knew the golden age was over. Even our membership dropped to only thirteen full-time guys for a brief period.

I'm not surprised by this. The 'wild west' lasted only one generation. In the 1870s you could pay a few bucks and get your picture taken with the last true Samurai in Japan--kind of like a surreal parallel to Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show. After all, the "muscle car era" was only seven years long.

Considering my tenure for the first two years as a newb, I had been a real biker for two, maybe three years. Most 'boomers moved onto adult lives in every occupation. And I freely admit that I became a "tourist" as it's called in my area. BI63 relates the term is "citizen" in his part of the nation.

But the idea of brotherhood sticks. You know it when you see it, you blanch when someone thumps his chest and then backslides. You can own a piano but not be a virtuoso. I've owned dozens of 1911-pattern pistols but I am not a WWI veteran. I walked the campus of one of the most violent Vietnam era liberal universities and was not a protestor. What you are in reality is a mix of commitment, lifestyle and the era in which you lived.

This is why we stress the principles here. If you didn't live it (or weren't even born yet), you are not really a biker. You may honestly try to emulate the idea because you find value in the things we profess. You might even grow your hair to your shoulders ala 1968, buy a spring-fork, ransack a junkyard for a knuckle, steal your grandfather's clothes and try your best to be our best. But the time has passed. I was there, I saw the clock strike, and it's gone for good.

Eh, com si, com sa. Bikes don't leak anymore, and "Sportster knee" from a halfass kick to a XLCH with a magneto is thankfully a thing of the past. That doesn't mean you cannot be honest and loyal to the people with whom you share the road. If you stop your garbage-wagon by the road shoulder to let a stranded Suzuki rider use your cell phone you have become more of a "biker" than some poser with a wallet chain speed-rapping to me in forgotten slang.

Be who you are. You may have in fact 'done that.' But you haven't 'been there.'

I thought of an analogy that shows my point. Please consider it.

At my gym, we get a lot of posers and wannabees. You know, guys in doo-rags, guys on cell phones, and juicers who bang the weights on the floor with a grunt--presumably to call attention to the amount of iron they can boust.

Amid this parade, there is a quiet black woman on a cane. She's quite tall, and she looks incredibly like Maya Angelou. But it's her face and bearing that demonstrate her soul.

She does not hide her gray hair or wrinkles. She hobbles out onto the floor, and she makes direct eye contact with you--every time. There is no doubt in my mind that she has seen bitter racism, ridicule during voter marches, poverty and decades of back-breaking work. Her overall carriage implies that she is most likely the matriarch of her family, and a respected contributor to any circle in which she participates.

She doesn't have to utter one self-aggrandizing boast. She is definitely of the age of freedom riders and MLK, and I wish I could listen to her speak someday. She's the real-deal.

Tell you what, guys. I respect her, and in some quiet way, I fear her. She has seen more life and strife--and endured it--than I ever will. Even her strut is from an injury, not simple aging. She exists in life without explanation or apology. If only half of my suppositions are true, she has lived a formidable life.

This is the style of living, existence and service I admire. I hope to one day sit with her over coffee and hear her story. There are still examples around us of true courage, and I advise you to look for them as signposts for your life.