It’s January and the northern hemisphere but the layman wouldn’t know if not for calendars and discarded Christmas trees lining The City’s curbs. Surely this faultless weather and the optimism of a new year would lure beautiful motorcycles out of garages and into the parking lot of Alice’s in Woodside, I thought. Some things even an idiot can reason.

Within moments of parking, I spotted an awesome Buell White Lightning in brash orange with purple highlights on the frame and wheels, proudly branded “Buell: American Motorcycles.” In summary, cool as shit.

But even the Buell looked ordinary against the pot-bellied Ducati SS across the street. Yellow and black, bumblebee paint and the baddest headlight-bikini combo I’ve ever seen on a bike, customizations bring out the soul of the Ducati normally buried beneath layers of plastic. Missing motor covers on the right side of the motorcycle leave exposed the dry clutch and timing belt and lend a vaguely steam-punk magic to the workings of the thing.

Truth told, I had no clue what model bike it was and wanted desperately to ask its owner for the history. I never got the chance. It was after I’d got home and did some Google sleuthing before it struck me: I’m in love with a Ducati SS.

I thought. I was wrong. It happens.

I want leather and the sucking flattery of shapely-armored designer cuts wrapping me in MotoGP cosplay, I thought. I gave it a shot. The intoxicating scent of leather loses its appeal when soggy wet. Ditto the joy of riding.

And even my relatively loose-fitting leather clobber took too long to fit, delayed my daily departure, and presented enough excuse for me to lazily avoid small trips on the bike–to accept the hassle of gearing up I needed a real good reason to ride.

After three years of living the snug-hugging dream of motorcycling in leather, the Aerostich Roadcrafter gradually made sense. Good in the rain and quick to dress up and down. That is precisely what I need. Now after a year with my ‘Stich, the suit still suits me perfectly.

Nearly.

Suit looks good hanging on a rusted gate

Aerostich’s most damning issue is the fact they’re based in Duluth, Minnesota. Anyone not residing in or visiting Duluth must order online and hope the enormous one-piece fits properly according to measurements made by customers, not tailors. I used a tape measure wrapped ’round my vital metrics–chest, waist and inseam–and stabbed the dark with an online order. The Roadcrafter suit fit like a glove. But Cordura doesn’t stretch and a glove-like Roadcrafter is not ideal. Specifically, my man parts suffered when I leant forward in the suit, my forward-bent shoulders tugged the one-piece upward and into the boys of under. I gave the suit a week before ringing up Aerostich HQ for advice. Send back the gently-worn too-small suit and they’d start building another, one size bigger.

Two weeks later, “my ‘Stich” arrived. The improved fit didn’t solve my comfort completely because it couldn’t possibly have–I’d never before worn a one-piece and there’s a degree of comfort that can’t be sewed but must be learned. Bluntly, I felt awkward in the suit. It took a month of loosening up and settling in before I felt my old self on the bike. Love didn’t dawn in an instant, but I knew what was good for me. The Roadcrafter would be good. It really is.

Every-day riding

Overstating the convenience of the Aerostich Roadcrafter is impossible. In twenty seconds, I’m suited, neck-to-ankle, in skin-saving abrasion resistance. In about half that time I’m disrobed. (Times verified by stopwatch and wife.) The Roadcrafter effortlessly fits over boots and whatever attire matches my destination, be it work, weekend brunch with friends or a Haight Street bar. The suit slips off and rolls into a neat wad that can be cable-locked to the bike if wildly-urinating homeless aren’t a common public concern where stopped. In San Francisco, I tend to take the suit with me rather than leave it behind, though the convenient option for abandonment allows comfortable foot travel off of the bike when visiting friendlier, less human-wastey cities.

Still, San Francisco is the perfect climate for the Roadcrafter. Despite appearances, the suit isn’t particularly warm riding. In fact, it breathes better than the leather stuff I wore before, as long as the bike is rolling. Walking on foot in 90-degree weather will conjure an unhappy sweat, but crack open the underarm vents and leave unzipped the upper chest of the suit and it’s quite cheery inside when cutting through the air at speed. For cold weather, there’s plenty of room for layers under the waterproof Goretex. I can hardly remember what it’s like to worry about rain. Shove my jean legs into my boots, don the ‘Stich and no downpour can make me miserable. I’ve braved SF freeway rush hour through sliding, splashing four-lane puddles of fallen sky and come out dry at the other end. The Roadcrafter is notorious for letting in wet at the crotch but I’ve hardly noticed.

Demerits

Not that I’m oblivious to all faults with the suit. Chief among my complaints is this: Not one of the Roadcrafter’s myriad pockets is accessible while sitting and with gloved hands. The main front pockets fold at the lap while seated, rendering the contents inaccessible. A small breast pocket is good for a wallet and iPhone but seals shut with just a bit of hook-and-loop (Velcro) and a modest flap that I don’t fully trust in the rain. Considering how gloriously practical the suit is, the Roadcrafter’s pockets disappoint.

Massive reflective strip across back doubles as zippable vent

And I worry that the liberal use of hook-and-loop will cause the suit to wear prematurely. The stuff seals various pockets as well as a long flap that covers the World’s Longest Zip running from the neck of the suit down to the left ankle. I’ve employed the Roadcrafter nearly every day for a year and the fuzzy loops still hook strongly, though the aforementioned breast pocket flap is worn such that the hook-and-loop bond has weakened. Snaps instead of Velcro might improve the durability of the suit against daily use, though adding dear seconds to the dress-up-and-down time. Either way, I’ll find room to complain.

Get one

But not much, because that about ends my negative marks of the Roadcrafter suit. The thing is fantastic and, even at nearly $900, a bargain. My favorite feature? The “Made in U.S.A.” tag on the back. The suit is pure American, from the saggy butt to the under-engineered and over-built construction that’s a hallmark of American durability and quality. My ‘Stich has lived through 10,000 road miles so far and with a good washing could look nearly new (save for a small bit on the right leg scalded by the exposed section of my DR’s exhaust). Aerostich has a reputation for long-lasting suits with lifespans expressed in decades rather than years. One year in, my Roadcrafter certainly looks ready for another ten. If I crash sometime between now and then, the folks in Duluth offer repairs and the kind of support exclusive to small, local-ish business. Need the arms shortened an inch, or a Canadian flag sewn into the breast? Aerostich will do it for a nominal fee. (The nominal fees add up significantly if multiple alterations are required. Prep the pocketbook. Get the right fit.)

Don’t see these every day. Sadly, Roadcrafter “Lightweight” variant is Vietnam-built

As a matter of opinion, I find the Roadcrafter rather handsome. In silver-on-gray, it’s nearly militaristic, air force-like austere. Three cute girls once asked me if I’d come from the moon, which might be poking fun but they also asked to come with me. Sure, there exist cooler ways to dress. But more practical gear for the daily-rider lifestyle? I find it hard to imagine anything tops the Aerostich Roadcrafter. Then again, I’ve been wrong before.

In March, some scumbag weaseled his way into the garage and tried to steal my bike. He failed, and I took some satisfaction knowing that the would-be thief is worthless at stealing motorcycles. The bike didn’t leave the garage, but the failed failure so severely damaged the ignition barrel that I couldn’t unlock the steering. That insurance claim was the first I’d ever filed. Now eight months later, I’ve filed a total of three.

My Ninja 250 tied to a flatbed trailer because some slob wants other people’s things

No more than a week after coming home, the bike was on its way back to the shop. A minivan backed into my motorcycle, knocking it over onto a soiled, rainy street in the Sunset district of San Francisco. I found Mighty propped up on the curb and a quick survey revealed a smashed left fairing, broken indicators and rash to various hard bits on the left side. Gutted, furious, bewildered. I purposely park my bike such that knockovers should be impossible, but the minivan driver admitted fault despite my efforts and despite a rearview camera installed in the cage. The bike was rideable, all the way back to the shop.

I was ready to proclaim 2011 a bad year for the bike even before it suffered a second attempted theft last week, roughly eight months after the first. Same story: An incompetent sack of shit snuck into the garage and violated the ignition with a hammer and a screwdriver. I’m not a vengeful man, but I wouldn’t be bothered if the assault was reversed.

There’s only so much a doting owner can do to prevent heartache over his motorcycle. Comprehensive insurance is a must for a bike of any value in The City. As well, I’ve decided that I need to ride more. Conclusively, the motorcycle is safer with me on it than not.

Parallels between both groups daily manifest in my interactions with either, to the point that I’m nearly convinced “motorcyclist” and “libertarian” mean the same thing.

At the core of it is a desire to move forward absent the impedance of others. It is assuming complete responsibility for one’s own fate; life, death, and getting to work on time. It is rejecting the coddling protection of nanny crash standards to wring out life’s juice from its core.

Like libertarians, motorcyclists are oft perceived as dangerous, nihilistic. But we don’t hold contempt for order, we survive in it. Common misperception paints us selfish thrillers, in black and red. The liberty to weave paths between two-ton steel traps is lunacy to caged captives. But, hand gripped tightly ’round throttle, outside knee pressed into gas tank, head tucked inside with eyes fixed on the goal, it’s not lunacy that drives us, it’s control. Fear dissolves beneath the faith that we can take care of ourselves, that risk mated to talent breeds reward.

Motorcyclists suffer if we crash. Others, meekly separate from liberty, suffer daily to ignore the inevitable reality: We will die, every one of us. Tragedy, by definition, is fiction. Should a man suffer the consequences of his actions, that is not tragedy. That is reality. Motorcyclists value the choice of the individual because we are all intimately connected to consequences. We recognize the dulling effect of dividing action from painful effect. Safety is assumed granted, attention and effort lose relevance. Drivers drive shitty. Bad decisions made.

Staunchly individual, yes, yet ceremoniously communal. Motorcyclists share passing waves, acknowledging a common endeavor, a shared slight of safety in pursuit of Earth’s best. And while we honor the individual’s choice to risk it all, we reach out to riders in need. A bike on the shoulder attracts fellow riders eager to help, not content to wait for “someone else” to deal with a problem. We don’t rely on mandates or permission to solve life’s troubles, rather humanity.

We stretch our necks at the mercy of chance. We believe life lives better practiced than preached. We ride motorcycles. All libertarians should.

It shouldn’t be complicated, but the answer is always awkward. I ride a 2008 Kawasaki Ninja 250.

“Oh a Ninja, like a crotch rocket.”

Well, no.

Most folk don’t know bikes. Most know “Ninja” means pulling a wheelie between freeway traffic lanes at 90 mph. Most know “Harley,” “sport bike” and “dirt bike,” and my motorcycle doesn’t neatly fit into any of those categories.

It has fairings like a sport bike but the seating position is upright, making it more of a stan… Abort the conversation! It’s gone all wrong, she’s not impressed!

The answer can get even clumsier if I also mention my 1992 DR350S. Blank stare. It’s a good thing I’m already married.

I need to find a better answer to the question. It comes up at parties, in line for groceries, at the office, and invariably my answer ruins conversation instead of sparking it. Motorcycles should be cool talk, not weird.

My answer needs to be concise, but not necessarily exact. It needs to be true without fussing about complete.

I ride a blue one. Sometimes a pink one.

Truth is, I didn’t take full advantage of summer. No big trips in 2011, and a lot of car and airplane travel kept me busy on the weekends. I got married, too, which I’m sure will be remembered more than the lack of moto miles this year.

The days I did get out and ride? I’ll keep them with me. Partly because each day spent in the hills had its own color and flavor, and also because I filmed them with my GoPro HD Hero helmet camera. Enjoy the footage now or in some years’ time. Makes me wish I wore a helmet for my wedding.

Look for this article to recur every time I photograph something magnificent in the hills. These photos come from August 14, a beautiful Sunday afternoon typical of the Bay Area. Cold on the coast, boiling in the mountains. But something atypical prowled the hills. The Dirtbag Challenge was on.

I’d just grown bored of the samey display in front of STP and wandered into Alice’s lot. As I caught a glimpse of a parked-up hooptie, a raucous clatter from around the corner of 84 shook the lot and a dozen dirtbags rolled into view, riders wantonly flicking throttles for riotous whoops of un-baffled exhaust bark. I cringed, anticipating a lawless group of troublemakers as the pack stormed the lot and parked up their motorcycles with a worrying disregard for the machines. One rider tossed his bike in the bushes, another propped up his pile on a block of wood.

I was right about the lawlessness but wrong to worry. The Dirtbag Challenge riders flaunt law with their steeds, but that’s sorta the point. The event limits participants to a grand in expenses and a month in build time, encourages general dirtbaggery and results in all sorts of Franken-bikes that don’t bother faking street legality.

Some of the dirtbags were just filthy bikes coated in unsavory paint jobs, but others tried a bit harder for their title. Loose wiring and makeshift seats were common, as were mismatching Japanese brands. The most attractive bikes were both built by a father and son duo, clearly homemade custom jobs but really quite handsomely made.

Which is more than I can say for one Hondawasaki, which would’ve been sufficiently hideous with just its lavender tank and beer keg seat. Its builder didn’t stop clubbing with the ugly stick. He grafted three-foot-long handlebars onto the forks, jacked up a secondary bicycle seat to match them and then equipped the bike with training wheels. To operate the clutch lever and rear break from such heights, the builder devised a terrible system of hand-operated bars tall enough to reach from the comically high seat. Unsurprisingly, the invention broke. The builder blames Stage Road and described riding the bike thusly as “frightening.” I can imagine.

Shift lever contraption busted on Stage Road. Shocking

The lot departed in the same organized frenzy that brought them. Terrible smell.

The Volvo

I’m proud to say I’ve never really nearly crashed as a fault of my own, but early in my riding life, close calls as a result of other people’s driving happened with some frequency. (Nowadays I catch their mistakes before they make them.)

I was lazing home on Highway 1 after a day in the hills, still nervously new. Gliding downhill toward a stoplight, I gradually applied brakes and–

Screeching tires, clack, handlebars wobble and brake lights flare feet in front of me.

The man in a Volvo behind me didn’t spot the red light, blasted past me in my lane and clipped my left handlebar with his mirror, jerking my grip. As if the first attempt on my life hadn’t satisfied, the driver then slammed on his brakes directly in front of me, forcing an evasive swerve.

I ended up in front of the Volvo, the driver keeping 50 feet back from me through intersections as if I was a bomb about to explode (I may have).

The seizure

I’d owned the DR350S for all of about 1,000 miles when I wondered if a ticking sound on hard revs was a new problem or just the 20-year-old motor’s way of working. I took a chance because, fuck, I really wanted to ride the thing on my favorite North Bay route.

The long slab ride, a necessary evil before North Bay’s finest, was nearly over when it happened. Uphill chugging, throttle pinned, nervous ticking and then quiet. The motor died at 65 mph on the 101 freeway.

I’d saved the bike from stalls before by slipping the clutch and bumping it back to life (if I forget the petcock, she’ll die while rolling–I’m used to it). But this time was different, and instead of the motor coming to life the rear tire stopped dead. Fish-tailed in the number three lane with my riding buddy behind me, who later confessed, “I’m glad it wasn’t me.”

And somehow I kept it up. Coasted to the shoulder, shook out my shorts and gaped a bit at the DR, not knowing what went wrong. (I later learned the bike had run dry on oil and the piston seized. That the DR was still able to bring me home is a bit of a wonder.)

The push

Summer after-work evenings spent riding the hills happened more often last year. On one such trip, I ventured south on the pink thumper, reveling in empty miles of turns rushing me to the coast, diving under the setting sun, a moment so serene I-kid-you-not it waters my eyes to indulge the memory.

The joy soured lightly as I joined Highway 1 for the casual traipse north. Any slack in the throttle elicited a rapid bubbling pop from the exhaust, and I avoided shutting the throttle completely until I hit a stoplight near Half Moon Bay. Then she died.

No amount of roadside prayer would bring her back and the nearest suitable overnight abandonment lot was miles away. I shoved the bike two miles, rang up the then-fiancee, and scheduled a tail-between-the-legs pickup in town. Pure coincidence revealed a bike shop just across the street from where I planned to leave the bike. That’s how I met Wolfgang.

I decided that dating your own age is a much better idea than riding a motorcycle your own age. I should add that, without any mechanical attention whatsoever (because I haven’t the talent), the bike did come to life when I tried it with the choke pulled out fully. The bike had spit off necessary hoses and it still fucking worked.

The Nick

I don’t know why it’s so difficult to get my buddies to go riding, but I jump on every chance. One buddy–let’s anonymously call him Nick–got his license years ago but keeps putting off buying his own bike for various made up reasons. So I let him ride the DR.

We’d planned to go out one November weekend but woke to a soggy morning. No real rain, just the sort of choking fog that drenches every exposed thing in the outdoors of San Francisco. Nick rang me up to gauge my level of concern. “None.” I wasn’t about to give up on a ride.

Alice’s came, slowly, and we enjoyed a lonely breakfast in the hills to ourselves. Cold, wet, and loving it, outdoor seating under gas-burning heaters, pine scent heavy on the condensed sharp air.

Back on 84, heading toward the coast, I took it slow while Nick re-acclimated to the DR. I kept Nick in my rear view, creeping over the mist-slicked, needle-strewn asphalt. One mirror check later and Nick wasn’t in sight. I stopped and waited and pondered the worst.

I looped back to catch two men helping Nick pick up the DR from the side of the road. He’d low-sided coming out of a turn at 20 mph, and slid gracefully to the shoulder just as two men in two separate trucks arrived from two separate directions, perfectly timed to help.

The DR suffered some scratches, a snapped clutch lever and busted mirror and indicator on the left side. Nick suffered a boost of adrenaline. His textile gear did its job.

After some prodding of the kickstart and flat denial that the bike was broken, the DR huffed to life, unstoppable. Nick rode 40 miles home, and didn’t complain until the end that a tweaked triple clamp required contortion of the handlebars just to ride straight.

The pullovers

I’ve thrice been pulled over by officers of the law, and ticketed only for the lamest offense. Seventy mph in a 65, please. The other two offenses were perpetrated on my darling pink motorcycle:

1) Two twits clogged the two-lane uphill freeway climbing out of Pacifica at under the limit so I pulled a shady pass between them. The officer claimed I didn’t indicate, I asked if he was sure, he told me his camera would prove it and he was so certain he let me go.

2) Blatted by a Harley-mounted motor cop near the office and he chased me into the parking garage. He insinuated I broke the speed limit for alleys, even though I hadn’t been in an alley, checked my tail section with a biased eye for infractions (there are none), and then told me to slow down in the parking garage because the speed limit on private property is 5 mph. Someone should tell the boys at Laguna.

The ballgame

One of the great surprises of moving offices into The City was the congested cluttered clusterfuck that is a San Francisco Giants’ home game. The ballpark is a block from the new digs, and the street it’s on is also the most convenient route to the freeway.

I tackled the chaos on the 250, pulled up behind a motor cop riding a DRZ400, and followed the officer between stalled lines of cages piloted by out of town idiots.

One of the idiots opened her car door just as the motor cop split by her. Clipped the front of his bike and sent the man down, hard, between stopped cars in the adjacent lane. I paused, shocked. The cop was buried under 350 lbs. of motorcycle and LEO equipment. I jumped from my bike and lifted the dual sport off of the officer’s legs, he already jabbing in his shoulder-mounted radio, furious and probably embarrassed.

My ear plugs kept me from understanding much of what the officer said, only making out that 1) he wasn’t talking to me, ergo 2) he didn’t offer a thank you. The face of the woman driver was much easier to translate: “What have I done?”

The budding motorcycle enthusiast will, at some early point in his riding career, decide that it’d be nice to transport more than a fart’s mass stuffed under the passenger seat of his bike. And that calls for luggage, which is rarely cool. Steve McQueen certainly never bothered.

The balance between biker cool and nerd practical is familiar to most riders. It’s a balance made when choosing a motorcycle, when picking out protective gear, and when plastering one’s bike with other people’s logos (if cool is the opposite of practical, “Monster” logos are the most practical). Some riders forgo practicality altogether, but they don’t read blogs so I’m not concerned with their concerns.

I wanted luggage for the Ninja 250 but didn’t want to risk the sleek cool of the 2008 fairings. I needed capacity to lug a week’s worth of t-shirts a couple thousand miles without conjuring thoughts of pocket protectors and duct-taped glasses. I bought First Gear’s Silverstone motorcycle bags. And after thousands of miles of use, they still please me.

Tank Bag II

I bought the tank bag first, mostly on a whim because I was at the local moto shop and had money burning a hole in my leathers. After swiping my card at the register, I had a flash of panic realizing that I didn’t drive my car and I’d have to transport the new, largish purchase by motorcycle.

It was a dumb thought. But in retrospect it highlighted a common anxiety for riders without luggage, a nagging hesitation to do simple things like stop by a farmer’s market on the way home.

It was a dumb thought because the Silverstone tank bag fits to the Ninja 250 in all of about five seconds of effort. There are optional fiddly straps for securing the bag, but the inbuilt magnets attach perfectly to the 250′s metal gas tank. I’ve never once used those straps (they’re stashed in the closet); the magnets hold firm, and I’ve tested them for thousands of miles at a time.

Spare visor, spare shoes and spare iPad fit comfortably into the tank bag

The magnetic mounting does make it easy for a thief to walk away with the bag and its contents–for a more secure fitting, the straps could be useful, though I suspect most thieves aren’t bright enough to realize the bag’s on magnets anyway. The upside to easy removal of the tank bag is that it’s actually completely necessary. To get access to the gas filler cap, the bag must be pried off the tank and set aside. Don’t leave it behind.

The Silverstone tank bag is about as big as I’d want on the 250. It’s larger than some bags, smaller than others but swallows a decent pile of junk. I’ve used it to transport a nighttime helmet visor, visor cleaning kit, and a host of equipment for (and including) my Canon Rebel DSLR. The bag’s shape makes it easy to use every inch of storage space. A zip around the base of the bag goes loose to allow for an extra inch of capacity–too little difference to change the bags’s usefulness, but just enough that it’ll comfortably fit whatever got over-stuffed into the zipped-up case. Imagine letting loose the top pants button after a gluttonous meal, not trying to make room for more, just relieving a bit of pressure. A couple of side pockets hold separate smaller items. Useful for organizing and maintaining quick access to commonly-used stuff like lip balm, flashlights and throwing stars.

The see-through map pocket on the top of the bag is a common feature among tank bags, and for good reason. Don’t buy a tank bag without one. The clear plastic swath is fairly large on the Silverstone, though the narrowness of the pocket opening requires special vertical folding of maps. A bulleted list of navigation directions slides in perfectly. The Silverstone also includes a second map pocket sewn under the bag, into the magnetic mounting base. The bag can separate from the mounting base with a zip, leaving behind a wafer-thin map pocket. I’ve never used the feature. If I’m going to bother fitting the mounting base, why wouldn’t I also bring the bag?

Unzipping the main bag from the mounting base is the first step in converting the Silverstone tank bag into a girly-quaint backpack. Attached shoulder straps fold out from under the bag to complete the transformation. Not a great backpack, mind, but it beats extended off-bike time with a heavy tank bag in your hands.

Carrying the Silverstone tank bag by hand is a bit awkward using its standard grab handle and while holding other clobber, like a helmet and a set of keys. The magnetic flaps fold under the bag but the magnets don’t get close enough to positively attract each other–it’d be hugely helpful if the magnets held the flappy mounting base tight against the bottom of the bag, but it’s sadly not the case. The flaps hold, but only barely.

Keep shuriken handy in the tank bag’s side pockets

Like the rest of First Gear’s Silverstone line, the tank bag is semi-stiff in construction. The bag holds its shape even when empty, so it never looks like a sad, soggy pile of fabric. There’s no guaranteed waterproofness, but the firm shell has kept contents dry in the few rainstorms it’s suffered. Sitting directly behind the Ninja’s windshield certainly helps.

Saddle Bags

Still flirting with the line between form and function, I opted for saddle bags that match the Silverstone tank bag. Because matching is important. Naturally, this desire for symmetrical appearance resulted in a pair of Silverstone saddle bags draped o’er the rear of my bike.

Like the tank bag, the Silverstone saddle bags sit somewhere in the middle of moto luggage sizing. They’re not uselessly small, but they’re also not made to supply your ’round-the-world trip with fresh skivvies every day. There’s generous packing volume from the sleek bags, though the quasi-wedged shape does make it difficult to fill every square inch. Malleable items like sweatpants and cooperative small pets pack easily, but solid kit like shoes and a camera tripod take more space than they ought. Like the tank bag, each saddle bag has an optional zip that lets the bags expand outward. Here, though, the extra space is more substantial.

Roll t-shirts to make the most of the weird-shaped space

Fitting the Silverstone saddle bags isn’t quite as effortless as slapping down the tank bag’s magnetic base. A pair of straps that connect either bag to the other lay flat across the back of the Ninja with the rear seat (or cowl) removed. Lock the seat back onto the bike and the straps are effectively held in place. I experimented with additional support by employing the liberal use of included bungees, but the effort isn’t necessary. I’ve since run the saddle bags without bungees tying ‘em down and had zero issues with the bags holding in place.

The bad news is that, like the tank bag, these things aren’t waterproof. Worse, the saddle bags don’t get the rain blast protection of the Ninja’s screen and so suffer the brunt of heavy storms to the vulnerable, penetrable zippers. I tested the bags against torrential rain in Washington and ended up with water-logged maps, soggy beef jerky, and jerky-scented undergarments. The rain didn’t reach everything inside the bags, no total loss, but I certainly wouldn’t trust electronics through much more than a drizzle.

A surprising number of accessories come packaged with the saddle bags, including a set of aforementioned bungees that are great for tying down additional gear (they held my tent and sleeping bag on my last big trip). A pair of fitted, waterproof booties make waterproofness a small hassle away, provided the booties are kept handy at all times.

Recommended?

I’m a big fan of the Silverstone line’s look. I like that it’s not boring-flat black like 90% of motorcycle gear. The carbon-fiber-wannabe weaving looks sharp on the bike and stands out with the help of a few bits of reflective piping. General construction quality is tops. The bags have a durable, thick feel that’s absent in a lot of cheaper kit. My tank bag’s three years old and still looks new.

The fit on the lil’ Ninja is essentially perfect, the size of the bags matching the 250′s proportions well. Even when completely loaded, from the saddle it’s hard to tell that the bags are on the bike. As proof, it took me 30 miles and nearly an hour of hardcore riding before I realized I’d left my tank bag at a gas station in another town. The difference in riding with and without the bag is nothing; the tank bag disappears under my line of sight and doesn’t obstruct view of the bike’s instruments or keep me moving around the bike through corners. But do remember the saddle bags are fitted before diving into a lane split. The bags add some extra inches of width to the ride, though as with the tank bag it’s easy to forget the saddle bags are even there.

Mid-sized bum fits perfectly between bags. Saddle bags

I can’t find a label on either product to tell where it’s made. Wherever it’s made, First Gear isn’t proud. And really, there’s no excuse for not making the bags waterproof. Waterproof luggage doesn’t need expensive, breathable Goretex liners–my dirty socks can sweat inside for all I care–just non-porous liner and quality zips. The main construction of the bags may very well be water-resistant, but the zippers let it down and that’s a significant bummer.

All things considered, I’d still recommend the bags if rain resistance isn’t a top concern. The quality construction, good looks and excellent fit on the Ninja 250 make for a satisfying, if somewhat pricey, purchase. Just be careful what gets packed next to the smoked jerky.

In recent months, I’ve developed a strong affinity for cell phone photographs. They’re terrible quality compared to the hulking digital SLR with which I usually shoot, but there’s an appeal to the immediacy and ever-readiness of these low-fi lenses. I never intended to publish the following snaps outside of a hidden Facebook photo folder, but looking back they captured some moments that the bulky Canon Rebel couldn’t touch. So I’m sharing them now. Two years’ trips worth of shabby shots. Hope you enjoy.

And in case you haven’t read the originals, be sure to check out the five-page-long ride reports: Seattle & back and Just Mighty & me.

June 17, 2009. Mighty dressed in touring drag for the first time. I’d never test run the saddle bags and had no idea if they’d hold tight. Ill-advised backpack is ill-advised

June 17, 2009. Early stop on Highway 1 for this photo gave a slow parade of construction vehicles time to get ahead…and slow me down the next 20 miles

June 18, 2009. Day 2 breakfast in Crescent City, California. Why take a chance on local grub? Denny’s is always goo…Denny’s is always Denny’s

June 18, 2009. Leeching wifi at Brewed Awakenings in Bandon, Oregon. I’d had a smart phone for all of a week before the trip and already couldn’t imagine a world without Internet in my trousers. Not much Sprint 3G on the coast

June 18, 2009. Second day of riding ended in Eugene, Oregon. It’s a bit of a beatnik town, odd for the decade. Wandering Goat cafe had top lattes, enough to forgive the hippy patronage

June 19, 2009. Hadn’t yet discovered the Yelp mobile app, but somehow found these local Mexican digs

June 19, 2009. There’s not much between Portland, Oregon and Seattle, Washington. Except a lifetime’s quantity of rain. My leather gloves soaked up a load and bled ink all over my shriveled palms

June 19, 2009. Rode a motorcycle 1,000+ miles…to play video games. Hit up GameWorks arcade in Seattle, Washington with my buddy. This is the face I make when I find a Marvel vs. Capcom 2 cabinet in the wild

June 20, 2009. For Jeff’s 30th we rode out to Mount St. Helens which, as it turns out, stopped spewing volcanic ash long ago. Instead, just rain fell from the sky. I think this is after we got back off the mountain, fueling up for the I-5 ride back into Seattle, Washington

June 23, 2009. I don’t know what to say. It’s a dinosaur, somewhere in Oregon. I’d noticed it on the way north and taking a shot of it on the ride back down was some sort of motivation to keep riding when the joy of 2,000 miles motorcycling wore thin

June 24, 2009. In Klamath, California the local Indian tribes apparently have club card discounts. Is that what Manifest Destiny was all about?

June 24, 2009. Spent the day on 101 through northern California, hot as hell through the mountains. As usual, San Francisco, California had no clue what was going on beyond its borders

July 17, 2010. One year later, geared up for a second go–this time with a tank bag instead of a backpack (brilliant!) and a tent instead of hostel reservations. A proper adventure, save for the maps and familiarity and paved roads and cell phones and stuff

July 17, 2010. If you went straight west from this location, you’d eventually hit Hawa…sorry, you would miss Hawaii completely. Still, cute sign

July 17, 2010. Waiting in line to ride my bike through a large tree. Surely this is adventure

July 18, 2010. Yes, the sign said the same thing the previous night when I rolled in anyway. “Sorry” is a bit harsh, the campground was quite nice

July 18, 2010. I snapped this celebratory shot seconds before calling the better half to let her know I wasn’t dead. Priorities. Quite alive at the eastern end of Highway 36

July 18, 2010. 8,511 feet forward isn’t too far–less than a couple of miles, easily done most days. 8,511 feet straight up from the sea to the top of Mount Lassen National Park, California isn’t quite as easy on the lil’ Ninja

July 19, 2010. A mobile phone shot of Crater Lake, Oregon is a bit insulting but it begged immediate sharing. Most thought it was a Photoshopped background. I was there and still not convinced

July 19, 2010. Oh look how quaint is this ol’-timey filler pump in Detroit, Oregon. Should’ve paid more attention to my tank bag and camera equipment which I left behind

July 20, 2010. Mighty’s head beneath Multnomah Falls, Oregon

July 20, 2010. My head beneath Multnomah Falls, Oregon, illustrating the danger of unshowered helmet hair

July 20, 2010. An ordinary, dumb packaged sandwich? Think again; this sandwich has three halves in Randle, Washington

July 21, 2010. Beth’s Diner in Seattle, Washington after midnight. Third-grader-quality drawings on the walls were actually done by local university students, probably while drunk, after midnight

July 21, 2010. How Beth’s Diner patrons park, probably while drunk, after midnight

July 21, 2010. Fritz applies a bit of chain maintenance magic in a small shop by the docks. Lovely place in the U-district of Seattle, Washington

July 22, 2010. Intended to revisit Brewed Awakenings in Bandon, Oregon but the town closed shop at the old-man hour of 6:00 pm. Oh well. Grabbed some upscale seafood with a view on my last night of the trip