They sit in their starched white shirts and power ties in a beer garden on a sweltering summer night. As the white wine they`re sipping begins to take effect, their crisp demeanor melts away. Grinning like mischievous little boys, they begin to tell motorcycle tales.
For Tom Ging, a high-powered lawyer with Isham, Lincoln & Beale, it all began 15 years ago when he was house hunting in west suburban Hinsdale.
”There were a bunch of hippies living in this one place we looked at,”
he says, reaching across the picnic table for the communal carafe. ”Their garage was filled with motorcycles. I don`t know what got into me, I asked one of the guys if I could take a ride.”
Candlelight camouflaging the gray in his temples, Ging chuckles delightedly. ”Just riding down the block I felt so exhilarated, so free, I knew had to get a bike.”
The men at the table nod knowingly. Dr. Arnold Gutman says he`s been riding since college. Ever the softspoken allergist, Gutman tries to intellectualize his motorcycle mania, explaining it with stuffy, nonbiking terms such as ”proprioception” and ”kinesthetics”–both of which have to do with the pleasurable sensation you get from moving quickly through space.
But as the 60-year-old doctor talks, his eyes take on a faraway look. Soon he grips an imaginary hand throttle on an imaginary set of handlebars.
”You know,” he says, his voice rumbling low. ”You`re driving down the road, the wind rushing around you, downshifting, leaning low into the turns.” He pauses, smiling shyly. ”It`s really great.”
Meet some of the Streeterville Scramblers, the city`s most upscale, and possibly its only incorporated, motorcycle gang–or should we say club?
Named after the posh, Near North Side area where many original club members once lived, the Scramblers represent the top end of a growing number of more or less tame motorcycle clubs that appeal to everyone from yuppies to blue bloods of all ages. With the price of bikes rising to record highs, affluence has become a criteria for purchase. The Motorcycle Industry Council says upscale bikers types are a growing segment in an otherwise shrinking market for street bikes, as many blue-collar riders find themselves priced out of the fun.
These new kinds of motorcycle clubs are usually formed around members`
common professions or the brand of motorcycles they ride. They often claim a handful of women members and condemn–almost always convincingly–daredevil antics and wild partying associated with less cultured biker groups.
The Scramblers describe themselves as a social and riding club. Seventy-five carefully chosen members strong, with an average age of 40, they publish a monthly newsletter, hold a yearly black-tie Christmas ball, and organize motorcycling trips–ranging from day rides to European tours–with stops at gourmet restaurants and quaint roadside inns.
With accoutrements, the Scramblers have managed to gentrify motorcycling to their tastes. They ride heavy, expensive, superbly engineered machines that few would know how to fix in case of a breakdown. What these upscale bikers don`t know about mechanics, they make up for with variety. Some club members own as many as 35 bikes. Several collections include at least one top-of-the- line touring motorcycle that sells these days for around $10,000.
The Streeterville Scramblers don`t jump on kick start pedals, they press electric ignition buttons. They don`t strap luggage to their seats, they store it in color-coordinated saddle bags.
Remember the joke that says you can tell a happy biker by counting the flies on his teeth? The Scramblers don`t think it`s funny. They protect themselves from the environment with elaborate windshields, face shields, helmets, and fairings that often come equipped with stereo speakers. Some members` leather jackets are buttery soft and Italian. Their sunglasses sport designer logos. And they adorn themselves with gold neck chains instead of tattoos.
The bikes begin rumbling into the coffee shop`s big parking lot by 7:30 a.m. Watching and being watched by their buddies who`ve already arrived, each biker chugs once around the restaurant. Like the bulky Hondas and Yamahas they ride, most of these guys seem built for comfort rather than speed.
With much posturing and snapping of helmet straps, they slowly park and dismount. The 300 or so mostly middle-aged motorcycle riders come to the Highland House, just off route 41 in north suburban Highland Park, every Sunday morning. They seem to savor every minute. This is their time to doff everyday responsibilities and feel dangerous.
”Most of these guys are weekend warriors,” says Highland House manager Dean Prokos. ”Our regulars are like family. They`re basically doctors, lawyers, and businessmen who come here to eat breakfast and talk bikes.”
Dressed for riding in a turquoise polo shirt, a gold chain bracelet, denim slacks, and leather boots with thick rubber soles, Dr. Gutman sits bleary-eyed at a mauve formica table, sipping coffee. He says he stayed up too late the night before celebrating his birthday with his wife in a trendy new restaurant. But he pried himself out of bed in his Deerfield home this morning because he didn`t want to miss the Scramblers` Sunday ride. Club members are scheduled to leave from a spot in the western suburbs in a little over an hour.
Although the 20 or so Scramblers and their wives on this day`s ride will leave from the same point, they stagger departure times and ride together in smaller groups. This morning, Gutman`s traveling companions include Phillipe, a French anesthesiologist and prospective Scrambler member; Phillipe`s young cousin Jacques, a chef visiting from Paris; and a reporter who`s along for the ride. He meets them at the Highland House, where he rhapsodizes about last night`s gourmet meal as a stream of graying men squeezed into worn blue jeans and dark T-shirts swagger across the restaurant.
”Heyyyyyy, Arnieee!” shouts a burly fellow wearing a single earring and a kerchief tied across his forehead. He slaps Gutman`s shoulders. ”Howsa bike?”
This character is definitely not a Scrambler. But that fact doesn`t dampen Gutman`s reply. The doctor is a modern-day Walter Mitty who actually realizes his dreams by jamming down the highway on two wheels. Not only does he love motorcycles, he gets a kick out of the people who ride them. Gutman says he feels ”a wonderful camaraderie” with other motorcycle riders. He can`t cruise a city block without offering a salute to every biker he sees.
Gutman takes his mania seriously. He belongs to three bike clubs–the Scramblers, a local club for BMW motorcycle owners, and the Motorcycling Doctors Association–and is a veteran of four European motorcycle tours. He owns a huge Yamaha XV-920 in addition to his equally powerful BMW, because, he says sheepishly, ”sometimes I like to ride a bike with two cylinders and sometimes I like to ride one with four.”
Motorcyclists say there are two kinds of bikers–those who fall and those who will. Gutman and his Scrambler buddies are no exception. Although they consider themselves safe drivers, they`ve taken their share of spills, some of which left them hospitalized. But no one`s been hurt badly enough to stop riding. With his blessings, Gutman says, his grown daughter and two sons also ride bikes–even though their mother, his wife of 36 years, ”hates everything with an engine and two wheels”
”I try to make it up to her,” he adds, grinning. ”Last time I went on a long motorcycle trip, I sent her on a Mediterranean cruise.”
Phillipe and Jacques are driving Hondas. Gutman`s astride his cranberry, BMW K-100 RT and he`s flying.
Whoosh! The wind smacks your face shield as the doctor bends to adjust the radio on his motorcycle dash. Clasping his waist, you peer over his shoulder to get a look at the speedometer.
Seventy miles an hour . . . 75 . . . 80 . . . the wind inflates your jacket and too-big helmet, yanking them backwards. The air pressure is so strong, you feel like it could vault you skyward, high above this two-lane Wisconsin road. The countryside is a green blur peppered with black and white spots–probably cows.
Pierre and Jacques have fallen behind, unwilling to keep up the pace. Gutman leans to the left. Oh no! He`s preparing to pass three cars in front of him by venturing into the lane of oncoming traffic. Holding your breath, you lean with him. Traffic is light and with a little skill and a little luck, he makes it.
The Scramblers talk a lot about riding safety and restraint. But get Gutman and some of his more daring club brothers on a pretty country road and motorcycle mania takes over. Now they speed northward toward the comfortable lakeside summer home of Scrambler Stu Anderson, where roast beef in wine and butter sauce, several salads, and homemade spice cake and brownies await. No alcohol will be served. The Scramblers don`t like to drink and drive.
The club hasn`t changed much since it was formed in 1963 by a group of successful businessmen who belonged to the Chicago Yacht Club. ”What they really wanted was to have fun,” said Rick Bisbee, a second generation Scrambler, whose late father was a founding member. ”First they got into sports-car racing, then scrambling or dirt bike racing, and finally, touring.”
Then as now, Scramblers were selective about membership. Prospective members must be introduced to the club by a current member, attend several rides and then be voted on by the board of directors.
Club president Guy Leekly, a law professor at Northern Illinois University and one of the few gear heads, or avid mechanics, in the group, stresses that prosperity is definitely not a condition for membership. But, he adds diplomatically, ”we want our members not to have to worry about taking two weeks off and staying in some nice places on a cross-country trip.”
According to the American Motorcycle Association (AMA), the group to which most most motorcycle riders belong, the Scramblers typify some major trends in biking in the `80s.
The market for street motorcycles has shrunk significantly since 1973, when retail sales hit an all-time high, largely because of the rising price of street bikes and the growing popularity of cheaper, all-terrain motorcycles. In the `80s, all-terrain bikes accounted for about half of all motorcycle sales.
But the AMA`s membership rolls have skyrocketed despite the shrinking market, largely because of the growing popularity of street biking among professional types who don`t mind forking over a $20 annual membership fee that entitles them to participate in AMA sanctioned riding events and receive the group`s monthly magazine. According to John Van Barriger, associate editor of the association`s magazine, the AMA has 142,000 members–an all-time-high
–with 9,000 in Illinois alone.
With an average age of 36.7 and average household income of $37,000, the AMA member is older, more educated, and more prosperous than ever before, Van Barriger said. Street motorcycles have changed to suit yuppie tastes. Their engineering is more high tech and difficult for the home mechanic to fathom. You can now order almost any accessory, with the exception of air
conditioning, on a motorcycle that you can get on a car.
Also, more women are riding, although their numbers are still small. The Scramblers claim six dedicated female members. Other wives and girlfriends of club members either ride as passengers or stay at home and hope that the man in their life will switch hobbies.
After riding some 130 miles, Luanne Rosow is glowing. Free of makeup, her face is flushed from the wind and sun. Her brown eyes sparkle.
”I grew up in Wyoming and I rode dirt bikes out there when I was kid,”
she says, stretching her long legs out on a lakeside deck at the Wisconsin summer home destination for the Scramblers` Sunday ride. ”But all I really knew how to do then was fall off.” She chuckles, remembering.
Rosow is a Near North Side real estate saleswoman and a Scrambler. Brushing brown, helmet-flattened hair out of her eyes, she says she joined the club a few years ago after taking a motorcycle safety course and ending up marrying her teacher, a management consultant and Scrambler member.
Now, tall and lean in her denim shirt and blue jeans, she handles her red 750 BMW motorcycle, complete with a license plate that reads, ”Lulu,” better than many men. The Rosows store two additional BMWs in Europe, where they take yearly trips, and hand out printed calling cards, imprinted with a photograph of them on their bikes, wherever they go.
”I guess what I love about motorcycling is the challenge of me against the road,” she says, getting that familiar faraway look. ”It`s just so . . . ”
Her voice trails off and she gazes at several of her fellow bikers cavorting in the water below. Lazily, Rosow rises and joins her husband, Gutman, and his traveling companions on the summer home`s sprawling screened porch. Although his passenger, a 32-year-old reporter, is thoroughly exhausted, the gray-haired doctor cheerfully sips a diet cola, looking no worse for wear.
After a late lunch and more conversation, the reporter will opt for a quiet ride home, sans wind, sans adventure, in a car driven by her husband. Gutman, on the other hand, will take off in a deafening roar with his buddies, delighted once again to hit the road.
