Nose to the grindstone, as ever…
Over the last 20 years or so, I can’t tell you how many riders have told me they’re jealous of my job. Often, I feel they’re right to envy me. Admittedly I’m paid like a roadie, but motorcycle companies treat me like a rock star. (A year ago, Triumph flew me to the Canary Islands to ride the new Rocket 3. What kind of hotel did they put us up in? Put it this way: One of the other guests was Xi Jinping, the President of China.)
As fun as it is, the job’s dangerous. That group ride turned into an informal but demented Canary Island TT on open roads, as journos passed cars in unsafe gaps at 100 miles an hour just to keep the ride leaders in sight. (I’m not kidding; Triumph’s in the habit of hiring actual TT riders as ride leaders.)
Even innocuous-seeming tracking shots done at slow speed are often made following a photo car down some mountain road with a photographer motioning “come closer” when you’re 18” from the bumper. All of which, of course, is done jet-lagged, on roads you’ve never seen, on a bike you’ve never ridden, on new tires.
Every photo pass to get a shot like this begins and ends with u-turns that are often sketchy AF.
One thing a lot of readers probably don’t realize is that on many assignments, the publications motojournalists supply have specific instructions about the gear we should wear, too. That’s not a problem if we’re track-testing a crotch rocket; they want us to wear full race gear that provides the best available protection. But often if it’s retro bike or a naked, the “photo-appropriate” gear they supply is jeans and a jacket.
Friends in this job have been maimed, and every year at least one journalist from whom I have at most two degrees of separation is killed. knowing that, and after years racing and testing, I feel naked in anything less than full leather or Roadcrafter-grade outerwear. Even motorcycle-specific jeans with some Kevlar and armor—fine for a ride to the coffee shop—don’t offer enough protection for aggressive riding, if you plan to survive doing it until you reach retirement age.
Anyone who was watching TV in the ’80s remembers a scandalously young (even then) Brooke Shields turning to camera and asking, “Do you know what comes between me and my Calvins?” then breathily answering... “Nothing.”
Brooke wasn’t a motorcycle journalist.
A few years ago, a riding buddy of mine (not a journo, just a pal who often rode quite aggressively in jeans and a leather jacket—an outfit that seemed marginal at best to me) showed me his Bohn Body Armor.
I was, like, Damn where has that product been all my life. And the next time I did photo passes in a pair of jeans, I longed for a Bohn underlayer and its absence made me feel even more naked.
So I finally got my hands on – and my body into – Bohn armor. It was a revelation. I got a shirt and pants that are light, breathable, move with my body, and provide an extra layer of armor at all the likely points of contact. It’s not cheap, but besides the obvious benefit of protection in a crash, it actually makes crashes less likely because on a motorcycle, confidence makes you better. Fear of crashing makes you tense, and tension’s the enemy of good riding.
This ancient Vanson Manx jacket has served on many vintage/retro shoots. A few years ago I abandoned open-face lids (even for slow-speed work) and was happy to find this Bell Bullitt which—although my friends tease me for my hipster helmet—gave me a cool open-faced look with vastly better protection. I say “gave” in the past tense because it failed to make its last luggage transfer, and was never seen again after its last air voyage.
My in-person motorcycle journalism work was largely wiped out by the pandemic, although I’ve been wearing a Bohn underlayer on personal rides. One of my pandemic projects was learning to Rollerblade, and I wore it under jeans and a jacket while doing that, too!
The best motorcycle protective gear is not cheap, and that goes for your base layer. But I can’t recommend Bohn Body Armor highly enough*.
*This, by the way, is not a paid endorsement.