Customer Reviews

The Perfect Vehicle: What It Is About Motorcycles

5 star:		(34)
4 star:		(23)
3 star:		(8)
2 star:		(4)
1 star:		(9)

 

 

This book will further your insight into why motorcyclists ride and why they think what they do about their bikes, motorcycling, and each other. But by the time Pierson is on to her second bike mechanic boyfriend, you will realize that you're going to have to see the truth for yourself, because the author has her hands so full with her own issues -- anxiety, delusion, hypocrisy -- that she can hardly help herself or her endlessly sick bike, let alone help you, the questing reader.

She does give you all the clues you will need, so don't despair. It's just that you're on your own in figuring out what the clues mean.

The Fallen Bike Incident is a good example of Pierson's lack of self-knowledge, and why this book is accused of male-bashing.

In the rain, Pierson's bike has fallen over due to the soft, wet surface she has planted her side stand in. This is a classic blunder. It's in the curriculum of the motorcycle safety course (of which Pierson is a graduate) and she even mentions elsewhere in the book how, for this very reason, wooden blocks were passed out in the dirt parking lot of a motorcycle rally. You can easily conclude that it is her own damn fault her bike fell over, but you won't read her admitting it in so many words, and this lack of personal accountability is everywhere in The Perfect Vehicle.

In her motorcycle class she has been taught how even a grandmother can lift up even a fallen Honda GoldWing (800+ pounds of bike), but for reasons unexplained, she is unable to lift her sub-400 pound Moto Guzzi. Again, no admission that she failed to learn the very thing she was specifically taught to do; you just read that it didn't work out and draw your own conclusion. So she asks a driver in an idling van for help, and he stares at her blankly, as she frantically begs "Quickly!" Finally the nice man gets out of his dry van, into the rain, and helps her right her fallen bike, to her eternal non-gratitude.

Reflecting later, Pierson intuits, and apparently comes to believe, that the reason her benefactor didn't instantly leap into the downpour to assist her was because he was thinking that since she is a woman, she wanted help lifting a bicycle, not a motorcycle, and so she was once again the victim of rampant sexism. She will shortly use this incident as a springboard to launch into one of many catalogs of undeniably valid examples of cruel and unfair treatment women have suffered in the history of motorcycling. This stuff is good to know and you'll be glad you read about it, but keep in mind, these terrible things happened to other women, not Pierson.

In several place we read explanations of her attraction to the woefully unreliable Moto Guzzi bikes, namely that they're stylish, sexy, and that fixing your bike all the time gives you a deep sense of self-sufficiency and personal identification with your machine.

It's a fair characterization of the series of Moto Guzzi enthusiasts Pierson repeatedly enlists to fix her broken-down bike for her, gratis, but this admirable, self-reliant, hands-on individualist ain't Melissa Pierson. She apparently never begins to master bike mechanics in her 35,000 miles of riding. She's more the damsel in distress with delusions of rugged independence. You would feel some pity if she had left out all the haughty, off-hand dismissals of Japanese motorcycles for the crime of providing exactly what Pierson and millions just like her really need: an affordable and reliable bike, albeit one that lacks "character."

She at least respects BMW and Harley-Davidson enough to give us fully-cardboard-cutout stereotypes of those riders, but those bland, bloodless Japanese aren't even worth the time. Oh, and in case you didn't know, "rice burner" is not really an epithet of derision. I bet "broad" is, though.

It's an all-purpose snobbery. When in France she finds herself at a hotel that dares offer exactly what Pierson and millions like her really need (it's affordable and they've got a room), she sniffs "Holiday Inn, of all places!"

So while the author only grows a little in the course of this book, you the reader will have the opportunity to learn much more in the ugly truth behind Pierson's inadvertent revelations, as well as benefit from the several places where she is actually on to something real and manages to convey it without getting hung up on her own issues. The florid descriptions of what it feels like to ride are quite fine if you accept them outside the context of the neurotic author's world of prejudice and denial.

UPDATE: January 12, 2011
In the 6 years since I first read this book and wrote this review, I've read a great many other motorcycling books that cover much of the same ground, and I've found none better than The Perfect Vehicle. The book's flaws are still its flaws: I think the author's attitudes are often unfair and tone deaf, but in spite of that, Melissa Pierson's scholarship is first rate and highly readable. So while I once again suggest you read between the lines, I still recommend nonetheless that you do read it.

My dear friend John gave me this book as a gift because like me he is a motorcycle lover, rider, free spirit. Shy 250 pages the book can best be described as a sensual, intellectual wonder.

For me it is the following quotes that bring me back re-reading and re-reading.

"At precisely this moment someone, somewhere, is getting ready to ride. The motorcycle stands in a cool. dark garage, its air expectant with gas and grease. The rider approaches from outside; the door opens with a whir and a bang. The light goes on. A flame. everlasting, seem to rise on a piece of chrome. As the rider advances, leather sleeves are zipped down tight on the forearms, and the helmet briefly obliterates everything as it is pulled on, the chin strap buckled..........Soft leather gloves with studded palms, insurance against the reflex of a falling body to put its hands out in midair, go on last"

"The key is slipped into the ignition at the top of the steering head. Then the rider swings a leg over the seat and sits but keeps the weight on the balls of the feet" "In the neat dance that accomplishes many operation on a motorcycle --one movement to countered by another fro, an equilibrium of give and take--the squeezed clutch lever is slowly let out while the other hand turns the trottle grip down...."

This woman, this Melessia Holbrook Pierson knows what she speaks of and as I read I feel as if she is with the group I ride with on back roads through out the Sierras. The Hoggettes as we jokingly call ourselves, because we ride Harleys. So many books on riding real motorcycles are written by men. This one by this woman is the best I own.

She has a wonderful section on the value of rally rides as well as loads of photographs of the history and evolution of motorcycles. And as a rider as well as a woman, wife, mother, daughter of motorcycle riders I believe the best and brightest ride motorcycles and that sons and male lovers, partners, husbands should be encouraged to own a motorcycle and ride it often.

The first writing in this book (the Forward) is worth the price of admission. If it stayed at that level, it'd be "off the charts great" ... up there with "Eat, Pray, Love".

Unfortunately, this is not the case.

In the Forward (and the Postscript, for that matter), her writing is concise, poetic, wonderous ... it is art. And it's about the motorcycle - exactly what the title promises it will be. It is simply awesome.

But from there on, she takes more twists and turns than her favorite ride. And they don't really live up to the title or its subtitle. Instead of addressing "the Perfect Vehicle" or "What it is about Motorcycles", it addresses Melissa's own journey.

And in this, I feel like she cheated us. She might have more aptly entitled it "Motorcycles, Men, and Me". And - even with that - it could be a good story. But that tight, crisp, clean writing in the Forward is not present throughout much of the rest of the book. It is more flowery, rambling, unfocused, and off-point from the title. This is where it dips to 2 Stars.

She also tends to spend a lot of time grinding an axe about her experience of being a FEMALE rider in what she perceives to be a Man's realm. But then again, maybe that points out to a dated book (she's relating experiences from the mid 90s). This is maybe 3-star writing.

I've been motorcycling for only 4 years. I got started in Thailand when a woman from German talked me into motorcycling with her through the Golden Triangle area along the Burma-Thai border. Now, when I bike in Idaho, often as not at least 1/3 of the riders I'm with are women. They are on Beemers, Harleys, Yamahas, Suzukis ... and this is IDAHO. Not exactly what you'd call a liberal state.

The history section is relatively interesting. But and that's where it stays at a relatively modest "3 Stars".

Ultimately, I found this book to be a major disappointment - mostly because it started off GREAT. If you want to get the best this book has to offer, simply read the Forward and the Postscript.

I read this book a couple years ago and I could NOT put it down. Sure there was the common theme of motorcycling, the part of the conversation I could relate too. But really, that was the setting around which she wove a great personal tale. Overcoming -- not fear -- but deep anxiety. I see reviews written that this is anti man or other strange interpretations. I think if you read closely she lays out her own issues early in the book. The book is her journey to overcome those. She learns about herself -- the good and the bad -- and about people.

I think it is a fun, interesting adventure. I recommend it often and buy copies for my friends.

I've been on a kick of reading motorcycle books, and I figured that this would be a decent contrast to Sonny Barger's "Hell's Angel." It was different, but not in the way I expected. Ms. Pierson is certainly more literary than Sonny, and she never misses a chance to show off her fabulous vocabulary and command of obscure sentence structures. (I found all the parentheses, sometimes 3 or 4 sets per page, particularly annoying.) Sonny knows what Sonny is about and makes no excuse or apology. This woman is a wreck. Half the time, I found myself wondering if she even liked to ride motorcycles. And about that break-up with Fritz-- we read that he threw an ashtray at something she said, but Ms. Pierson doesn't have the courage to tell us what it was that set off his temper.

Now, I did enjoy her narrative accounts of riding and rallies, for the most part, but the commentary about prejudices in the cycling world became difficult to swallow after reading her derisive remarks about Southerners with "thick yuckabilly accents." This chick is just stuck up, really. I can suffer stuck up folks if they at least know what they are talking about. The gloves came off, though, and I could no longer help nitpicking the text after reading that Sturgis is in North Dakota. Ignorant arrogance is really tough to forgive.

I agree with earlier reviewer comments about the editing. Uh, was there any?

I bought this book along with some other books about motorcycling, such as Proficient Motorcycling by David L. Hough and The Complete Idiot's Guide to Motorcycles by Darwin Holmstrom. The first I read was the Idiot's Guide. Then I read this book, The Perfect Vehicle. After that, I read Proficient Motorcycling. I enjoyed them all for what they are -- respectively, a book that covers too many subjects with too little depth, a personal book about life and motorcycling, and a more technical manual on how to ride smartly and safely.

They're all completely different books, but I enjoyed this one, The Perfect Vehicle, the most. My one complaint about the book is the author's occasional convoluted sentence that required defragmenting. Their twisted complexity did nothing for me except waste a few seconds spent unravelling some odd sentence structure.

Some reviewers here complain that parts of it are too personal, too self-indulgent, that they don't care about her relationships, or that it was perhaps an exercise in psychotherapy. There certainly is quite a bit about the author's life, emotions and relationships in this book. One reviewer complains that the author "can't seem to enjoy her bike or her lovelife." I don't know what book this person read, but it was not the one I read and I have to doubt that he's really read to the end of the book. Another complains of too much "irrelevant personal stuff" that "a decent editor would have made her cut [...] out." In my opinion, without that "personal stuff," this book would have been a relatively boring history lesson, a string of facts and figures and lessons. Do people really think that you should only write a book about motorcycles if you have no emotional life, or at least have the decency to keep it to yourself? Perhaps these people would have preferred that the author concentrate on the emotions connected solely with riding, rather than the people in her life, but that's obviously not a separation that the author can make. Which makes perfect sense, if you have feelings for both the people you ride or live with AND the machines you ride, and there's a strong link between the two.

If you read this book, you'll find that the author's motorcycling and her life's romantic relationships are strongly intertwined. I don't think the book would have been possible without writing about both. OK, perhaps some might see this as a failure of the author's independence. But it's her life and it's her book and I found myself wanting a little more detail about the author and her relationships. It's the author's personal journey with motorcycling that can't be cleanly lifted from her relationships and the rest of her life. If you only want to read about the thrill of a road trip, or how to put together an engine, don't read this book. If you can't stand to read about other people's experiences in life except those had while literally on a motorcycle, don't read this book. If you like a book with some depth of emotion to it, that might give you a little bit of insight into another person's life, you'll probably enjoy this one.

Lastly, as a male, I was surprised to read that some people have taken exception to the book on the grounds that it is unkind towards men in general, accusing it of "male bashing." Reading this book, I didn't have that sense at all. Maybe those men who are offended by something in this book have reason to be defensive. Maybe they see something of themselves that they don't quite like, something that might be a little bit ugly. Maybe when they see themselves reflected back in a mirror held by a woman, they don't like what they see.

This thing must have gone straight from the author's word processor to the printing press without editing. Her autobiographical story reads like a sad search for companionship and an identity crisis rolled into one, disguising itself as being about motorcycling. She gets her first bike to spend more time with a boyfriend, not because she wants to ride. Even so, it can't just be any bike. The Moto Guzzi represents exclusivity bought, the ability to condescend, which she does with boring frequency throughout the book. The bike sits idle alot when there is no one to ride with her, it's lonelier than she is. She doesn't care to turn a wrench herself, or simply ride some anonymous road alone that isn't taking her to some special destination or must be there event. The used jap bike she passed over, the hogs and sportbikes she looks down her nose at, the dirt bikes she never considers, all are probably enjoyed by their owners far more than she could ever appreciate.

Reviewer: Frank from Los Altos
I can see how some are upset with the title of this book: "The Perfect Vehicle: What it is about Motorcycles" sounds more like a collection of motorcycle stories and essays than the memoir that this is.
Pierson is an excellent writer and poet, repeatedly reducing to written form the mystical experience of riding. "It is simple: the power to go, the power to stop, are as reduced as a metaphor and made to fit in one small hand."
To Pierson, and most riders, a motorcycle is more than a means of transportation. When you ride a bike, on the one hand you acquire friends and a lifestyle, and on the other hand much of society will exclude you.
She writes about the feeling among some riders, who have reacted negatively to articles she's written, that "nothing depressing, upsetting, or unfavorable ever be uttered about" riding.
Although each rider belongs to the community of all riders, there are many divisions within the riding life. The brand and style of bike you choose to ride is expected to define your character. While you're in the riding community, you're loyal to your brand -- Pierson rides a Guzzi and writes at length about the "worldwide brotherhood of Moto Guzzi riders.... Guzzis appeal to the middle-class rider who is not too racy, but plenty individualistic.... They attract tinkerers, people for whom good is never good enough, for whom the rituals of necessary maintenance are secret joys.... Never for them a full fairing...."
I would have liked more analysis about the "brand loyalty" aspect of motorcycling. Perhaps the brand you ride is like the Sorting Hat at Hogwarts -- a window into your true self? Why is this so? This brand/personality correlation isn't limited to motorcycles -- just look at the Ford vs. Chevy truck rivalry, or how the type of car you drive reveals your personality. (If I told you I drive a sports car, you'd probably think differently of me than if I told you I drive a minivan.)
Pierson writes about the prejudice and even disbelief that riders and non-riders have toward women riders. When she sits down at a restaurant table with her helmet and orders a meal, the waitress brings two meals -- the second meal for the man who, surely, must belong to the helmet. When she arrives at a toll booth, the toll taker asks, "Did you ride that motorcycle here all by yourself?" She's tempted to answer, "No, I carried it on my head."
Woven throughout the book are her thoughts and experiences on the psychology of riding and its many aspects -- friendships, relationships, touring, racing, and rallies. She identifies Harley riders as comprising most of those who are "perennial children" and debase their women. I don't see this as "male bashing," but as an honest and direct appraisal of the behavior of one group of riders -- but she should have been clearer that many Harley riders are not in that group.
The further divisions in the motorcycle hierarchy can be seen in the prior reviews here. You're not "really" a rider if you've "only" ridden 35,000 miles, or if you think riding in the rain is more dangerous, or if you've ever been scared on a bike, or if you can't rebuild your own bike from the ground up.
A book about the romance of riding would be much less if it were not personal. This is a valuable book for everyone who rides, and anyone who is interested in reading about the attractions of the riding life.

This is an unusual book about motorcycling. I agree with other reviewers that it may not be for everyone. There's a lot about the author's personal life in it, and it does drift away from motorcycling a bit at times. But it captures the emotional attraction of motorcycles in a way that you just don't see very often in the usual riding press. And what's wrong with someone looking at the subject in a new way? I think that some of accusations that have been posted about this book (anti-male perspective, elitism) are only there if the reader is a little too sensitive, or maybe used to having things from a particular viewpoint (Sturgis, anyone?). Read it and see what you think.

Melissa Holbrook Pierson's mastery of word and image makes the beginning of her book a pleasure to read. She has that precious ability to recreate reality such that, for example, I truly felt that spark of comaraderie engendered by waving at a passing motorcyclist as if I were out carving a canyon road and waving myself rather than snuggling deeper into the blankets with her tome. However, as a woman and a rider (with 29 years and over 45,000 miles of experience, respectively), I quickly became disenchanted as her writing devolved into self-pitying terror and clawing insecurity; her book became more a quest for a husband and an identity (mutually dependent, I gathered) than the essense of motorcycling. While I began the book unable to put it down, I walked away with a disturbing impulse to find the author and throttle her soundly about the head and shoulders for being such a silly twit.