Carl Merrell “Easy” Wasson died in Florida on the 18th of October, 2007, following a head injury sustained in a motorcycle accident. As I heard the story, he and another rider had stopped but a rider behind could not. They locked handlebars and Easy went down.

I never met the man, but knew of him through r.m.h. Easy wrote this in 1999, pretty much sums up why we do what we do. Ride on, Easy!

i added it up a while back. 12000 on the two sprints, 41000 on the first sportster, 9500 on the second, 55000 on the fxrs, and 72000 on the dresser. all mileage numbers are approximate of course. 34 years in the saddle, not one year, 34 times. what a long strange trip it’s been.� don’t really have any bad memories, just a few people and places i could do without seeing again, and a whole lot i look forward to seeing again.� all those wonderful mind pictures: sundown in the badlands, sunrise in the hills, the beauty of yellowstone, the grand canyon, the change of colors in the painted desert, mesa verde, yosemite, the high desert of nevada, the expanse of the great plains, high in the smokies with just the mountain tops peeking out of the clouds, the california coastline, new mexico, arizona, colorado, utah, wyoming, montana, idaho, the dakotas, nebraska, kansas, oklahoma, texas, arkansas, iowa, missouri, minnesota, the lakes states, the midwest, kentucky, tennessee, the virginias, the carolinas, georgia, alabama, mississippi, louisianna, florida, and the rust belt. maryland, deleware, pennsylvania. canada, and old mexico.still gotta get to the PNW and NE. some day, some day.� and the people, lots of smiles, plenty of friendly talk: where you from, where you going? nice day. nice looking bike. i/my gramp/dad/brother/uncle had one. old men sharing memories, young kids with the shy smiles, the long looks, and the quick grin when you wave.� the pretty girls, and the interesting women. the friends you make and never see again, and the ones you see every year or so, out there. the little roadside places with the best cheeseburgers and coldest beer in the world. camping on the yellowstone/arkansaw/animas river, cooking over an open fire, listening to the water as it runs by. a billion stars at night. burning up in the heat, drowning in the rain, freezing in the cold, and loving every minute of it. sometimes you’ve got somebody to share it with, sometimes it’s just you and the sound of the engine, and either way it’s just fine. i’ve had the opportunity and privilege to see this great country without it being framed by a windshield, meet the finest of people and share the finest of times because i ride a motorcycle. it’s cost me a fair amount, but it would be cheap at twice the price. biker? i don’t know, and i don’t care, but i am a rider, and i am proud of that.

the big easy. waxing philosophic as the calendar makes another turn.
#39

“A Harley Davidson motorcycle is a marvelous, amazing machine. Imagine, you put a motor between your legs. It’s basically an old tractor motor that has been modified and refined and refined and refined nearly to perfection. It’s hooked to a five-speed transmission that you can easily hold in both hands. It sits on two rubber patches that can’t cover much more than 10 square inches of pavement at a time. It will run well over 100 miles per hour. It will leap forward whether the altitude is 0 or 10,000 feet, whether the temperature is 30° or 110°. It will run hour after hour, day after day. It starts every time you hit the button–wet, dry, hot cold–makes no difference. It will carry you and all you need for any length trip (and if that’s not enough, it’ll pull a trailer, too). And, it sounds like no other motorcycle on earth. You can’t help but enjoy just listening to it: when you are at a stop light or when you just cruise for mile after mile at 85 miles per hour.”

“…… you are part of the landscape when you are on a motorcycle, rather than observing the landscape as when in a car.”

Ken Green
July 9, 1999