My teenager is gone.
The 19 years of caring for her — of bonding together, exploring, laughing (and crying), of making memories that made even better stories — are now done.
Through two decades of togetherness, I pampered my well-behaved, happy child with constant love and care. Feeding her, washing her and waxing her. Fixing flat tires, lubricating chains, changing batteries, and adjusting idling speed. Sigh, such good memories.
So long, sweet Honda 919.
On a summer day in 2006 in Williamsport, Pennsylvania, I rode the cherry-red four-cylindered beauty out of Bob Logue Motorsports’ parking lot while she rode into my heart. A real sport bike! My prior eight years of riding experience involved mostly cruiser-type motorcycles. So, though I traded a lower seat height for a higher sitting perch, I gained (I hoped) better ground clearance, maneuverability, lighter weight, more comfort, and a new riding style.
Her engine growled low and deep when accelerating and purred at higher revs. A six-speed transmission (wow!) clicked and snicked smoothly up and down the gears. The low-end grunt and pull in first and second gears made low-speed riding easier. She had an adjustable brake lever — a big deal when your hands span only six inches from wrist to fingertips. And don’t forget the five-gallon gas tank. She felt easier, and a world apart from the Harley-Davidson VRod (with a 3.7-gallon fuel tank) I traded for her. Yes, the VRod proved an exceptional motorcycle for me over 20,000 miles, but I decided my five-feet-two-inch frame deserved a better-fitting, though still powerful, motorcycle.
Though new to me, Honda produced the 919 (and smaller sibling 599) in various iterations and for many years before I bought mine. Called the Hornet in Europe, the 919 sported Big Red’s former racing motor. Honda’s website dubbed the newest version, debuting in 2002, a “lean, mean street machine for the 21st century,” and stated: “The 919 could well be considered the street-going inline-four created from the best of all worlds. Wrapped around a 16-valve liquid-cooled inline 919cc engine derived from the race-proven CBR900RR series is a pared-down, midsized light-weight chassis set up specifically for taking it to the streets — no matter what the job may be. Cruising, sport riding, commuting or long trips all fall within the job description for this hot new high-performance machine.”
Bingo, that’s my girl. A solid, all-riding-style machine for this budding motojournalist, for cruising or long trips. Versatility. I’d found my two-wheeled soulmate and named her Chili Pepper, because she was, you know, hot.
And naked. And by that point in my riding career, I wanted to ride naked. No, not THAT naked, but I wanted my motorcycle to reflect the essence of the ride, stripped of bulk and weight and stuff. Lighthearted. Handlebars, two wheels, a motor, and a waiting world. What else could you need?
Well, wind protection, for one. I figured that out quickly after a 350-mile wind-riddled journey to the Americade Rally in Lake George, New York, the only time I ever needed to ride using a kidney belt. No. 2, a way to carry items, because Mother Nature has a wretched sense of humor. I decided the naked 919 needed a couple of fig leaves, as it were, to improve her utility.
I dressed her even more during our 19 shared years, adjusting and tailoring her to better meet my needs and keep up with the latest in motorcycle fashion accessories. These included extra lights on the front forks to improve our visibility to others, a customized seat that improved my reach to the ground, several new sets of saddlebags (each larger than the last), and the squawking GPS to allegedly prevent me from getting lost (rerouting, rerouting, rerouting).
And oh, the places we went. The sites we saw. The troubles we endured.
Memories.
Like being the only non-Harley-Davidson motorcycle on the streets of Milwaukee during The Motor Company’s 105th anniversary celebration in 2008, her four-cylinder growl engulfed in a thundering rumble sung by thousands of big twin engines. That time pouring rain pushed us off the Blue Ridge Parkway in Virginia to a downtrodden, time-worn, rustic (in the worst sense of the word) motel to only learn, when skies cleared, that a modern, clean, name-brand hotel sat just two miles away. Or the time hurricane warnings sent us racing on the interstate to our room, barely staying on the road while the wind bullied and shoved us between the guard rail and a tractor-trailer. Convenience stores became oases, whether to hide from drenching rains, soak up chilling air conditioning, or find a bathroom.
But we also shared the numerous, twisty tumbling jaunts over the beautiful mountain passes of Vermont’s gap roads, green and lush as the state’s nickname suggests. Or the 650-mile ride from Knoxville, Tennessee, to Pennsylvania in one day, so magically perfect in weather, road conditions, and beauty, we just didn’t want to break that riding spell. Overlooks galore, blue-skied scenic vistas, the grayed ghosts of Gettysburg at dusk, high-end hotels and mom-and-pop inns, or just the joy of riding around home. Too many good times to recount them all clearly. 70,000 miles of memories for me and Chili that spawned countless magazine stories.
Motorcycling ignites a craving, as many motorcycle styles and types seductively lure riders. I succumbed. Good fortune allowed me to add to, rather than remove from, my stable. A 2009 Triumph Bonneville, a 2009 Yamaha FX6R, then, in 2019, a Triumph Street Twin replaced the Bonnie. Each bike brought with it the latest in tech — ABS brakes, fuel gauges, traction control, better suspension, adjustable clutch AND brake levers, gear indicators, ride-by-wire throttles, cruise control, and more. The luster of the 919’s once-dazzling traits dimmed as motorcycles changed.
This rider changed, too.
Nineteen years. During that time span, the Twin Towers fell, and social media rose. Cell phones became pocket powerhouses. COVID ripped the world. I morphed with the times, from a leather-clad biker to a fully textile- and armor-clad rider sporting Bluetooth-connected full-face helmets and even better GPS guides.
Nearly 20 years later, even lighter-weight and lower seat height bikes carry greater importance as I allegedly grow shorter (my doctor contends) and, let’s face it, older. I want an easier pull of the clutch and brake, as a thumb issue nags my riding. The 919’s lovely four-cylinder powerplant began feeling top-heavy in awkward situations. Her effortlessness — or rather mine — diminished.
In 2024, as a housewarming present, my husband gifted me a new, lighter-weight Suzuki GSX-8S to rip along the mountain twisties in our newly adopted home in Upcountry South Carolina. The easy-riding Triumph Street Twin became my touring steed for long-distance rides. Chili’s rest grew longer between her rides. She deserved better, and I knew it. She had at least another 70,000 miles in her.
Indian Motorcycles introduced a new Superscout model in 2025, which I test rode and enjoyed. Along with a revised engine, it sported the latest and greatest tech — integrated Bluetooth, GPS, temperature gauge, heated grips, ABS, traction control, cruise control — and stood decidedly not-naked wearing a full windscreen and large saddlebags. A low 25-inch seat height and center of gravity negated its heavier weight. I liked and bought it, trading in my 919, fully aware I had circled back to that from which I came — a cruiser. Ironic, indeed.
One last 700-mile ride north, and I bid the 919 adieu at the dealership, her odometer reading 70,527 memories, or excuse me, miles. With a kiss to the gas tank, I set my teenager free to find her next companion and begin another 70,000 miles worth of happy wandering. Happy trails, Chili, and thanks.
Postscript: I named my bike Addy, short for Adelaide, who, along with her sister, Augusta VanBuren, rode Indian motorcycles 5,500 miles across the country in 1916. It seems a fitting moniker. As for the 919, I’m told Chili never made it to the showroom floor before somebody bought her. So, cheers to us all, and our next adventures.
