Motorcycling isn’t just about getting from A to B—it’s almost philosophical, even meditative. It embodies a sense of personal freedom that feels unparalleled. It’s your freedom, a part of who you are. You become one with the machine; it’s a seamless connection where you feel both vulnerable and powerful at the same time. Riding lets you experience the world in a way no other mode of transport can. It opens doors to places you wouldn’t typically visit and to people you wouldn’t otherwise meet. Motorcycling truly keeps you open-minded.
For me, it’s always been this way. I’d call it early childhood conditioning. One of my earliest memories is sitting in the footwell of my dad’s BERLIN ROLLER (Scooter), trying to move the gear lever and brake pedal. The gear lever would wiggle, but the brake pedal wouldn’t budge. I think there was even a child seat involved. By 14, I had my first moped license and a Simson S50. Suddenly, the world was mine. My room had a few rare posters on the wall—a four-cylinder HONDA DIGGER and a HARLEY ELECTRA GLIDE adorned with what felt like 27 million auxiliary lights. Dreams.
My first trip with friends (and girlfriends) was an adventure in itself. Fully loaded 50cc mopeds aren’t exactly speed demons on the open road. I’m sure we tested the patience of many lorry drivers behind us. So, something faster was needed. By 16, I’d moved up to 150cc with a bit more power, and the days of impatient truckers were behind me.
But motorbikes weren’t my only passion—gear mattered just as much. By the mid to late ’80s, I’d been soaked through by the rain far too many times. So I got creative. I pulled out a sewing machine and transformed a neon-green stage backdrop into my first rain suit. Sadly, I didn’t think to seal the seams. It was completely useless. Several rolls of duct tape later, it worked a bit better.
Fast-forward a few years, and I found myself at university studying clothing design (because let’s face it, anyone can call themselves a ›designer‹). It was an intense programme, but it laid the foundation for everything I do today. After graduation, I thought I’d head into the film industry. But then came the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989—a massive turning point that reset everything. Not long after, I found myself in the motorcycle clothing industry. And here I am, still at it.
These days, my rides cover more miles or last longer, but they’re far from world tours. Yet those magical moments are still there. One day, you’re helping Sammy Miller lift a vintage bike onto a workbench in his museum workshop. The next, you’re blasting down the motorway. And the day after that, you might find yourself off-roading in Albania. It’s so wonderfully varied. As one of my favourite films puts it: ›You experience more in five minutes on a motorcycle than some people do in their entire lives.‹
Even now, when I get on a bike, it feels just like it did when I was 16. I still can’t get enough of it. I kickstart my old Harley, foot-shift into gear, and ride straight into the dreamtime.
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