What’s more synonymous with identity than name? The two words can often be used interchangeably, even though they may also refer to different things and have different meanings to different people at different times. Think of a family member’s name. What descriptors come to mind? Surely, an alternative assortment would have occurred to you ten years ago, just as would have been true on their end if asked about you. Obviously, such fragmentary collections don’t form a comprehensive representation of either identity; they’re just what’s most salient in the moment. Still, much identifying information is packed into that name, at least from an individual’s perspective.

This same phenomenon occurs across the entire spectrum of language, with many words featuring idiosyncratic connotations that fluctuate across time and circumstances. Concepts, like human beings, are far more complex than what we can capture in words, much less a single word. Prose typically does violence to whatever we use it to represent. Yet we routinely make do with such truncated communications, whether in dialog with other people or in our own private thoughts. The latter are most often forcibly extruded into linear language, even when it’s presumably unnecessary to do so – why would we need to utilize restrictive symbols to talk to ourselves? It’s because symbolization is required for thinking clearly; words and sentences are imperfect, yet necessary, tools.

There is a murky realm of thought wherein primordial notions have yet to take verbal form. It’s difficult or even impossible to examine, evaluate and manipulate those unarticulated concepts. We need the structure of language to lift ideas out of the dark swamp of vague, tangled intuition and into the stark light of analytic reason, especially if we hope to convey them to someone else. The exception is poetry, which eschews the limitations of literal wording in favor of something closer to the raw material, albeit rendered in less precise, more debatable phrasing. Ambiguous metaphors and grammatically incorrect arrangements leave even more to imaginative interpretation than normal prose, but in so doing they may far outperform conventional wording in evocative power. Effective poetry recreates something unspeakably implicit in the minds of its audience without having to first translate it into explicit language, which must then be retranslated back into the original substrate by the recipient. Poetry skips those steps and communicates a feeling or a Truth more directly and vividly than is possible with prose, despite being more subjective – or even confusing. Like white space in painting, a vacuum is formed, drawing the other person into the creative process, incorporating their projections into a hybrid of both parties’ interiors. Writer and reader alike infuse words with separate meanings.

Of course, the process of projection – superimposing personal meanings onto things (and people) when they don’t actually apply – occurs with plain language, too; there’s just usually less room for it. We experience this in mundane conversation when we suddenly realize the other person has been using or hearing a word or phrase in a way we didn’t initially register. We then typically go back and seek agreement on a definition to facilitate attunement, maybe clarifying contextual factors that would account for the misunderstanding. Once our symbols have been resynchronized, we can get on with our discussion. There are degrees of misalignment, with slight ones being too numerous and inconsequential to merit the time and effort of correction, and more substantial ones being too disruptive to ignore. Words carry lots of unseen baggage, especially when they’re names.

Given that language involves all these inevitable ambiguities, projections and limitations, it’s no wonder any effort to distill an identity down to a single name would be fraught with problems. For starters, which comes first? Does a name create an identity, or does an identity find a fitting name?

It’s hardly controversial to say motorcyclists tend to identify with a particular marque. There are those who’ve owned multiple brands and would express a special affinity for many. However, I suspect the vast majority of riders identify with just one, or two at the most. By “identify,” I mean they view the marque as showcasing key aspects of their personality, though perhaps more as a matter of aspiration than reality – think of the dentist who cosplays an outlaw biker on the weekends with his Hog. Personal history adds layers of meaning, too, as in the following example. Back when I was doing a lot of “hard enduro” riding, KTM dominated competitions like the Erzberg Rodeo and local riders considered the Austrian bikes the only serious options for attacking the most challenging nearby terrain. Owning Orange indicated you bought into this mindset, although anyone’s actual proficiency on the trail obviously had worlds more to do with their skill than the color of their plastic.

I wanted to think of myself as part of the elite group, and maintaining that self-image – sadly – required switching to KTM and riding nothing else in the woods for many years thereafter, even though I was never again as comfortable, confident and fast as I’d been on the more user-friendly Honda I’d jettisoned; the various KTMs I owned afterward simply didn’t fit me as well. I sacrificed a motorcycle that was an extension of my genuine abilities and preferences for a series of more expensive, demanding machines I hoped to “grow into.” Rather than having one that mirrored who I really was, I went with those reflecting who I wished to be – a version of “dress for the job you want,” except in this case it was counterproductive. I borrowed the KTM aura and imagined my identity was thereby enhanced. The real me wasn’t nearly as hardcore as any of those bikes, but adopting their image made me feel like I was; I was a KTM guy! Never mind I’d have been more competent on my old Honda, or the fact I always felt somewhat fraudulent on the KTMs. Deep down I knew I was using a fake ID.

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Over the course of 52 years as a motorcyclist, and having owned almost as many bikes, I’ve had the opposite experience, too, with some machines making me feel quite well-represented, even though – or likely because – they didn’t project a grandiose, larger-than-life image (more accurately, I didn’t project such an image onto them and then try to apply it to myself by association). Suzuki’s super-simple, modestly powered, sweet handling SV650 comes immediately to mind, among others. I bought three of those gems at different times after being seduced by sexier alternatives, only to return to yet another humble SV after (re-)learning I wasn’t really so sexy, myself. I wouldn’t trade any of my current mounts for an SV right now, as some of my tastes and needs have changed. But I still see a reflection of my true self in that bike and resonate with any mention of its name. However, Suzuki as a manufacturer never inspired anything like what I experienced with KTM. Neither did any other marque. I believe this was a function of the social dimension. Had I ridden with another group of motorcyclists who uniformly revered a different brand, or if we’d exalted some other off-road genre, my idealization would have landed elsewhere. My street riding buddies had lots of diverse preferences, and my own roadgoing interests were varied enough that no manufacturer ever rose to the pinnacle of iconic prominence for long, although several well-fitting KTM street bikes temporarily planted the Austrian flag in that spot. Just the name, KTM, conjured a deeply ingrained set of superlatives in my mind: ultimate performance and durability, uncompromising standards, engagement requiring commitment, etc. – attributes I wanted to claim as a person, even as I came to recognize they weren’t consistently true of Team Orange, and certainly not myself. The name maintained poetic significance.

Then came BMW.

Those who’ve read my columns for the MOA over the past five years know I’m a latecomer to the Cult of the Roundel. Having owned bikes from most every other major manufacturer, I’d never found BMWs appealing. While they often featured elements I really liked, they always had others I really didn’t, including oddball quirks that seemed to defy convention just for the sake of being “unique” (those turn-signal buttons on both sides were insufferable!). The stodgy image of bland practicality seemed to allow no margin for aesthetics or excitement. I was dis-identified with the marque and couldn’t see myself in it at all – at least no part of my identity I valued; I didn’t want to be associated with a brand that highlighted my own lack of good looks and athletic prowess! (I’d have benefited from different priorities across many areas of my life!)

Nevertheless, as I grew more interested in long-range touring, I couldn’t help but wonder if there might be a BMW with which I could reconcile myself, since they seemed more “like me” than a Gold Wing or Harley. I kept watch for a low-cost experiment and found it in the form of a lovely used F 800 GT, already outfitted with luggage and sporting, to my eye, one of the most gorgeously proportioned profiles in all of motorcycling. I had to concede its power output deserved the enthusiast press euphemism used in reference to every BMW motor until the S 1000 RR: “merely adequate.” But I also found its comfortable ergonomics and perfectly neutral handling thoroughly endearing. I could ride it all day and still feel reluctant to return home at night. The GT’s anemic acceleration, buzziness at high rpms, and thigh-roasting heat (mis-)management conspired to dissuade me from ever taking it cross-country, yet I developed quite an affection for it. More importantly, it opened my mind to Bayerische Motoren Werke as a brand that offered something for me.

Ever since first riding a friend’s GS decades earlier, I’d been enchanted by the boxer motor. With my horizons newly expanded, investigating modern iterations led me to conclude much of what had put me off in the past was no longer part of their present. Technological advances, like water cooling, four-valve heads and non-jacking shaft drive, together with increasingly dynamic styling and more mainstream details (a proper left-side-only turn-signal button!), made me realize I’d had my head in the sand regarding BMW. Believing the boxer setup to be the purest expression of the marque, I sold the GT and bought an R 1250 RS. I’d already signed on with the MOA and had begun to appreciate that the community of Beemer enthusiasts included many, many people with whom I readily identified, stereotypes be damned. I’ve since owned a most unlikely BMW play bike (a tricked-out G 310 R) and now I ponder what my next BMW will be (spoiler alert: I’m terribly intrigued by the new F 450 GS). I don’t even consider other brands. Although I still own two non-BMWs, they’re both one-offs, models I adore but not because I identify with their brands. No, I’m now a BMW guy.

I’m struggling to characterize this identity conversion in words. It’s tough. Whereas I first inched toward BMW because of its age-old touring cred, that’s only a part of its appeal to me now. I definitely enjoy long-distance rides on my RS, but I also revel in its sporting capabilities, which far exceed my own. I love the strength and versatility of the big boxer motor, the cutting-edge electronics, the comfy ergonomics and plush-yet-controlled suspension, the elegant design, and the refined fit and finish. Like the GT, the RS strikes me as extraordinarily beautiful – not just for a BMW, but for any motorcycle. Its basic maintenance is extremely easy to do, and the more involved stuff I would have wanted to DIY on previous machines is so complicated that I’m content to let the shop do it and save my time for riding. There’s a fantastic aftermarket for virtually all BMWs, and no limit to how extensively they can be personalized. Rather than having one primary aspect to hold high, like KTM’s dominance in hard-enduro, my respect for BMW is a function of its incredibly wide-ranging assets. Instead of just appropriating the marque’s prestige or pretending I possess the virtues associated with it, its diversification is an accurate reflection of the breadth of my own passion for motorcycling’s many formats. In the modern era, BMW has transformed itself from the one-dimensional choice of quirky tourers to a multiverse of machinery for quality-minded riders of almost every conceivable ilk. As someone who embraces Motorcycling categorically, I feel perfectly at home with BMW; the name represents me, like a surname. How would you describe your connection to this family?