Some riders obsess over chrome. Others chase horsepower, bar-hopping miles, or custom paint. Me? I worry about the one rock waiting somewhere out there in the middle of a backroad to ruin my whole day. So I prepare when I can, and tackle the challenges as they come.

If you’ve ever blasted down a questionable road, dodged potholes big enough to eat small dogs, or taken a wrong turn that suddenly became a gravel adventure (I’m looking at you, random ATV trail in Canada and rando farm road in Iowa), then you know what I’m talking about. That underside of your bike? It’s basically the soft underbelly of a dragon—tough everywhere except the part that actually matters.

And that’s why skid plates exist. Not because they look cool.

But because it only takes ONE rock, stick, chunk of metal, or renegade road gator to punch something expensive under your ride and leave you stranded talking to cows while you wait for a tow truck that may or may not have cell service.

Skid plates aren’t glamorous, but they’re peace of mind. Cheap insurance. A little bit of armor for the part of your bike that gets no love but takes all the abuse.

Why I’m talking about this now

The way I see it: You don’t need one… until you really, really do. And by then? Too late, brother. My advice to fellow road warriors-just do yourself a favor: Armor the belly.

No one will see it. No one will compliment it. But future-you, stuck in the middle of nowhere, will absolutely thank current-you.

---

Here’s a Gem of a story..

I meet this badass rider named Meredith for the very first time in CT. It’s raining sideways and we’re about to ride to OBX — because we thought: “Hey, what’s a better way to make new friends than a multistate motorcycle road trip in questionable weather?” 😆

She’s riding this supercharged, wind-cutting, butter-slicing, high-horsepower Sportster built with so much attitude it looks like it could outrun both the weather and the IRS — and yes, we tease her about it constantly.

Her husband Bill’s there. Doug H. is making introductions to the entire group. We all nod like we’re normal humans, then immediately blast off like idiots southbound.

Fast-forward — we’re somewhere deep in Pennsylvania. And not the “hey, there’s a Sheetz and a Starbucks PA.”

No. This is Nowhere PA — population:

4 cows, 17 trees, and one Dunkin’ that definitely closes at noon so the employees can go home and raise alpacas or something.

And that’s when the moto Gods go “Time to make this interesting.”

Meredith’s drive belt is missing many teeth and looks like the Harley tried to eat a Muppet.

Now, I remind you — I’ve known Meredith and Bill for about five minutes. Doug and I look at each other and immediately switch into:

ROAD WARRIOR PARTS ACQUISITION MODE.

Cue the music to Top Gun! LOL

We’re all calling every dealer within 100 miles and found a belt and found a different dealer who will install it. So Doug and I went blasting through Amish country so fast I think I heard a horse yell, “WHAT THE—”

We finally find the ONLY belt anywhere in existence, grab it, and ride back like two overly caffeinated carrier pigeons with a death wish.

Meanwhile Meredith — and this part deserves respect —RIDES what’s left of that belt to the dealer nearby. Like, full boss mode.

Hours later… chaos. Sweat. Gas fumes.

But guess what? We delivered the belt. She got it installed. We all got her rolling, and we STILL made it to OBX.

When we hit the road again, you’d think we just survived a hurricane, an asteroid strike, and possibly a small uprising. But now? That group, We’re bonded for life.

Was a skid plate involved? No.

Would it have helped? Maybe.

Would it have saved us from this legendary story? Absolutely not. And honestly? Some stories are worth the chaos.