I have had many people ask me why I ride a motorcycle. I’m sure most who ride have known the scenario of pulling up to the gas station to refuel and getting hammered with the stories of cycle lore by every customer.
You know the stories, “My uncle had a Harley just like that.” I guess these people feel the attraction to the bikes we love; they just haven’t embraced it yet. I have sat and told stories with these folks many times, much to the dismay of my wife; I am usually at least an hour late when I finally arrive to my destination.
I have heard the saying, “If I have to explain, you just wouldn’t understand,” I just don’t think that’s totally accurate.
My Dad moved us to Texas in 1979 during the big oil boom. He was a Vietnam Veteran trying to raise a family while still trying to exercise the demons from the past. Half our family had moved to Cypress from all over the country. We all ended up living a few houses down from one another in a little subdivision where we were commonly referred to as the “damn Yankees down the street”.
My two brothers and I used to play with our cousins from up the street while our mothers stayed in the house and talked about God know who or what. Dad and my uncles would always come home just after dark, usually exhausted and filthy from the long hot days of working in Houston’s 100% humidity. I remember the men would stay in the garage and drink a few beers, sometimes smoking “funny looking” cigarettes and talk about the day. I loved being around these guys, but was usually told to get back in the house before I got smacked. Apple pie and all, right?
One day, my Dad came home really early and REALLY excited about something. We all went outside and saw him carrying boxes into the garage full of junk. He was babbling something about a motorcycle and freedom and adventure. I know I had never seen him like this, and I also know I had never seen my mother look the way she did. She had a look on her face like someone just fed her a shit sandwich. This would become the first of many, many, many battles between my parents over that “DAMN” motorcycle.
My Dad didn’t care at all. He was so different from what I had ever seen him while I was growing up. Now when he came home from work every day, instead of dragging himself in the house beat down from exhaustion, he would immediately go to the garage and start working on his new scooter with a fervor I had never known. It was almost like Christmas morning for a five year old, except he got his presents every day. My Uncle down the street was building a bike as well. It was funny watching this “biker build off” between two rookies trying to be the first to have the wind in his hair.
Many nights they were at each other’s house helping when one was jammed up or just to escape the hazards of his respective wife. I remember watching these beautiful machines come together piece by piece. As the builds got closer to being complete, I also noticed new people coming around. The best way I could describe these new men, would be to refer you to a few of David Mann’s renditions. These dudes came right off the pages of his paintings and were even more enthusiastic in real life.
And finally the day had come! My dad pulled his bike outside right as it was getting dark one night. He kicked her a few times and BAM! She came to life. My uncle had ridden down from the end of the street and they were getting ready to go on the first of many soon to be cruises. Dad pulled the bike out into the street and they let their new babies warm up. Each walked slowly and carefully around the bikes as if they hadn’t been staring at these same machines every night for the last six months. My dad was so proud. He had built a beautiful ironhead Sportster with a king and queen, stair seat. She was very tight and all black. He had mini apes on her and the black rubber fork boots that have become so popular today. My uncle had built an early Super Glide and was running a huge 21-inch front tire with no fender. His bike was slammed and had drag bars which seemed to contrast the rake. They were two stallions waiting to be mounted and ridden hard.
Dad mounted his steed and took a quick look around before rapping the throttle a few quick times. I can still see the flames shooting out of the pipes and feel my heart rumble in my chest. Uncle Phil mounted his bike and they raced to the first stop sign. I don’t know exactly why, but my dad turned his head looking in our direction when BAM! He ran right into my uncle’s back fender and rode his tire almost into his back. They both dismounted and began inspecting their machines while I heard a few profanities from my uncle. The only thing that was damaged was his rear fender, well, and my dad’s pride, of course. They took off that night and came home long after I was asleep. That was the first of many excursions.
That weekend, we had a barbecue at the house and a few of my dad’s new friends were coming over. Well what was supposed to be a little barbecue turned into an all out block party. There must have been at least one hundred Harley-Davidson’s racing down the street or parked in the yards. Before long the beer was flowing and those “funny looking” cigarettes began to spark up. These people knew how to have fun.
My dad was happier than I could remember and was getting tanked. At this time, there are impromptu drag races screaming down the street. Unbeknownst to me, my dad had already agreed to participate in one. Of course, I did not realize this as I was sitting on the back of the bike getting my first ride on a motorcycle. Being six years old meant I had to wear a helmet. The only one my dad had was an old used helmet that head the lining ripped out so you got little pieces of the Styrofoam in your hair every time you put it on.
The thunder of the bikes was deafening as we flew down the street. I was hanging on so tight and the wind was howling. I hadn’t noticed my helmet flew right off my head as we raced off. Much to my mother's relief, my head wasn’t in it when she ran screaming down the street to retrieve it. The thrill and exhilaration of it all was incredible. I was hooked and never looked back. This was the first of many block parties, unfortunately we were asked to leave the neighborhood.
These new friends of my dad’s were wonderful to me. I couldn’t wait to hang out with my dad every day. These men were like gods to me. Each one was unique and they all rode the most extreme sleds I had ever seen. There were no mufflers, or turn signals, or front fenders. We didn’t see any carbon copy bikes or Easter egg paint jobs.
Each man turned the wrenches on his own bike, and all contributed to the maintenance of their rides together.
I was quickly learning of the Code of the West firsthand. The thought of, if I would ever get a bike, was quickly replaced forever with the conviction of, when. There was never a doubt from that day on; I knew I would be a biker. The thought of anything other than a Harley was not comprehendible, just a given. As certain as saying I would grow into a man, I would have a Harley.
Eventually, I did get my first ride. I remember seeing the 1981 Pportster sitting in the back of a little bike shop in Channelview. She was rusty and didn’t run but I had to have it. The mechanical problems compounded with the $3000 price tag never deterred me from wanting this beauty. That, however, is for another time. Remember to keep the rubber side down and watch for your brothers out there.
Think about your first experience with a Harley and try to remember that the next time some dork questions you outside a gas station. I mean, after all, what more can we ask for? We get to ride our machines and be apart of something we love every day. People all over the world search for that kind of serenity and peace. Maybe it’s our job to tell them about what they are missing.
Johnny
Humble, Texas
