Why does the road, to what we really want, always have to be so fucking long?
I grew up hearing the stories, my folks passed on, of my dad picking up my mom on whatever his current ride was and enjoying the night life of post war LA. I still remember the roll call of bikes. The 61-inch Knucklehead, the 45-inch flathead (with Von Dutch pinstriping) that was stolen and then the Triumph Thunderbird and finally the AJS dirt thumper as he transformed from street rider to desert racer. I treasure the yellowed picture of my dad in his jeans, white shirt and engineer boots straddling his desert dirt racer. Coolness personified that many of today’s “old school riders” can only pretend to have.
Later my dad got into racing sports cars and got away from motorcycles entirely. Even to the point that when a friend of his came by one day, when I was 15, with a new Triumph Trophy to show off, my dad wouldn’t go near it. He said he wasn’t interested in taking it out for a ride, but I think he was afraid that if he tried it out that bikes and riding would take over his life again.
Needless to say when my dad’s friend offered me a ride I jumped to it. Holy shit, what a ride! Hanging on tight as we careened around corners and split lanes through traffic.
The only thing better would be, if I controlled that roaring machine. After that I grabbed rides with friends on their motorcycles whenever I could. I wanted a bike bad, but my folks were dead set against it (somehow it was always different back when they were kids).
As soon as I moved away from home a few years later I couldn’t wait to purchase my first bike. It wasn’t anything with the initials H-D however but a smoking 2-stroke Suzuki that became the first of a varied array of Japanese dirt bikes, street bikes and sport bikes. The one thing they all had in common though was the pure joy of riding, that and the challenge of keeping whatever beat-up, pile of crap, I owned running.
There was always the pent-up desire for a Harley but never enough conviction. The sport bike went away in 1991 to pay for school and for the next 13 years there were a host of “reasons” for not owning any bike let alone a Harley. Teenagers, school, bills, divorce, re-marriage, new interests and hobbies all combined to sap the desire and bury the want for two wheels, wind and freedom.
Oh sure, every few years, the motorcycle demons would re-surface, prompting an orgy of tire kicking, article reading and the general mayhem of two-wheeled desires.
Then a miracle, of sorts, happened. A Saturday morning of chores found me checking out the local Harley dealership’s new building. Of course I couldn’t afford one of those sleek machines, but the itch (almost a need) for the wind came seeping back into consciousness. On the way home, a quick stop at the local import dealer fanned the flames to the point where serious questions about cost, payments and availability of several models ensued. Then the I crashed to earth.
I returned home to find my wife, a person steeped in common sense and logic who has never been on a motorcycle, working in her garden. A casual mention of, “ I am thinking about getting a motorcycle.” Was rebuffed with a “Which toy will you be getting rid of?” Well before you think that I have amassed a vast collection of “toys” she was referring to my rusting Baja Bug, battered little Samurai 4×4 and the thrashed 9-foot sailing dinghy collecting dust and pine needles in the corner of the yard.
To avert disaster, or at least an hour long lecture on “wants” versus “needs” I quipped back, “you’re right, I don’t need a bike”. And then escaped into the house to forestall any further comment, and avoid any more chores.
Now comes the “miracle” part. For the last two summers we have had my wife’s grandson with us. He isn’t a holy terror, most of the time, but he reminded me why I was glad my own wrecking crew of kids were grown up and on their own. Well apparently a wee bit of guilt, for inflicting her grandson on me, softened my wife’s heart to the point where she relented enough to suggest that if I really wanted a bike perhaps I should get one. I was so stunned with her comment that it took a few days to recover.
I went back to the import shop to again check out the cruisers, no way I could afford a Harley. The next Saturday I had a wedding to shoot. I do a little freelance photography on the side. Afterward I drove over to the BBQ shack for some lunch. Going up the canyon in front of me was a couple on a bagger and a woman on a Sportster Custom. I had been drooling over Sportsters for years.
By happenchance they were headed for the local H-D dealer so I followed them there. As I was wandering through the showroom checking out the Sportsters, one of the sales persons came over to chat. I said that I wanted a black one and there weren’t any in the showroom (I figured I was safe) but a quick check on the computer showed there was a black Sportster 883 Standard still in the crate. At $6500 (plus all the damn taxes etc) it was not much more than the import cruiser I had been looking at, plus it was a Harley. Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, decisions, YES!! The only problem was that they wanted money, or the promise there of, before they would assemble my dream, as space at the shop was limited. Promising to be back soon I split for home barely able to contain my excitement. Even the wifey picked up on it.
Monday found me at the credit union applying for a motorcycle loan. I was surprised to find I had pretty good credit and a loan was soon arranged. Unfortunately the dealer was closed on Monday, rats. First thing Tuesday I called the dealer and ordered my new Sportster. Then I called the credit union. They couldn’t cut a check until they had proof of insurance. I called my insurance agent but they couldn’t issue insurance until they had a VIN number. So I called the dealer back to get the VIN. Then I called the insurance company and gave them the VIN and then the credit union to find out when I could get the check (yeah, like I got a lot of work done that day!).
The next three days crawled by (Gonna get a Harley!!!!), but finally the day arrived and I was at the dealer bright and early looking for my Sportster.
It was tough paying attention to it all. Contracts, red tape, mumbo-jumbo et al (all I wanted was to see my bike). I felt sorry for the sales lady when they rolled the Sportster up by the door. Right, like I was paying attention to anything she said!
Finally the paper shuffle was done (damn that is a big parts catalog), and I was standing there with the head mechanic as he went over the bike and explained it all to me. It was probably very important, I just wish I could remember what hell he said! I finally straddled my new bike with a shit-eating grin pasted on my face. I fired it up and basked in the rumble (damn it is too quiet–first change–louder pipes!) but I did remember the mechanics “break in time” comment, so the first 50 miles were slow ones. Over to work, to show it off. Stop at a friend’s house to show it off. Gotta break it in…gotta ride!
I called my mom and her reaction was “What the hell were you thinking?” but she sent me a new jacket with Harley wings on the back. She remembered the fun. Nine months later I still get that shit eating grin whenever I straddle the Sportster, fire it up (love those SE pipes) and ride down the highway. Fog, rain, cold, sun, work, chores, screw it..gotta ride!
–Jack from SLO
