This being early March ("in like a lion, out like a lamb"), the weather is sure to turn warmer which brings out new life such as daffodils, Bradford Pears, green grass, Harleys. Harleys? That's right, Harleys, as in Harley-Davidson Motorcycles. Just like our friend the North American Black Bear, the North American Harley-Davidson (Twowheelus Realloudus) awakens from a 4 month hibernation. It's a "rite of spring." Garage doors all over America open and the custom paint and chrome behemoths are quietly rolled out into the drive for their first true bath of the year. This usually takes up the most part of the first Saturday in March. Men (and now some women too) shine and polish and tighten and adjust for hours. Finally during the warmest part of the day (around 2 p.m.) they get out their leather jackets and "doo-rags" and fingerless gloves, boots and anything else they own that shows that they own the prized "Harley" and "crank it up." Nothing sounds like a "Harley." Many other manufacturers and even some four-wheeled brethren have tried to emulate it but only a true Harley-Davidson sounds like it does. Harley-Davidson refers to it as a "syncopated" sound. They have even made a couple of attempts to "copyright" the sound just like a recording studio would do in Nashville but so far they haven't succeeded at that.
Harley-Davidson isn't just a name or a motorcycle. It's a lifestyle. You don't own a Harley....it owns you. It's sort of like being a fan of the University of Kentucky Wildcats. That means you don't just watch or listen to their games...you have three closets full of UK paraphenalia...everything from caps to underwear. I once had a neighbor who was such a die hard UK fan, in the spring and summer when they actually hung their clothes out on a clothes line to dry, it would look like the "tailgating" lot at Commonwealth Stadium where the flags fly over RV's and vans and blue and white tents flourish. Theirs weren't flags, though....it was t-shirts and underwear and sweat pants and jackets and towels and anything else you can think of. Neither of these people had even seen the UK campus much less gone to school there, but that didn't matter. UK was their school and Kentucky was their State. Once I "stumbled" onto a couple of UK basketball tickets but something came up where I couldn't go. I offered them the tickets for free. It was a Saturday afternoon game so there was plenty of time to get to Lexington, attend the game, go out for a nice meal and return to Central City by mid-evening. "No Thanks," they said, "We'll just watch it from the comfort of our living room!" And that's what they did. That was twenty years ago and to this day I doubt they've been to Lexington in their lives.
Harley owners are made of this same stock. The motorcycle itself is only the down payment on a lifestyle. To own a Harley is to have a second religion. You must then purchase the collection of tee shirts, followed by leather pants, then special riding boots, a leather jacket, special Harley helmets, "doo" rags, scarfs, gloves, rain suits, belts, and other apparel. This is followed by a license plate to go on the front of your four-wheeled vehicles designating you as a Harley owner or maybe windshield decals, trunk or tailgate medallions. Ford Motor Co. even makes a Harley-Davidson edition of their F-150 pickup truck costing about $45,000. I would have thought the $45,000 truck was invented to haul the $25,000 Motorcycle but am I ever wrong. The $45,000 pickup truck was invented to pull the $20,000 enclosed trailer that hauls the $25,000 Motorcycle.
One recent year, the "Missus" and I decided to take a winter break in Florida so we pulled our travel trailer to St. Augustine Beach. We stayed at a nice campground. On the trip down we came to realize it was "bike week" in Daytona Beach, about 50 miles to the south of where we were staying. We found this out because of the 20,000 bikes or so that passed us enroute from Kentucky. When we checked into the campground we were placed in a row of half-million dollar motorhomes. Most of these were pulling enclosed trailers and some of these trailers hauled up to four prized Harley-Davidsons. Our next door neighbor was a cardiac surgeon. He and his wife each owned a Harley-Davidson as did their son and his wife. The beautiful trailer they were pulling behind their $500,000 Prevost Motor Coach doubled as a garage for their prized Harleys. Each of these chrome beauties cost well over $25,000. Every morning they'd get up around 7 AM and let the back ramp door down on the trailer. They would then roll the beauties outside in the Florida Sunshine and would polish on them for about an hour until breakfast was ready. After breakfast, the four of them would fire them up and head out for Daytona in full regalia. This went on for the biggest part of a week.
Remember Mary Hart of "Entertainment Tonight" fame? She's married to producer Burt Sugarman and they each own a Harley. So does Wynonna Judd (she's got three of them). Singer John Berry has one. So does Billy Ray Cyrus. When you travel to Nashville, it's not uncommon to see Motor Coaches housing country music stars, pulling enclosed trailers behind them. These trailer are usually hauling a Harley or Harleys for use of the stars and their entourage. Mary Hart and Burt Sugarman always try to make it to Sturgis (S. Dakota) for the largest Harley-Davidson rally in the world. I've seen some pictures on the internet of these rallys and sometimes some of the "Harley Babes" (motorcycle lingo for women who love Harleys) will do some risque' things, like remove their tops. For this act of kindness they are rewarded by "Harley Dudes" (motorcycle lingo for guys that love Harleys) with a string of beads. Some of these women have several strings of beads in their possession. I've never seen Mary Hart with any, however.
My favorite Harley story of all times involves the late David "Dedo" Graves. "Dedo" lived up on North Fifth Street and by his own admission grew up "less than rich." He did manage to scrape some money together when he was in high school and purchased a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. It was an older model (not all chromed up) and even had a "gearshift" beside the gas tank. He said he woke up one morning and got dressed to go to school. The Harley had an electric starter and used a nine-volt battery. He couldn't afford a new battery so he'd go down to the railroad yard and the railroaders would give him the old nine-volt batteries out of their lanterns. They didn't have enough power to make the starter on his motorcycle turn over but they did have enough power to furnish electricity to it so it could run for about a week. He would have to push it to get it rolling and when he thought it was going fast enough, he'd jump on it, engage the hand clutch, push the gearshift into gear and "take off!" This was an even larger problem for "Dedo" because as a child he was stricken with polio and it caused one of his legs to be shorter than the other. He got around fine but with a noticeable limp. This particular morning it was very cold. He went out in the front yard and lifted the kick stand on the old motorcycle and rolled it out to the street. He then pushed it and ran along beside it until he felt it was rolling fast enough to balance on and he then jumped on the seat, kicked it in gear and let out on the clutch. He was in luck, it started on the first try. He rode it to Reservoir Avenue and since nothing was coming, he ran the stop sign, turned left onto Reservoir and headed to school. At the bottom of the hill he came to another stop sign. Since this was U. S. 431, there was lots of traffic so he had to wait. When the last car passed, he let out on the clutch and "killed" the engine. Frustrated, he jumped off the bike and between cars, he pushed it out into the intersection until he felt it was rolling pretty good and once again he jumped "astraddle" the rider's seat and kicked it into gear...at least he thought he did. What he actually did was kick it into gear and let out on the clutch before he was "astraddle" the bike. It took off with him hanging on the side of it. He was caught in a position where he couldn't get on or couldn't get off the bike. His left arm was wrapped around the gas tank (from the bottom) and his right hand was hanging onto the handlebar with the throttle "wide open" and he couldn't get the leverage to let off. Basically he was just "hanging on for dear life!" When he got to the corner of Reservoir and 1st Streets (by the fomer Lockery Cleaners), he managed to lean enough to turn the bike up 1st Street but he still hit the curb. He went flying one way and the bike went flying the other. It landed upside down in a shrub and continued to run wide open with the wheels sitting up in the air. Some people in cars stopped to assist and one of them shut the engine on his bike off. Others asked him "Are You Hurt?" and Dedo, being ever so proud said, "No, I'm Fine," even though he felt like he was going to die.
Gruffily, he went over and uprighted the bike and went through the process of starting it again. This time, though, he made it onto the seat, got it cranked and turned around and headed off to school. What he failed to notice at that particular moment was that when the bike hit the curb, it broke off the brake pedal. He got back onto Reservoir and headed to school. He was aching all over, bleeding in a couple of places and freezing to death. The warmth of school would be a welcome reprieve from all this. When he got to the Coke plant, he turned ever so slowly and then heading up West 2nd Ave., he "showered" down on the gas. As he got closer to the curve that turned up toward the school, he could see the band marching down the street (they were practicing). He took his right foot and reached for the brake to slow down the bike and that's when he discovered the brake pedal was gone. He looked up and started yelling "split 'em up" while gesturing with his hands. At the last moment, the band split right down the middle and "Dedo" rode the bike right up through them as if it were rehearsed. He couldn't make the curve so again he hit the curb and the bike went one way and he another. This time, although he had no broken bones and nothing seemed seriously hurt but his pride, they loaded both he and his battered motorcycle up in the back of Benton Reeves' pickup truck and hauled them both home. "Dedo" retired from motorcycle riding after that.
Whenever I get the urge to buy a Harley and ride with the wind, I remember that story "Dedo" told me years ago. That's why I'll never be a "Wild Hog!"
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