So, my sweetheart announced that he’s going to acquire and start riding a Harley. I think he may have been expecting a reaction to this announcement wherein I dissuade him with generalizations about Harley Dudes and my lack of desire to date one, or mothered him regarding safety issues. But no. If that’s what he wants, he can go for it. One may not guess this upon meeting me, but I have a history with biker dudes, and I rather like fast, fast motorcycles.
I think it may have started when my parents took me to Deadwood for the Harley convention when I was in middle school. See, my family—two parents, 3 daughters aged 11-15—were piled in our maroon minivan headed for Yellowstone, and somewhere near Kadoka, South Dakota, the other automobiles on the road thinned out. Before long, we were the only four-wheeled trickster on the roads. As we neared Sturgis, we realized that we were the ONLY car surrounded by Harleys. A million of them. A million zillion. We were, coincidentally, headed for the Harley Convention. Most parents would’ve taken a detour to avoid the whole thing. My parents started calling ahead to find a campsite.
Parking lots sparkled as far as the eye could see, a sea of shining chrome. And let’s just say that the biker stereotype didn’t arise from nowhere. Generally, head-to-toe leather, R-rated slogans and inappropriately short skirts, tattoos. Some weren't all that concerned with political correctness, or using one’s ‘inside voice,’ or monitoring one’s cigarette and whiskey consumption or use of foul language.
My father is a Midwestern small-town hardware store owner. He wears plaid flannel shirts and shaves daily and likes to read books about the nesting habits of sea turtles. My mother, a high school teacher. She likes art and sewing and sips tea on the front porch. My family stuck out in the crowd, that’s all I’m saying.
Harley folks are kind. The whole vibe was quite social. When we walked into a place, the people were friendly and talkative. A few times, the gruffer folks noticeably straightened up into best-behavior mode around us children. The ladies called me honey and the men talked to my father about engine repair and joked us daughters in a protective-big-brother kind of way. We got lots of attention.
Years later, I dated a race car driver who had a motorcycle. Not a Harley, but something really fast that looked a bit like a bumble bee. Next, Nate the Fireman had an old retro bike with the headlight that looks like a big eyeball. The guy after that had a bike similar to Nate’s, but he took apart the engine and put it back together, and it broke.
I think it may have started when my parents took me to Deadwood for the Harley convention when I was in middle school. See, my family—two parents, 3 daughters aged 11-15—were piled in our maroon minivan headed for Yellowstone, and somewhere near Kadoka, South Dakota, the other automobiles on the road thinned out. Before long, we were the only four-wheeled trickster on the roads. As we neared Sturgis, we realized that we were the ONLY car surrounded by Harleys. A million of them. A million zillion. We were, coincidentally, headed for the Harley Convention. Most parents would’ve taken a detour to avoid the whole thing. My parents started calling ahead to find a campsite.
Parking lots sparkled as far as the eye could see, a sea of shining chrome. And let’s just say that the biker stereotype didn’t arise from nowhere. Generally, head-to-toe leather, R-rated slogans and inappropriately short skirts, tattoos. Some weren't all that concerned with political correctness, or using one’s ‘inside voice,’ or monitoring one’s cigarette and whiskey consumption or use of foul language.
My father is a Midwestern small-town hardware store owner. He wears plaid flannel shirts and shaves daily and likes to read books about the nesting habits of sea turtles. My mother, a high school teacher. She likes art and sewing and sips tea on the front porch. My family stuck out in the crowd, that’s all I’m saying.
Harley folks are kind. The whole vibe was quite social. When we walked into a place, the people were friendly and talkative. A few times, the gruffer folks noticeably straightened up into best-behavior mode around us children. The ladies called me honey and the men talked to my father about engine repair and joked us daughters in a protective-big-brother kind of way. We got lots of attention.
Years later, I dated a race car driver who had a motorcycle. Not a Harley, but something really fast that looked a bit like a bumble bee. Next, Nate the Fireman had an old retro bike with the headlight that looks like a big eyeball. The guy after that had a bike similar to Nate’s, but he took apart the engine and put it back together, and it broke.
That brings us to my current sweetheart, who is a nurse and a professor and is inheriting his late father’s Harley and is arranging to get a motorcycle license. He sounded braced for a "Hell-no-what-are-you-crazy" out of me. Rather, I suggested that we pack up our camping gear this summer and head to the Harley convention. Then S.A. said yeah, he’d go buy some leather chaps, to walk around in at the convention sans pants. That, however, is where I draw the line. Bikers are friendly, but no one makes friends in assless chaps.
5 comments:
Will you take a picture of him in assless chaps anyway? That would be a hit at the next dinner party.
Hm. Maybe I'll just post a few photos on my blog.
(Uh, NO.)
Groovy new graphics!
In other news, I've always thought it would be fun to be in a country western band called 'The Assless Chaps.'
As long as I didn't have to wear them, of course. :-)
Redesign looks fantabulous.
no assless chaps? so that's where i went wrong! i'm also finding the 'no fat chicks' shirt doesn't work so well with the ladies. i wish people told me about these things years ago...
Post a Comment