Posted on 06/16/2002 7:10:48 AM PDT by 2Trievers
How did this happen? A year ago I covered the Laconia Bike Week for the newspaper wearing ear plugs. The black-leather-clad crowd looked silly to me, as well as the men who spent fortunes chroming-out and customizing their pet bikes. Today, I own an ensemble of black leather, and shop for more. I have a Harley-Davidson with loud pipes and enough chrome to make me proud . . . but not proud enough. When my friend read the sticker I pasted on my black helmet last weekend after attending the Laconia rally (WANTED: A Meaningful Overnight Relationship), she concluded motorcycling had opened up a whole new side to my personality. She’s right. First there’s the sheer joy of riding. The wind blowing on your face, the motorcycle revving under you, and a feeling of oneness with Nature and the Machine. It’s a rush. Curves in the road feel like those cheap carnival rides that spin you faster and faster in a circle until you’re sideways in the air. Your body, gravity, and speed keep the bike exquisitely glued to the earth. And if you like meeting men, there’s nothing better than being a single woman on a Harley. One Friday night, for example, on Ocean Boulevard in Hampton Beach, a guy riding a Harley-Davidson Heritage bike pulled along side of me. We chatted through the stop and go traffic. Eventually, he suggested we ride off to his house. When I declined, he disappeared down a small side street. Fun. Men also approach me when I park. Guys see me with my bike and the next line out of their mouths is: “Nice ride.” A welcome change, however, from “nice eyes.” I’d rather talk about my bike any day. Having a bike is like being a member of a national club. We all wave at each other on the road. Strange bikers pull up along side you at a stoplights, or ride abreast for a few miles and then disappear. Last weekend, I rode past a motorcade of bikers. They were going the opposite direction on Bypass Route 1 toward Eliot, Maine. I banged a U-turn and joined in the fun. It was exhilarating to be among the 25 bikers rumbling down the back roads in staggered formation. People doing yard work stopped and stared. Many people smiled. This Harley has also given me something that two years of living in the Port City has yet to accomplish. A steady supply of chums to hang out with day or night in downtown Portsmouth. I park my bike (free) in the in Market Square among the rows of bikes on the street. Buy a double tall latte from Cafe Brioche and enjoy the biker crowd. You don’t have to talk to hang. But, if you’re in the mood for a little conversation, there’s never any fear of what to say after hello. Everyone speaks the same language: chrome accessories, performance add-ons, unreasonable sound laws, engine sizes, and more technical stuff. A photographer named Dante serves as the unofficial welcoming committee, introducing newcomers to the regulars. He is also the giver of names. So far, he’s dubbed individuals with names like Beanie Boy, Haystack, and Smoking Bob (who always rides up with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth). Come to think of it, I don’t know these men by any other name. Seems everyone has a handle, like CB operators. I can’t wait to see what mine will be. Another thing I like about biking is the mix of people, men mostly, that I meet — from doctors to mechanics. Some are well-heeled and meticulously groomed. Others are scruffy, like the guy with a full body tattoo called Ripper. He was sitting at the Smokehouse at Weirs Beach in Laconia last weekend. I ended up at his table because it was the only one empty and because it had a front-row view of the endless parade of motorcycles turning the corner onto Lakeside Avenue. Soon, Ripper and I were having a great time commenting on the passing bikes, dissing the Japanese sport bikes, and admiring the women riding big Harleys. But there weren’t many of those. It’s only been a few months since my descent into the world of motorcycling. I’m sure there’s more to learn, and enjoy. And, if by chance, you see me riding my white Harley decked out in black leather, feel free to laugh. I’m not too proud to admit it’s all a bit childish. And in the end that’s what it’s all about. Having fun and freeing that inner child in all of us.
The club
The diversity
Ripper and I .... admiring the women riding big Harleys
I have to go hmmm?
...As my son said, getting his first look at his new baby sister, 20 years ago, "she's beautiful and delicious, Mom!"......it's been our family's exclamation of extreme admiration since that day....
TRES BON!!
There were dozens of Gold Wings in the parking lots for the 95th. Plenty of space to park next to them too!
I thought that too, til I read about the guy that chromed his brake rotors.
It keeps all the blood in. Ever seen one of those things pulled off a accident victim? Nothing but soup inside sitting on a broken neck. The lucky ones only get the broken neck and paryalyzed. Damn things kill a HELL of a lot more people than they have ever saved.
I saw it the first time. One of the bennies of riding Harleys."Uh,what's your sister doing? How about your mama?".
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Harharhar... Well I'm electric but I drink sh!tty 7-11 coffee. Dark. Dregs and ALL. All the time. And nothing else. In between hard liquor that is. Huh. In fact I don't even know what a latte is. Sounds like some kinda fancy shmancy frufru girly-a$$ bath item.
How many miles per year do you ride?
If you ride an occasional few hours once or twice a month in good weather in non-city traffic, I can see you lasting a thousand years. If you ride every day 20 miles to work and back on the Interstates in Houston, I give you five years. I can't go five years without getting rear-ended in my truck in the stop-and-go traffic on 59. Getting rear-ended in a truck is no big deal. Getting rear-ended on a motorcycle is a different story entirely.
Don't get me wrong. I love motorcycles. After 50,000 uneventful miles I decided to quit while I was ahead. The thought of getting killed doesn't bother me that much. The thought of joining the ranks of Christopher Reeve bothers me a lot.
May the Good Lord keep you safe on your bike all the days that you ride.
You'd like our Arizona Guzzi Rally. We take a 10 gallon stewpot, fill it with water, throw in some coffee and set it on a burner 'til it's done'.
We do keep a strainer handy for the bigger chunks.
Chrome don't make it go faster or go 'round corners better.
With the exception of the standard chrome bits (exhaut, handlebars, & crashbar), all the other shiny bits I got are polished aluminuminum....num.
That includes the kneepads on the fuel tank.
Like the old sayin' sez: "Chrome don't git ya home".
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