99/09/02

(No fires worth mentioning since the last installment. But here, for your reading pleasure, is a sort of rant, sort of story. Enjoy.)

Bikers are a dying breed.

Harley riders, on the other hand are a dime a dozen.

I wear a sticker on my helmet that says “I ride one, I don’t wear one, Harley used to be about motorcycles”. I’ve worn that sticker ever since I saw a “Harley Davidson Boutique” A place where no motorcycles are sold, only Harley paraphernalia for people to wear. After that I went home and burned the HD tee shirts I owned.

I love motorcycles, always have. Ever since my dad told me about the ’39 Harley he had for a short time. He hit a car with it and scared himself so bad he never rode again, and never said anything good about bikes ever that I heard. For some reason I wanted one from that moment forward, I was four or five years old at the time.

Throughout junior high and high schools I dreamed of the bike I would ride one day, knowing nothing of mechanics or motorcycles I eagerly drank in any information I could.

In the seventies Harleys were something that were still relatively cheap and unpopular. The only people who rode them were “bikers” and the bikes they rode were a very far cry from the Harleys that are seen on the road today. Harleys back then were usually built, repaired and ridden by the owners. There was a sense of involvement and kinship with the machine that you just can’t get from writing a cheque, no matter how hard you worked for the money. The people who rode them were generally recognized as criminal thugs, though I never noticed any more criminal thugs per capita in that society than any other society.

This was where I started; I was 15 when I bought my first parts for my first bike. In my world there were two kinds of bikes, Harleys, and all the others. The first bike I built took a number of years and was made from parts that I found all over this province. I was guided and taught by a bunch of really good people at a local bike shop who took me under their wing and gave me some excellent deals, valuable advice, and memories that will last me for all time. It was a 1942 Harley 45 cubic inch Flathead. I built it from pieces and parts and hope and dreams. The sound it made when it first fired is a memory that’s filed beside the first cries of my sons. That bike still sits in my shop.

Since beginning to build that bike, many others have passed through my hands. I learned that the “other bikes” have their attractions too. Surprisingly enough, one of the most valuable lessons the guys at the bike shop taught me was that the type of motorcycle isn’t important, having fun is. I’ve owned a few different makes and they’ve all been good bikes. I currently own two, a 1948 Harley Panhead with Sidecar, and my ever-faithful ’42 Harley Flathead. My bikes are oily and dirty, nowhere near the gleaming museum pieces that they could be, and I refuse to make them so. I ride my bikes, that’s what they were made for, and they weren’t designed to be spotless either.

  My 1948 Harley Davidson Panhead (Red, of course:)

I’m a biker, always have been, a beautiful motorcycle is a bit dirty, it’s oily and it’s worn. A beautiful motorcycle can be a pile of greasy parts which whisper hope of someday being brought to life by my hands, they tell me stories in the quiet workshop while I piece them together. Clean new bikes tell me no stories. A good bike needs to be earned by patience and effort. A good bike is a partner, not a possession.

Where is this all leading you ask??

Last night I put my boys in my truck and wheeled over to a friend’s place where we loaded up a basket case Honda 50, a rolling frame with an engine in pieces. The boys were in silent awe as we looked at all these parts in a box and this dusty, beaten frame on old tires that had been under a workbench for the last 15 years. “What do you think?” I asked. I knew what I saw, I saw lots of work, I saw the patience all three of us would need. I saw hours spent in frustration as the problems and bugs were tracked down. I saw that sweet, glorious moment as she fires to your kick and you know there’s life in that metal. I saw soaked kids pushing it home when it broke, I saw stitches, bruises, casts and concussions, and god, I saw fun, big fun and sweet, priceless memories. I saw stories, God, I saw stories. Most of all, I saw a bike that needed us

“It’s beautiful! ” they whispered.
 

Watch for updates on the Honda 50
 

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