Mongo
07-09-2002, 09:24 AM
Read this on another website and had to share it........
Can American biker fantasy retain its purity?
By Nate House
Three bikers were killed when two outlaw motorcycle gangs clashed in a Lauglin, Nev., casino last week, and I can't say I'm all that surprised.
My lack of surprise has nothing to do with the Hell's Angels reputation or The Wild One. No, it's that the reputation of bikers has become all too respectable lately, and it was only a matter of time before some of them took a stand and did something about it. As a motorcyclist, I knew we were losing it when my American Motorcycle Association Christmas catalog included golf balls. At the Sturgis rally in Sturgis, S.D., one of the largest motorcycle rallies in North America, the welcome sign included AOL logos. Recently I've been cut off on the road by soccer moms, skateboarders and pedestrians. I'm beginning to fear that we no longer cause any fear.
Three people died in the shootout in Nevada last week, and that's a tragedy nobody needs. An even bigger tragedy, however, may be how biking is exploding all over the place, sucking in folks from all economic strata in what is quickly becoming one of the fakest things people with money can fake. According to the HOG (Harley Owners Group) Web site (www.hog.com), the organization had 60,000 members in 1985. Today there are more than 650,000. Harleys are the bike of choice for many in the outlaw motorcycle world. They also seem to be the bike of choice for those who seek to imitate the outlaw motorcycle world. This sets a dangerous precedent.
Last summer my partner and I rode our old Japanese motorcycles (combined value $1,650) from Philadelphia to San Francisco. We stopped at a beautiful mountain pass in Yosemite National Park to eat granola and stare at the peaks. It was a peaceful moment, the kind of moment we rode across the country for - when the rumbling sound from
the cut-off pipes of seven Harley Davidsons ruined the silence. The riders had on jeans, leather jackets and big leather boots; they looked the part as they pulled their bikes near ours. But as they dismounted from their $20,000 machines, flaunted their $500 outfits, began to act incredibly obnoxious, asked us to take their pictures with digital cameras, we realized that these were not bikers. These were rich men who had spent their money on the right to look like a biker, and they were acting the way they thought bikers should act.
Outside Needles, Calif., we stopped at a store near a reservoir to escape the 110-degree heat. A man with a beard to his chest and weighing three times our combined weight pulled up on a big blue Harley and sat down next to us. He looked much more threatening than the men in Yosemite. He introduced himself as Big John, offered us a beer, and began to talk about how much he loves his motorcycle. He was nice as pie.
Big John got it right; the men in Yosemite didn't. Being a biker isn't defined by how much chrome you have on your bike, or how many accessories you own. That's the definition of a good consumer. It isn't defined by the Hell's Angels, Mongols, or Pagans. It isn't defined by how your motorcycle sounds or looks. It's defined by the way you take your bike on the backroads even though it takes two hours longer to reach your destination, the way you know where the dirt on your exhaust pipes came from, and the way you begin to enjoy wiping bug carcasses off your face. It's the way it makes you feel when you take a corner just right. It's about the feeling you get when you look out the window in the morning to see that your bike is still there, 21 years old with a little rust on the headers, still in the morning light, waiting to take you to a place you've never been.
Can American biker fantasy retain its purity?
By Nate House
Three bikers were killed when two outlaw motorcycle gangs clashed in a Lauglin, Nev., casino last week, and I can't say I'm all that surprised.
My lack of surprise has nothing to do with the Hell's Angels reputation or The Wild One. No, it's that the reputation of bikers has become all too respectable lately, and it was only a matter of time before some of them took a stand and did something about it. As a motorcyclist, I knew we were losing it when my American Motorcycle Association Christmas catalog included golf balls. At the Sturgis rally in Sturgis, S.D., one of the largest motorcycle rallies in North America, the welcome sign included AOL logos. Recently I've been cut off on the road by soccer moms, skateboarders and pedestrians. I'm beginning to fear that we no longer cause any fear.
Three people died in the shootout in Nevada last week, and that's a tragedy nobody needs. An even bigger tragedy, however, may be how biking is exploding all over the place, sucking in folks from all economic strata in what is quickly becoming one of the fakest things people with money can fake. According to the HOG (Harley Owners Group) Web site (www.hog.com), the organization had 60,000 members in 1985. Today there are more than 650,000. Harleys are the bike of choice for many in the outlaw motorcycle world. They also seem to be the bike of choice for those who seek to imitate the outlaw motorcycle world. This sets a dangerous precedent.
Last summer my partner and I rode our old Japanese motorcycles (combined value $1,650) from Philadelphia to San Francisco. We stopped at a beautiful mountain pass in Yosemite National Park to eat granola and stare at the peaks. It was a peaceful moment, the kind of moment we rode across the country for - when the rumbling sound from
the cut-off pipes of seven Harley Davidsons ruined the silence. The riders had on jeans, leather jackets and big leather boots; they looked the part as they pulled their bikes near ours. But as they dismounted from their $20,000 machines, flaunted their $500 outfits, began to act incredibly obnoxious, asked us to take their pictures with digital cameras, we realized that these were not bikers. These were rich men who had spent their money on the right to look like a biker, and they were acting the way they thought bikers should act.
Outside Needles, Calif., we stopped at a store near a reservoir to escape the 110-degree heat. A man with a beard to his chest and weighing three times our combined weight pulled up on a big blue Harley and sat down next to us. He looked much more threatening than the men in Yosemite. He introduced himself as Big John, offered us a beer, and began to talk about how much he loves his motorcycle. He was nice as pie.
Big John got it right; the men in Yosemite didn't. Being a biker isn't defined by how much chrome you have on your bike, or how many accessories you own. That's the definition of a good consumer. It isn't defined by the Hell's Angels, Mongols, or Pagans. It isn't defined by how your motorcycle sounds or looks. It's defined by the way you take your bike on the backroads even though it takes two hours longer to reach your destination, the way you know where the dirt on your exhaust pipes came from, and the way you begin to enjoy wiping bug carcasses off your face. It's the way it makes you feel when you take a corner just right. It's about the feeling you get when you look out the window in the morning to see that your bike is still there, 21 years old with a little rust on the headers, still in the morning light, waiting to take you to a place you've never been.