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"Potato, potato, potato..." Life Among the HarleysBy Rick Horowitz
MILWAUKEE -- The noise. You want to know what the noise was like. The noise was like...constant. Not overwhelming, and certainly not obnoxious, but constant. Which shouldn't have been a surprise. You have 200,000-plus Harley-Davidson riders descending on your town -- which means, even with plenty of them riding double, at least 100,000 Harley-Davidson motorcycles descending on your town -- and there's every chance that, at every minute of the day and much of the night, there's a Harley (or more likely, several) passing under your window. You get used to it. Like you have a choice? "Hey, would you guys keep it down out there? Can't you see we're trying to -- just kidding! No, really..." That might not have worked so well. Truth be told, this 100th anniversary celebration was pretty much a love fest all the way around. We were eager and welcoming hosts. And they were grateful and well-behaved guests -- just what you'd expect from a bunch of lawyers and accountants. That's what you always hear, anyway: They may look like leather-laden, scraggly bearded, ponytailed, flag-ragged toughies, but they're actually hard-working (and hard-riding) professionals, the same kind of fine, upstanding human being you are, only with more disposable income. And they're larger. Much, much larger. Cliche, but true: You've never seen so many big-boned lawyers and accountants in your life! (OK, so maybe they weren't all lawyers and accountants.) You find yourself wondering if once upon a time there was a typo. "Heavy metal thunder"? How about "Heavy meal thunder"? Just kidding. No, really... Actually, they were all very impressive, even the normal-sized ones. Even the ones who didn't have biceps the size of cantaloupes. For instance? For instance, Harley riders are terrific at angle parking. If you'd wandered along Water Street, home to many local watering holes and -- what a surprise! -- a popular biker hangout all week, you'd have found hundreds and hundreds of bikes, all parked in perfect, parallel, diagonal lines: rear end to the curb, front end ready for a quick exit. What planning! What precision! And have I mentioned cleanliness? These Harley riders had their machines positively gleaming! Many of the bikes had covered hundreds, even thousands of miles to get here, but by the time they reached downtown, not a speck of any of those miles covered any of the bikes. I'd have loved being part of one of the bike-wash concessions -- owning it, I mean, not working in it. I wouldn't have been qualified to work in it; I look awful in a bikini. Speaking of clothing, and just so you know: I didn't try to pass. I might have been walking among them for an evening or two, but I wasn't one of them, and there was no point in pretending; somebody might have asked me a question or offered a comment about one of the nearby bikes, and I'd have been forced to hope that there really is a part called the "whatsis." On the other hand, there was no reason to call attention to myself as a total outsider, some local who'd come to gawk like a tourist at the tourists who had taken over the place. An understated ensemble, then -- various shades of black, in homage to the biker palette, but no tight T-shirts, no tattoos, and certainly no leather. I knew my place, and the last thing I wanted was to trade places, even for a little while. Two odd things, though, now that the party's over and they've all gone home. I thought I heard that noise again this morning. I spun around to look, but it was only a panel truck with a bad muffler, and I was disappointed. And I notice I've started driving my car with the windows open -- my left arm resting on the door, the wind blowing across my skin. Posted 9/2/03. Get
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Rick Horowitz
