The Camira is growling its way up the Daigular Range in Queensland. Growling, because the exhaust pipe is a bit loose at the manifold. (Okay then. A lot loose.) All of a sudden a deeper growl is heard. Looking in the rear view mirror (despite my lack of interest in the past) to see if Id lost a muffler, I see a vibrating blur of black leather, blue denim and shining chrome.
Get your motors running...
A fat man, jiggling on a Harley Davidson Fat Boy with his arms and legs spread open in a riding style made popular by Peter Fonda in Easy Rider or in a sexual style made popular by Rin Tin Tin, is so close to my bumper its almost fornication. (I wouldnt tell him this. He doesnt strike me as someone who has yet made contact with his inner Brokeback despite the Village People look.)
And hes riding with other tough looking hombres. They share his dress sense. And a sense of belonging. We all want to belong to something.
Head out on the highway...
Fat Boy and half a dozen of his mates zoom past.
They look good, those Harleys, as they bank into the corners, chrome glinting as the sun blinks through the Euclayptus Grandis.
People respect tradition.
The Harley tradition started in 1903 when William S. Harley and Arthur Davidson produced their first motorcycle in a little wooden shed in Milwaukee.
Now Im in the middle of the pack. I feel like Im in a motorcade with my boys, all in uniform, making sure I reach my destination safely. I belong.
Looking for adventure...
Im riding a wave of mass produced attitude well lubricated by testosterone. Sure, come Monday some of these highway outlaws will be back in the office or under a Festiva fixing the muffler, their humanity diminished by the new IR laws, but for today theyre road rebels. Rebelling against whatever.
Like when in The Wild One, Mildred says to Marlon Brando, Whatre you rebelling against, Johnny? and Marlon says, Whaddya got?
I feel the vibe. Steering with just my left hand I let my other arm hang down the outside of the door. Im one of them. Like them, I dont smile. Our jaws are set grimly, united by a shared purpose to get to the Woodford pub. (Them to drink. Me to meet someone.)
Forgetting Im on four wheels not two, I take a corner a little too fast causing me to go wide and nearly collide with a Softail overtaking me at the time.
Giving me a look that stalled my motor, the rider wobbles, corrects, then speeds off, one arm held high, one finger raised.
And whatever comes my way...
I skip my pub appointment. Um, too busy.