Harley’s Angels
In honor of the brave men and women of our nation who have made the ultimate sacrifice, I spent Memorial Day riding a borrowed Harley-Davidson Springer, which is sort of like a motorcycle only louder.
I regret that I have but one lumbar region to give for my country.
The event was West Coast Thunder VII, an annual rally of thousands of motorcycles from downtown Riverside to the nearby national cemetery, part of this nation’s long tradition of solemnly saluting military heroes with ear-splitting noises: cannons, 21-gun salutes, the singing of the national anthem.
And let me just say, while I’m on the subject of the national anthem: If you have an 8-foot American flag on the back of your chopper, it is incumbent upon you to know the words! As I stood there at the national cemetery--sniffling as I always do when I sing the anthem--I heard several of these hard-core patriots forget the lyrics. One guy actually sang, “Dum-de-dum-de-dum-dum . . . .” Dude, come on. I don’t really care if you sing the anthem in Spanish, as long as you don’t sing it in Oompa Loompa.
The great Harley-Davidson company was founded in Milwaukee more than a century ago by two men--history does not record their names--who devoted themselves to the science of making dogs bark like crazy. Few today could doubt their achievement.
The trappings of Harley culture--the leather jackets with club colors, the Kaiser-style helmets, the tattoos, the beards like Arizona tumbleweeds--were established in the ‘50s and ‘60s, the heyday of outlaw motorcycle clubs such as the Hells Angels, which are still around and whose members, may I state clearly, are exemplary young men for whom I have nothing but the greatest admiration and fear.
The first bikers I ever met were, in fact, Angels, and they were total bad asses, the sort of guys who, after firmly planting the knife in your head, would attempt to kick the handle off.
Much has changed in Harley world since I was a kid. Since the early 1990s, Harleys have been purchased in increasing numbers by, shall we say, less-than-hard-core bikers, weekend Wild Ones who bought their bikes as lifestyle accessories to go with their Beemers. The explosive growth of so-called yuppie bikers has, in turn, driven the costs of Harleys through the ozone layer and made the bikes hard to get--a situation that makes the old-schoolers want to pull their gray ponytails out by the roots. Sorry, Mongo, Lance had his deposit down months ago.
Meanwhile, to give its increasingly affluent audience some street cred, Harley-Davidson supports the Harley Owners Group--H.O.G., and no, I’m not kidding--a vast merchandising conduit with its own faux club colors and patches, an operation selling truckloads of H-D licensed stuff. After all, no freedom-loving biker should be without his travel alarm clock.
A la Jeff Foxworthy: You might be a yuppie biker if the last time you went to the Harley dealership you came back with golf balls and a toilet seat.
Bikers aren’t what they used to be. The only 1 percenters at this rally were those drinking low-fat milk. In fact, biker culture seems to be struggling with its own senescence. I saw a bearded and tatt’ed-up codger wearing a T-shirt from his club’s annual “Ride for Diabetes.” Whoa. Sure wouldn’t want to be diabetes when they roll into town.
As always, pop culture is there to hold up a mirror: Next year, Martin Lawrence and Tim Allen will star in a movie called “Wild Hogs,” about a group of “rubbies”--rich urban bikers--who go looking for adventure and run afoul of a real outlaw club. The film’s original script invoked the Hells Angels, but the Angels sued Disney for trademark infringement. I would love to know what law firm handles the Angels’ intellectual property complaints.
So what if a bunch of white-collar types want to dress up like Sonny Barger and play motorcycle Mardi Gras? No harm in that, is there? No, except: Rolling Thunder was begun in 1987 in Washington, D.C., to bring attention to the issue of POWs and MIAs, and also to raise awareness of veterans affairs generally. It was a protest against the government, not a rah-rah celebration of government militarism. I must say I winced when I heard speaker after speaker toe the government line on Iraq as “the front line of the War on Terror,” where the troops were “defending our freedom.”
That’s a matter of opinion and, obviously, I don’t think too much of President Chimpy McFlightsuit. What’s beyond doubting is that the men and women of the armed services are getting shafted--again! Nearly 200,000 veterans are homeless. From survivor benefits to healthcare to education and job training, American vets are in a struggle with their own government.
These biker wannabees are too comfortable with the powers that be. The organizers of Rolling Thunder need to stop acting like color guards for the administration and start protesting in earnest again. On Memorial Day, nothing is clearer than that these nimrods in Washington are no friends of veterans. Rolling Thunder’s organizers should recruit the biggest, scariest, loudest, hairiest outlaws they can find and run them up the steps of the Capitol.
