Last August was the month that changed my perception of motorcycling. That month my wife, Chris, passed her motorcycle test. Being a petite girl, she decided to buy a bike that would suit her small stature.
Nick, the owner of a terrific motorcycle shop in Bexhill, near Hastings, showed Chris a magnificent 883 Harley Davidson Sportster Custom, which she fell in love with instantly. Chris asked Nick to arrange to lower the back end so that she could comfortably have both feet firmly on the ground while the bike was stationary. Within a week, Chris became the proud owner of a Harley Davidson.
To be perfectly honest, I was green with envy, but I couldn’t tell Chris. I have ridden Triumphs for thirty years and own two Bonnevilles, one of which I have loved and cherished since 1976. As far as I was concerned, if it wasn’t British, it wasn’t worth riding.
It took Chris a while to get used to the weight and feel of the Harley, so I had to ride her pride and joy home. I also had the fortune of riding it to our local industrial site every weekend so she could use the empty car parks to get used to her bike. I fell in love with it. With its forward controls, comfortable seat and immense power of the 883 engine, I felt like Peter Fonda heading down the highway in the film Easy Rider - or, perhaps, heading down the uneven, potholed streets of Hastings.
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The consequence of helping Chris become accustomed to her newfound love was following her on her old Suzuki 125. This was acceptable within the confines of an empty industrial estate, but it was a completely different story when I had to follow her home. I was all arms and legs - I felt like an octopus attempting to ride a penny-farthing. On one occasion, a biker granted her an acknowledging wave as she cruised along, but he totally ignored me, which of course was crushing and embarrassing. That was the last day I would ride her Harley. Chris and the Harley had become inseparable.
A fortnight later, Chris and I were back at the bike shop, in search of some shiny add-ons for the Harley. There, in front of the workshop, stood a stunning 1200 Harley Sportster, dwarfing the other bikes parked around it.
Nick noticed me drooling and asked me if I wanted to take it for a spin. He didn’t need to ask me twice: I almost ripped his hand off as he passed me the keys. The throbbing of the engine vibrating through my veins turned my head. Off Chris and I went. Wow.
The bike transformed me back to my teenage years as we rode around the town. I don’t think I have ever smiled so much and felt so proud to be riding such a beautiful piece of machinery. Heads turned to see what was coming down the road. I loved it. When I eventually returned to Nick’s, there was clearly no need to ask me what I thought of the bike – my huge grin gave it away. You know that feeling when you first fall in love? That is exactly how I felt.
That very day, I went to the bank. My heart was thumping; I thought that I would have to promise the earth to get a loan, but no. They were more than helpful and within a few hours, I too became a Harley Davidson owner.
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Thanks to my impulsiveness, I was now in possession of a massive bank loan. I owned two Triumphs, a Harley, and a Series 111 Land Rover. Something had to go. I decided to put my new 790 Triumph on eBay to test the water. Well, I never expected such a response.
Bewildered Triumph owners e-mailed asking why I was selling such a gorgeous bike. One guy questioned why I had bought “that American ****”. Was he right? Besides my Mobylette Sports 50 moped, I had always owned a Triumph: the 250 Trailblazer, T100, 790 Bonneville and of course my beloved 750 Bonneville which had been faithful to me since 1976. I must admit I used to think in the same ‘Harleys are for posers’ sort of way. I realise now that I was just jealous.
I did send a reply to the chap who questioned my loyalty, telling him to sit on a Harley and see if he felt any different after riding it. I never heard from him again.
Last year, Sven, my wife’s brother-in-law, invited us to join the Chopper Club in its annual run from a campsite in Battle down to Hastings seafront. What a sight. All those choppers – custom motorcycles – cruising along the seafront while the public stood in awe as more than four hundred bikes thundered through the Old Town and along to the pier.
Once parked and on display along the prom, the public stopped to inspect the many choppers stood with their chrome fittings gleaming in the sunlight. I was surprised by how many people stopped to chat to me about my new sparkling Bonnie. What a day.
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Although my new Bonnie is now for sale, I can’t help feeling that I won’t be too upset if it doesn’t go. But it must go. Why? Because it does not deserve to sit in the garage while I continue my affair with the new love of my life, the Harley Davidson.
I cannot afford to own three bikes, and I certainly cannot ride them all at once. There will always be arguments over which motorbike is best, but to me, the Harley has Triumphed.