I Sold My Chopper Today

The chipper young guy who showed up to buy my Harley-Davidson looked like he'd just walked off the set of a bad biker movie. His black tee-shirt blurted, "I Own a Harley - Not Just a Tee Shirt." Did he stop to buy that shirt on the way here? The leather jacket flung over his shoulder looked new. I'd bet he didn't know that leather is your second skin if you suffer the misfortune of making love to the pavement - it's not a fashion statement, even the Fonz knew that. Anyway, I could tell he wasn't a genuine biker: he had no tattoos.

He slipped on his jacket and mounted my bike. I felt a sense of pride when the engine came to life with just one kick. We said our good-byes. "Take care of her, man....," I said. He looked up, gave me a sheepish grin and plopped off the curb onto the street. Car alarms screeched in distress as the twisted metal machine roared down the street. I watched the wheels glide along the blacktop. He turned the corner and was gone. The sound of the engine pounding the air was all that lingered. Like a passing thunderstorm, it faded with distance.

As I stood watching my bike ride away, a rerun of my life played on the screen of my mind. That guy was me a couple of dozen years ago. Does the stubbled-faced kid know what he's getting into? He has an image to bear up to every time he rides that hog. To be taken seriously, he has to give up haircuts and laundry detergent. When he pulls up on that Harley, preceded by the loud thump, thump, thump of the V-twin engine, people anticipate an attitude. The new biker will have to replace that boyish smile with a sneer; he owes it to his public. This is not just for the fun of it, pal; it’s a lifestyle, if you're for real.

In selling my bike, I divorced my soul mate. I rode that chopper for what seems like a lifetime. I was in the saddle through every season; only ice on the ground could get me into a four-wheeled cage. It holds a place in my heart like my first girlfriend. There are pictures of me sitting on it when I got my 15 minutes of fame on the local news. It was a part of me. When I was downhearted, I’d take her for a ride to the Verrazano Bridge. The wind in my face blew away my troubles.

Now, sitting on the curb in front of my modest Long Island split-level, I reflected on why I had become an outlaw biker back then. Part of it was the attention. Riding a Harley chopper with a gang's logo stitched into my leather vest made me a celebrity, like the original Jesse James (not the TV personality). The daunting sight of a gang member unsettled some, but awed others. That's what drew me in. But more than that, the motorcycle was the perfect vehicle for my own identity crisis.

In Brooklyn's Saint Thomas Aquinas grammar school, dressed exactly like 300 other good Catholic boys, I wore gray slate trousers and a blue-and-gray plaid blazer every day. I cried out for recognition. What better way to get noticed then to join an outlaw motorcycle club? So, at 19, I took the plunge. Ironically, I learned that bikers had a uniform too: Steel-toed boots, wallet with a silver chain dangling, leather jacket with innumerable zippers, vest embellished with patches, dark sunglasses, jeans and a tee shirt with a red and orange Harley emblem or a "provocative proverb" such as "Real Men Wear Black." Over time, I learned that the uniform wasn't very practical during the summer months. But it was the uniform, nevertheless; I had to wear it.

Sporting the gear, I was part of motorcycle Americana. I rode along happily for a few years until one day I discovered that the very reason I became a biker no longer existed. I felt like I’d been broadsided by a bus. While shopping for my girl's birthday present at Macy’s, groping silky lingerie, I glanced over to the Men’s department and eyeballed an authentic custom Harley-Davidson. Mannequins displaying designer motorcycle jackets and bandannas straddled the bike right in the main aisle. I realized with great dismay: I was IN FASHION! The media, and then Wall Street, had ripped the romance right out of my underground culture.

First, Hollywood gave America tough-guy biker Marlon Brando in The Wild One. Fifty years later, Terminator 2 featured Arnold Schwarzenegger blasting across the screen on a Harley. Today we have a comedy movie based on motorcycles and midlife crisis. The motorcycle’s biography is often the topic of TV documentaries. Even Ted Turner’s people capitalized on the legend with their show “Orange County Choppers.” The last American-made motorcycle has become a status symbol, just like the Cadillac. However, I don't know anyone who has the Cadillac emblem tattooed into his skin.

1986 saw Wall Street take the Harley-Davidson Motor Company public. The stock has split more times than my 20-year old blue jeans. Now, H-D doesn't care about their original customers, outlaw bikers. During the Sixties and Seventies, Harley loyalists bought Harley-trademarked motorcycle gear at triple its value, just to keep the company alive.

Now, with amenities such as rubber-mounted engines and belt drives to ease vibration, the American-made motorcycle is not a “hog” anymore. Wannabe bikers, with their large discretionary incomes, scoop-up new Harleys for amounts that could be a down payment for a house - an expensive price to buy back the machismo they traded in for their college degrees.

My dentist now owns one, his attorney brother, the sixth-grade teacher at my daughter's school, and the white-haired retired guy who lives down the block with the 2008 Mercedes-Benz (I bet he bought his bike with his American Express card). Pseudo-bikers will do anything to be part of the Harley culture, except commit to it as a way of life. They stop shaving on Thursdays so they'll have a thick five o'clock shadow to flaunt on the weekend. Being a biker is just a fantasy. The credit-card bikers are never willing to get their hands dirty, literally.

But a real biker can always be identified. He knows his bike the way parents know their children. When the oil-marinated machine backfires, he knows why. If it leaks, he plugs it. If the engine smokes, he cures it. The burly, long haired rider does all his own repairs and maintenance. His machine is a member of the family. It has a special space to take its siestas, the other members of the clan know its history, and the two-wheeled relative often appears in family photo albums.

So, as my Harley moves on, I can only hope she will be happy. Although my skin crawls with tattoo ink and my heart longs for the open road, I can no longer ride. Having known the real thing, I can't align myself with the store-bought image. Moreover, my soul mate has lost its soul. I guess all things change, for better or worse, even me.

Now, I have two kids, Schwarzenegger has three, Brando is dead and the Hells Angels have a My Space page. However, I also now have $7,000 in my hand, which will pay for removing the motorcycle-oil stains from my driveway.