There are at least two things I’ve never tried and thought I never would in this life: gay sex and riding a Harley-Davidson. The thought of both is repulsive to me, and in the case of Harley riders, I’m even more repulsed by the lifestyle. I feel more than squeamish about gay sex, too, but gay people are okay with me. Kind of the way I feel about vegetarians.
But I was starting to feel a little bored by the life of warmth and leisure we’re enjoying on this trip and needed a little something to liven things up, so yesterday I rented a Harley from the local dealer and went for a long ride into the mountains north of Phoenix.
I wanted a big one, a full-dress touring bike which turned out to be an Electra Glide Classic. Cost me a hundred and fifty bucks for the day, and when Mary dropped me off to pick it up, I have to say I was turned on by all the black and chrome on the engine and the sparkly red paint which glistened in the morning sun. A handsome motorcycle, I admitted to myself, and one that promised all-day comfort with its relaxed riding position and amenities such as cruise control and a full stereo system.
The morning ride was a real pleasure and I was starting to think I’d been a little unkind over the years to The Motor Company, as Harley likes to refer to itself. I stopped by our campground—a beautiful county park in the desert outside of Phoenix—and put on longjohns and a warmer coat because the temperature was still in the low 50s. Then I turned north and headed for Payson, a town a hundred miles away along a highway marked scenic on my map.
And scenic it was. I quickly climbed out of the Sonoran Desert, beautiful enough in itself, and into a jagged, hostile landscape of rocks, rocks and rocks, big mothers that increasingly were building up into their own mountain ranges. A big vista like this deserves a big bike. The view from the road was magnificent, looking out over a mountainous landscape, with tall ranges surrounding me and snow in the higher elevations. The oddity of saguaro cacti as the dominant vegetation created a feeling of weirdness, but as I climbed, even the saguaro could no longer get a foothold and the mountains became bare and even more imposing.
And it was cold, but the Harley provided reasonable protection from the wind and I was really enjoying the bike. It put me in mind of my truck: a behemoth of the road that surprises with its planted feel and reasonable good handling, its power, and its plush ride. Kind of the ¾-ton Diesel pickup of the motorcycle world.
The road continued to climb, a four-lane highway with little traffic and beautiful sweeping turns, long climbs and descents, and the imposing Mogollon Rim that divides Arizona west to east looming ahead. An Indian casino in the middle of nowhere announced that this was Apache country, which only added to my sense of a true encounter with what I think of as the real West. By the time I reached Payson I was up into the pine forest and some now near-painful temperatures, hovering right around 40 degrees. I hadn’t brought any riding gear, but was layered up with enough clothes from the trailer than I was only moderately uncomfortable. I had on a full-face black Harley-Davidson helmet, which kept my head and face warm. I had passed on the Harley Davidson dog toys for now but figured I could pick some up when I got back.
I had lunch at McDonald’s only because they’ve decided to compete with Starbucks and serve good coffee, and a good cup of hot coffee was worth the terrible food I knew would go with it. I cannot recommend the new 1/3 Pounder.
After that, I turned around and started back into the low country, where I hoped to find higher temperatures and some interesting desert cruising.
But on the ride back, I grew to like the Harley less and less. Having kept my speed at a comfortable 70 on the ride up, I now wicked it up to a more typical 85 or so, and at these speeds the Lard Glide was decidedly wallowing in self-pity. Turns taken at 70 on the way up became white-knuckle head shakers on the way back, and even the relaxed riding position was becoming a butt-torturing device as I began my second hundred-mile leg. Also, my legs hurt.
With stock pipes, I had been impressed with the dealership-Harley’s relatively quiet exhaust note, but after a couple of hours in the saddle, the big V-twin’s thunderous clatteration started to annoy. And the relatively heavy controls were wearing. I realized the Harley’s healthy torque curve was a blessing mostly because it’s so tiring to pull in the clutch and bust my toes on the John Deere shift lever. This is a bike that just wears you out, and I see now why its riders tend to be big, burley guys; it’s a big, burley bike. I’m not man enough to ride it all day, but then I don’t generally rate manliness by a double-plus shoe size.
When I got back to camp, I took Mary for a short ride, and she wasn’t particularly impressed from the co-pilot’s seat either. I got the bike back to the dealer right at 5:30 when it was due in, glad that I had decided against the big discount for a three-day rental. I declined the offer to speak with a sales rep.
In the end, it was worth it just to be out on a bike again, and I realized how much I miss riding and started thinking about how I might bring a bike down with me next year. There’s no easy way to do it, but on two wheels, I could take a ride into Comanche country and see how I do at their casino.
Maybe I’ll also try a little gay sex.
Endnote: Tomorrow we leave for Tucson, potentially a much more interesting city than Phoenix, which impresses only by its sprawl and which I rate as one of three American cities that would be most improved from a direct strike by an asteroid. The other two are Las Vegas and Dallas, and I’ve never even been to Dallas.
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