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Ridin' a Harley

2009

“Most motorcycle problems are caused by the nut that connects the handlebars to the saddle.”  ~ Unknown

The 2008 Harley-Davidson Deluxe FLSTN in White Gold/Silver two-tone paint with Vance & Hines Straight Shot pipes was shined up and ready for me to saddle. The motorcycle was the newest addition to Santa Maria Harley-Davidson’s fleet of rental bikes. My riding guide introduced himself and asked, “On a scale of 1–10, what type of motorcyclist are you? 1 being a novice, 10 an expert.”

“I’m definitely a 1—but I passed the test,” I replied, proudly waving my DMV certification as proof of my legitimacy.

The first order of business was a brief assessment of my ability to operate the controls without looking down at my hands and feet. Miraculously, I passed.

Next, the guide asked me to drive the 1000 lb beast about 40 yards, to the end of the parking lot. Roger that. I put on my token black leather jacket, said a quick prayer, and started the ignition. I immediately felt the rumbling of the engine vibrating through my body; the sheer power supporting me was enough to lodge my pounding heart firmly in my throat.

I gently let out the clutch and pulled on the gas, slowly made my way down the lot. I glided over the asphalt, basking in the intoxicating mix of adrenaline, excitement, and disbelief that I was riding “a hog.” My premature celebration ceased as soon as I tried to stop at the end of the parking lot. As I grabbed the front brake, I accidentally took the gas with it. The bike began to roar with acceleration and I totally freaked out … The next few seconds were all a blur but, suddenly, there I was: bike on its side, and me beside it.

Man Down.

According to the DMV motorcycle manual, most motorcycle accidents happen at speeds less than 30 miles per hour—but 2 miles per hour was shameful.

Head down, ready for my punishment, I heard my riding guide proclaim, “Well, at least we got falling out of the way.” After ascertaining that the bike and I were in good shape, I continued my journey around the parking lot. Round and round I went all the while cursing the man who invented the motorcycle for putting both the brake and accelerator on the same handlebar.

The guide asked if I felt ready to venture out into the open road. “Absolutely,” I said with confidence. I lied. I left the comforts of the parking lot for the challenges of the open road, which included stop lights, cars, and pedestrians. I followed the guide, who acted as lead during the entire ride, as I recited the procedures for safety on the road. Be prepared. Be Aware. S.E.E.: Search, Evaluate, Execute. Slow, Look, Press, and Roll.

We encountered the first major stoplight in Santa Maria and I completed the left turn with only a brief, accidental stint into the opposite lane of traffic. We cruised down Broadway in Santa Maria going about 10 miles per hour because I was afraid to leave first gear. I was breathing so hard, that I had to lift the face shield of my helmet just to see through the fog I was creating.

I quickly realized that riding a Harley-Davidson isn’t just a form of transportation, it’s a religious experience. Rarely had I ever felt such an overwhelming urge to pray—first to God, and then to every dead friend and relative I could think of.

After about a half-hour on the road, I felt comfortable enough to venture into second gear. Before I knew it, I was cruising down the highway at 50 miles per hour. Hunter S. Thompson was correct; the thrill of speed was conquering my fear of death.

By the time we reached Highway 1, I relaxed enough to appreciate the exhilaration of the experience. The gently rolling and winding two-lane highway was flanked by a colorful patchwork of agriculture and the occasional brightly colored barn. We cruised through Guadalupe, a small strip of historic shops and restaurants, virtually unchanged since the ’40s, with the dramatic evening skyline lighting our path.

Before I knew it, the time had come to return to the dealership. I had spent the last two hours riding a bolt of lightening and, as relieved as I was to get off of the bike with both feet firmly on the ground, it was heartbreaking to say goodbye to the thrill of the journey. My thoughts of melancholy were quickly replaced with the excitement of what lay ahead: an ice cold Grey Goose martini, straight up, with a fruit float.

Burning Man

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