My mate John's wife is a stunning beauty. Everywhere she goes men just stare. And a lot of men, including me, I have to accept, secretly want her. There's nothing you can do about it. You just have to control yourself and resist the inner pangs of desire. Although, to be honest, I'm not sure if I could, given the chance.
I was in the garage tinkering with my Triumphs when my wife came in and spoke those fateful words.
“B has been on the phone”, she said. (B is John's wife). “She wants a favour of you. It's a 'big ask'”.
“What is it”? I said.
“John's done his back in and is no good for anything. He can barely move in bed let alone manoeuvre on the sofa. He'll be useless for a while, apparently. B wants you for something. She'll tell you herself what it is”, my wife said. “But it's OK with me”, she added, “if you really want to do it”.
Excited, I phoned B. The big ask, it transpired, was to travel from our Devon postcode to Liverpool to buy a Harley Davidson soft tail custom for the incapacitated John. B had arranged it all: a flight from Exeter; enough cash for the bike, a taxi at the other end, fuel for the ride back, and my breakfast and lunch.
“A Harley”, my wife said. “what will you wear”?
“My Triumph jacket”. I said, “I do have some standards”.
The aircraft was a small, twin prop thing that pinned me to my seat on take off, took me just above cloud level and then thrust me forward into my seat belt before stopping in Manchester. The flight attendant barely had time to flog a croissant. The taxi out to the Liverpool took about the same time it took fly up there, and cost about as much.
The Harley was, at first glance, in pretty good nick. “It's mint”, the seller said. I looked closely at the pitting and corrosion on some of its chrome. “It's eight years old”, he said. I rubbed my fingers over some surface rust on the spokes of the front wheel. “I use it all year”, he muttered softly. I'd never really looked closely at Harleys before but there was something in the bike that got to me. I thought back to the Easy Rider poster on my childhood bedroom wall, showing those raked Harley choppers with their front wheels sticking way out in front. With its chrome, high bars, stepped seat and forward controls, this bike reminded me of long forgotten dreams: the illusion of something that can never really exist, and of how much I wanted it to.
I had my back turned when the seller started the engine and for a moment I thought someone was taking up his drive. “Long shots”, he said, followed by something about tuning. I phoned John, trying not to think of what it would be like if I had B to massage my aching back, and he told me to hand over the money and head home.
I tried to enter into the Harley spirit and envisage we were on some far flung interstate. I followed route 62 to the 6 (M62 and M6), crossed the Golden Gate Bridge (Manchester Ship canal) and pointed the chrome south-west. Once I got the Harley into sixth gear - a little green speck illuminating on the tank console - it seemed happy to just stay there. On and off slip roads, around sweeping bends marked by big black and white arrow boards, the bike just swooped and glided. The big capacity twin felt nice and 'torquey', like those engines do, and I liked it the better for it. Just before Birmingham, I stopped for fuel. Truckers, car drivers and just about everybody on foot watched as we passed by and then pulled up at the pumps. I got a thumbs up from one driver, 'beautiful', mouthed another.
From Birmingham I joined the M5 and started to feel the strain of high speed cruising on a... cruiser. I felt like I'd been sky diving for 200 miles. My chest was being pushed back, so that I was forced to pull myself forward on the bars. My shoulders and wrists started to ache. I longed for a screen and fairing, for cruise control.
I stopped again south of Bristol. This bike was no mile-eater, not in comfort or range, anyway. But a funny thing was happening: I was beginning to like being with the Harley, pleased to be part of its image. When I started the engine again, I smiled at the roar that came from from behind. I left the motorway in Somerset a short while later and headed due south, taking the long way home, enjoying this shining, elongated lump. We headed down to Chard on the A358, crossing the busy A303 and then onto the more twisting section to Axminster. It's a busy holiday route and pretty well maintained, so I was able to enjoy the Harley even more. At low speed it seemed to drop into corners more than I had expected but when we were shifting it was fine – not sports bike handling, I'm sure, but OK for some one like me who enjoys taking in the sights.
Axminster's a nice market town with plenty of cafes, but I was too near home to stop. I joined the A35 for a short distance and then turned onto Trinity Hill, passing Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall's River Cottage before entering lovely Lyme Regis. If ever there is a town made to visit on a motorcycle, it's Lyme. The sea, views along the coast, old world charm, plenty of places to eat - and parking. And it was here the Harley Soft Tail Custom decided it was home, rumbling along the coast road, easy riding without being stretched over a fuel tank or having to change gear, well not often anyway.
When I finally got to John and Bs, B met me on the drive. John hobbled out almost immediately and I could see by the look on his face he had loved the bike long before this moment, when he was to set eyes on it for the first time. I also knew he'd be loading it up with some Harley bling as soon as he was fit enough. All that extra chrome and stuff. But I understood it now, feeling a bit Harley'd up myself. B thanked me as she drove me the few miles to my place. “I owe you one”, she said.
