 |
  |
 |
|||||||||
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|||||||||
Bourgeois
Bikers When he isn't cutting people's eyeballs open — a practice at which he excels — Dr. I. Howard Fine likes to cut loose. He does so on a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, one of seven that he owns. The opthamologist has flames painted on his helmet and an abiding love for shiny, efficient, expensive Hawgs. A few moments with the good doctor reveal a brusque, achievement-oriented man who would probably see nothing extreme in owning two Harleys per day of the week. (And his vision, we must assume, is clear.) "What you have to understand is that a motorcycle is beautiful," says Dr. Fine. "It's a case of form meeting function. They're functional jewelry." Yes, the baby boomers have found their bling-bling. The Harley, which once carried the mantle for greasy, gangy bad-assness and general malevolence, has been relegated to socioeconomic status symbol. White-collar professionals are one of Harley-Davidson's fastest-growing demographic groups. Nowadays, if your daughter is dating a Hawg-rider, the chief danger is unlikely to stem from drunken knife fights or impromptu drag racing. No, she's far more liable to sustain injuries caused when her two-wheeling wonder-executive attempts to negotiate a turn while checking mutual funds on his Palm Pilot. Of course, with women constituting the fastest-growing demographic of Harley owners, the odds are decent that she'll be sitting in the front seat. And, as the prevailing image of the hell-raising, smelly-leathered biker fades in our collective rearview mirror, the Weekend Warrior looms large. Heck on wheels. Well-accessorized, with a freewheeling outlook and a freewheeling credit line. "That image (of the outlaw biker) is long-gone," says Fine, who describes himself as "58, five-eight, and overweight." He enjoys the clothes and the loud sound associated with Harleys, but is emphatic about responsible biking. "I'm very careful," he says." You always have to be aware of everything that's going on when you're riding." What's going on, currently, is a dramatic shift of what it means to be a Harley owner. This transformation is especially conspicuous in Eugene, where the surrounding highways are filled with chopper-mounted Boomers — shuttling from winery to winery, perhaps, in search of the area's finest Pinot Gris, or taking a quick jaunt to the coast, or fitting in a brief ride between a grandson's soccer game and a friend's barbecue. In an era that embraces the adage, "He who dies with the most toys, wins," Harley motorcycles have become the toy of choice. And no one, least of all the company that makes these toys, seems to wonder if anything has been lost in the process.
EMPTY HARLEY FANTASY NUMBER ONE
Leave work early on a Friday afternoon. Throw some gear in your official Harley-Davidson leather saddlebags, kick-start your chrome-covered hawg, and smirk as the entire neighborhood hears your engine roar. Ride, loudly, to Interstate 5 and head north to Portland. Negotiate any traffic bottlenecks by swinging onto the shoulder, never shifting lower than fourth gear, and zooming past irate carfolk. Their children will gaze in awe. Wink if you think they'll be able to see it. Pull into one of the hipster hangouts scattered around downtown Portland. Rev your accelerator a few times before parking, to make sure they'll all look up from their Pabst Blue Ribbons and pseudo-nihilistic discourse. They will try to appear bored — these are hipsters, mind you — but they will fail. Leather-clad, shoulders squared, stride up to the bar and order a shot of bourbon. Wait for the bartender to turn around, then say, "Wait — I brought my own glass." Unzip a pocket, preferably a sleeve pocket, and plunk down your official Harley-Davidson shot glass. "Picked that up in the East Bay, on a run a few months back," you tell the hipsters, who have now given up their charade and are staring at you, enamored with everything you represent. Slug back the shot. Don't pay. Go home with a hipster you find sexually attractive. Or a couple, if you're having trouble picking one.
This year marks the 100th anniversary of Harley-Davidson. Recognizing the centennial as a unique marketing opportunity, the company has rolled out a 100th-anniversary bike, the VRSCA V-Rod, in addition to all sorts of 100th anniversary memorabilia. A national celebration was slated for Labor Day Weekend in Milwaukee, where, it must be assumed, one can purchase a wide variety of souvenirs (using the "Harley Chrome Visa Card," if one so desires). At Doyle's Harley-Davidson dealership in Eugene, the place to stock up on All Things Harley, accessories abound. A large banner reads, "All 100th Anniversary Apparel 20% Off." The showroom smells like leather, with a faint metallic tinge. It's a good smell, bold but complex — if profit had an aroma, it could very well be this one. There are Harley-Davidson candles for sale here. There are also plates, clocks, tents, figurines, cat toys, business card holders, and yes, shot glasses — all emblazoned with the Harley logo. "If it says Harley-Davidson on it, people are like, 'Ooh, yeah,'" says Jessica Goggins, who has worked at Doyle's for six months. "We have tank tops here for 30 bucks." Summer is the busiest time for the dealership. On a recent weekday afternoon, Doyle's was doing so much business that no managers would take time for an interview. In the back, mechanics worked on bikes as Goggins gave an impromptu tour of Harley merchandise. I Ride a Fat Boy, reads one of the many T-shirts in the showroom. The most expensive piece of clothing, a $600 F/X leather racing jacket, is covered with pockets and padding. Zipped up, it feels heavy, almost like body armor. It makes the wearer feel more substantial than people really are. It is, of course, black. "My opinion of Harley riders has totally changed since I started working here," says Goggins, as she sorts through various apparel. "They're a lot spendier than I thought." Outside, in the parking lot, Linda Shampang is doing her part to explode the image of the grimy, felonious Hawg Rider. An aerobics coordinator for Oakway Fitness, Shampang recalls the moment she decided to ride a Harley.
"I was at a restaurant with my husband, and we saw some little old ladies with leathers get on these big bikes and zoom away," she says. "I turned to him and said, 'We can do that.'" Nowadays, they do. Shampang rides the 100th Anniversary V-Rod, with extra chrome that she's added piece by piece. Her bike cost $10,800, and she estimates she's spent $2,000 more on specialized parts, such as a "Screaming Eagle" tailpipe, shiny shocks, and a few extra Harley-Davidson logos. Her husband's Harley cost $17,000, so it's probably safe to assume that Shampang can (and will) make her ride even shinier without an ounce of hesitation. "Your bike is a canvas," she says as the sunlight glints off her V-Rod. It is unpainted, to emphasize the metal used to construct it, and it is an undeniably attractive piece of machinery. "I'm constantly accessorizing. Makes you want to buy one, huh?"
EMPTY HARLEY SCENARIO NUMBER TWO Sneak out of the hipster's apartment the next morning. By the time he/she/they hear the booming echo of your engine, you will already be heading out of Portland, continuing north toward Seattle. Blow their window a leather-gloved kiss, if you think anyone will see it. Arrive in Seattle at high noon. Locate the Harley-Davidson store downtown. (It's just north of a Wolfgang Puck restaurant and just west of the Seattle Art Museum, in a decidedly high-rent district.) Rev your engine sporadically, for at least 30 seconds, and then peel out, as fast as you can, toward the main display window. Approach from uphill. Keep your front tire high in the air. Hit the curb with your back wheel, at 40 miles an hour, and let out a whoop as you pop up into the air. Shatter the window, sending smithereens out onto the sidewalk and into the store. Fly over one of the display bikes. Land somewhere near the cash registers. Slam on your brakes and screech to a halt, whipping your back tire around and planting a boot on the floor. Take off your helmet. Let the moment — and the silence — ripen a little. "I'm concerned," you say to the entire room. "I'm concerned that motorcycle culture has become just one more market, one more method. It seems like counterculture has been countered with cash, and cash is stomping any notion of genuine rebellion, treating it the way I just treated your big, stupid window." A store manager steps forward and says a few challenging words, something along the lines of, "What gives you the right to — " Cut him short with the briefest of glares. Reach into one of the many pockets on your $600 F/X racing jacket and pull out a small, bright object. "This is an official Harley-Davidson Righteousness Bauble," you say, tossing it toward him. "It costs an obscene amount of money, but it allows its owner to live an existence that closely resembles the one you guys are always trying to sell. You know — freedom, the open road, power, that sort of thing. And, as you can see, I had my initials etched into it. Costs a little more, but hey, it's always nice to add the personal touch." The bauble jumps back into your pocket of its own accord. You lumber out of the shattered shop in first gear, slow and deliberate. No one tries to stop you; they are all too busy asking the manager if his store sells that particular bauble.
"We've been planning this for five years," says Gary Strong, nodding toward his wife Bonnie. He's referring to Harley-Davidson's 100th Anniversary Celebration in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Held over the Labor Day weekend, the party features musical performances by B.B. King, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and Jeff Beck — as well as professional women's mudwrestling and, it must be assumed, plenty of good people-watching. The Strongs, in many ways, seem like throwbacks, or even throw-outs, in the new (and, some would have you believe, improved) Harley universe. They drive freight trucks for a living. Bonnie's helmet has a sticker that reads, "My other toy has a dick." It covers a haircut that can only be described as femi-mullet. Gary, when asked what the attraction of riding a Harley is for him, sums it up with one word: "Freedom." "The wind in your hair and the bugs in your teeth," chimes in Bonnie. "Being out in the open lets you enjoy the ride." Their children are all grown now, and the Strongs have added a bike trailer to their traveling lineup. Gary has just had it painted a specific shade of red "so it'll match." Inside the trailer are a barbecue and a tent, among other things. "We like to roll in style," says Gary. Soon, the Strongs will roll all the way to Milwaukee, surrender their $100 tickets, and spend three days celebrating a 100th birthday party. They will, no doubt, have a rollicking-good time (they seem like they always have a pretty good time, which makes them fun to talk with). However, one can't help but wonder if Harley-Davidson would even send people like the Strongs a birthday invitation, or if the company would prefer to host customers who are more likely to purchase expensive souvenirs — something shiny and tasteful, that you can put on your desk and look at five days a week, whenever you're feeling hemmed in. Put another way: Harley-Davidson sells freedom as a brand, and those who are less likely to have it are more likely to buy it, or at least attempt to. This brand carries so much credibility because Harley riders used to be regarded as deviants, bold souls who didn't care about social or legal constraints. Many of them actually were, and some are still around, but expressed as a percentage of all Harley owners, they are drowning in a wave of Weekend Warriors. Amidst all of this contemporary branding and packaging, however, it is still possible to find elements of true liberation. Teresa Phillips, who is the "Motor Clothes Manager" at Doyle's Harley-Davidson, purchased a bike in December. Listening to her describe her experiences with a Harley is empowering, although she speaks in a matter-of-fact tone.
"There are a lot of women coming into the marketplace," she says. "A lot of the attraction for me was the challenge of learning how to ride." Phillips rides a "Heritage, soft-toe," and her body language changes slightly, toward the upright, when she talks about her motorcycle. "When you're on a bike, you're all alone," she says. "You can teach someone to drive a car because you're right there next to them … a bike you have to learn by yourself." Dr. Fine, arguably Doyle's best customer (he of the seven Harleys and the eye-cutting) also enjoys the solitary nature of motorcycle riding. "I call it reducing stress by facing reality," he says. "When you're riding, you're paying total attention to the moment at hand." No one will ever confuse Fine with a Hell's Angel, even though he rides a Harley every day. And Fine seems too smart to confuse motorcycle ownership with true freedom. (This is, after all, a man who has designed a "four millimeter keratome for enlarging phacoemulsification incisions for small incision lens implementation.") But it is still worth noting that riding a Harley is, for many Eugeneans, an exercise in deliberate confusion. Insurance agents morph into leather-booted freewheelers, but still make it into the office on Monday morning. Indeed, Harley-Davidson has created an entire movement built around the idea that rebellion is something you can hop onto, fire up, and take down the highway. Nowadays, marketing is more important, and more competitive, than ever. It will be interesting to see if Harley-Davidson can still maintain its aura of grease-based rebellion, even as it welcomes a groundswell of working professionals and well-heeled fashion slaves. So consider this a birthday photo, or maybe a requiem for what has been lost already. Use it to help figure out what it means to ride a Harley — if anything — by the time the next big birthday bash rolls around.
|
||||||||||||
|
||||||||||||
|
||||||||||||
