Because You Never Asked

THE IMBECILE WITH THE HARLEY

(5/07, Spain)

     For this writer, regardless of any penal codes or religious doctrine, there are only two laws to follow in life: 1) Do what you want; 2) Do not hurt others. If you can live within the minimal dictates of these two principles, the result will surely be a life well lived. In fact, now that I think of it, if it were the foundation of a religious code, it would finally be the one religion I could believe in. What moral code could possibly be more righteous than that?

     Everybody goes through life with their pet peeves, the seemingly minor things that get under your skin, the mundane manifestations of culture that rub you the wrong way --- the music these days, the clothes they wear, the traffic, the doggy doo, there’s nothing on TV, etc. --- things you shake your head at and try to deal with. But there are also those rare occasions when a cultural outbreak of such lunatic proportions can be looked upon as a collective sign of dementia, as an indication of decline and decay synonymous with an apocalyptic break down in society.

     Harley-Davidson.

     There is a level of noise that accompanies this sub-culture wherever it goes (let’s be real here: we are talking about a volcanic roar that actually hurts, a nuclear din that can only be considered physically unhealthy), that no society in its right mind; that no society with civilized pretensions, could ever accept. And yet, Harley-Davidson is now living its salad days in an American culture showing signs of fatigue and decay. You’d have to be somewhat unobjective in stating that the United States is in a more optimistic mood  now than in the years between WWII and the Vietnamese debacle. Much of this decline can be chalked up to the aggressive arrogance of its imperial military actions and the costs incurred in trying to sustain such (how mundane and uncreative, how historically repetitive the American empire has turned out to be). Perhaps one of the most telling signs of this “enshrivelment” of American influence is reflected in a most simple but measurable way: as I sit here in Spain writing this essay, I receive only 68 Euros for 100 American dollars. If this is not quite a third world status, it could be considered enough of a difference to start a new category. Perhaps the United States of America is now a second world nation?

     It would be absurd to directly link the rise of Harley-Davidson with the decline of the nation. In previous essays (see “Janet’s Boob” and “The Super Bowl Revisited”) similar inconclusive thoughts were attributed to the overwhelmingly predominant role of pro football in our culture, the phrase “the NFL is Iraq” having been used more than once. And yet, it is just such detail that defines and gives form to a culture, that perhaps says who we are more than anything directly measurable can.

     There was once a time when the Harley world was truly a remote sect of renegades living a unique lifestyle on the fringes of society. In such numbers, the noise they made was a nuisance but not the current all out assault on one’s privacy. It is not hard to see why such a lifestyle could end up being romanticized and turned into the vicarious thrill so many now use it for. What was once a loose code of dress and behavior for a few “literati”, has been turned into a massive fad with all the characteristics of a global economy marketing cliché. The participants now show up in their official Harley clothing; their Harley jackets, their Harley tee shirts, their Harley pants, their Harley colors, in a vast array of styles and variations that somehow end up all being the same. And don’t forget those accessories for the serious “chopper-shopper“: Harley jewelry, Harley scarves, Harley pocket books, cutesy little Harley hats and belts, Harley sun glasses, Harley fingers up your Harley ass. I shudder to think in terms of Harley bras and panties, Harley ash trays, Harley cups and glasses, Harley toilet seats, Harley party favors, Harley lighters, Harley pens, Harley cushions for NASCAR races (this is basically the same animal), Harley orange and black puke for those of us who are ready to barf this all up.

     Everything is just so so Harley, dahling.

     What was once a special way of life for the few who felt it in their souls, has become a huge target group for market analysis. It’s as if Bloomingdale’s had bought the Harley trademark.

     Everything about Harley is now so so anti-Harley --- dahling.

     But even one such as I, who sees this sonic boom of Harley aggression as a barbaric assault on civilization, can see the attraction in all this. The motorcycles themselves are eye catching works of artisan endeavor that excite both the creative and mechanical aspects of the human mind. Cruising on such a machine can only be seen as a delightful pastime, especially in harmony with others of like mind.

     But the Harley mindset grossly breaks the second law of my fledgling religion with the gratuitous avalanche of noise it forces the rest of us to endure. Within the confines of any civilized concept of life, this is, prima fascia, an anti-social act. Any organized society that is able to accept such behavior, must sit itself down and self examine its motives, its goals, and where this might be leading us.

     What is both so frustrating and adolescent about the Harley attitude is that it would probably wither on the vine if some higher authority came along and said, “OK, this is all very cool --- the motorcycles, the matching clothes, the cruising together, etc. --- but the noise has got to go”. For most of these adolescents in middle aged bodies, there’d be no Harley experience at all without the gorilla-chest-thumping attention they draw by rattling the world with their noise. They generally show up in packs, like a liberating army (I guess Harley is Iraq too), engulfing the world in a tsunami of noise there is no refuge from. My own degradation is complete when I get the feeling that one of these troglodytes thinks I’m admiring him as he cruises into town with his Mussolini jaw jutting pose. I feel like running after him and saying, “no, I think you’re a schmuck”! But the true depths of depression are plumbed when one realizes that so many people do admire them!

     The rage the Harley syndrome has engendered in me is not primarily directed against the bikers themselves. At least they are involved in a participatory undertaking that is personally satisfying and rewarding, regardless of the “Big Picture” negativity perceived by one such as I. My ire is more focused on the majority of the rest of us, who seem to not be bothered by all this. There is a “desensitized” (brain dead?) quality evident here that could be clinically described as some kind of mental retardation. It puts in evidence a serious emotional collapse of the second law of my fledgling religion, a law that is at the heart of any kind of harmonious interaction amongst people.

     Like many of the essays I’ve written in Spain through the years, this one was inspired by an article I read in the local press, in this case, very local. It appeared in a weekly publication from the small island I stay on and was written by a young lady who would only sign her work as “C.A.T.”. My informed sources tell me she is a known radio personality, whose intelligence is generally accepted in a consensual way. The title of her article was, “The Imbecile With the Harley”.

     Harley-Davidson is not exclusive to the American realm. It has made some minor inroads in Europe, primarily in Germany and other northern lairs. I have never seen one in Spain, but the article by C.A.T. confirms some kind of presence. She starts off by saying, “I used to go out with an imbecile who had a Harley. (---) the only personality he had was that motorcycle, an Electra Glide --- “. She explained how he spent his whole life painting and repainting it, tinkering with it, adjusting this, tightening that, and “roaring through the city his need for attention.” She even admitted when she first met him the Harley and the security it seemed to give him, really impressed her. And then she finally realized “his idiotic self esteem was measured by the time he could spend recharging his macho batteries on the leather seat of his Electra Glide.”

     As fate would have it, kaboom, he wrecked the Harley. He then came to pick her up in an Opel Corsa. “It was just not the same. That’s when I began to realize that the Harley guy was an imbecile.” C.A.T. went on to say that it seemed as if he needed the motorcycle to be a man, and she needed it in order to love him. But she had “now recovered her sanity and would not be put under his spell again. I decided to find someone who didn’t need a Harley to have a personality.”

     I love you C.A.T.

     Post Script: Since writing this essay, I’ve begun to notice a smattering of Harleys in the environs I habitually vacation in. Their owners are the usual biker types with the same well kept machines we see in America, but they seem to make much less noise. Whether this is legally enforced, or just part of the local sensitivities --- or both, I cannot say.       

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Email: JerryG@postcman.info