EXCELLENT COLUMN in the June issue from Paul Miles. When her back was turned, I used to nick my better-half’s Harley Sportster at every opportunity. Yet I couldn’t part with my hard-earned dollars for one of my own. Much later when rumbling around the Pyrenees I regularly swapped my Hinckley Bonnie for a ‘fix’ on my cousin’s wicked and raunchy black 883. Harley riders might be criticised for flaunting too many hard-ass patches, but mingle and you couldn’t find a friendlier bunch of back-slapping, party addicts; ‘hard-asses’ who move mountains for charity.
My own hang-ups with the Harley are stuck in the past, much like me. Biker gangs, hell’s angels and troubled American youth associated with H-D were ingrained during my formative years. Now I just can’t shake it off, much like my inherent love of British singles. But I know what I’m missing, so perhaps I’ll buy my daughter a Sportster when she nails that test? That could be a win-win-win.
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