Harley & Me

A tale of woe about a boy and his toy.

I learned to ride a motorcycle in the hills of West Virginia. My cousin thought we should both buy identical Yamaha 650 Specials and hang out on the weekends. I loved that bike. It was peppy and easy to ride.

Four years later, after an amicable divorce, I took a job in the Adirondack Mountains of the North Country in New York to recover. We had two young sons, and part of my employment agreement was a plane trip home each month so I could be with them. I sold the Yamaha before moving. The winters are long and brutal. Fifty degrees below zero, brutal. I settled in and devoted myself to my work and strange new life.

When spring finally came around, I heard motorcycles cruising by on the main road. I was living in some of the most beautiful scenery on the planet.

I caved.

I drove fifty miles to the Harley-Davidson dealership and plunked down the money for a new H-D Sportster. It had the perfect feel for me. The bigger bikes were too expensive and not agile enough for my goals. I planned to ride that thing all over those mountains, from Watertown to Lake Placid and beyond. I could be under extreme work stress, hop on that thing, and it calmed me within minutes.