Harley Davidson is celebrating it’s 100th year of making motorcycles. That is impressive. I’m more of a sport-touring guy myself, and my official line is that Harleys are for fashion victims. So this is a bit of a confession: I do like Harley motorcycles. I do appreciate the people who ride them.

I stand fast on some points of objection to “Classic Milwaukee Iron”. The whole Harley market is a parallel motorcycle universe in which Harley Davidson Motor Company functions as a monopoly to it’s captivated market, and is free to sell good or bad bikes at it’s whim and people will always buy them and buy them and buy so many of them in fact that even when the factories are turning out questionable models demand outstrips supply. The culture too is a bit suspicous. All that shiny chrome and fringy leather and lick n’ stick “conchos” frankly strikes as a wee bit pretentious. And yes, the largest part of the modern Harley market are well-off men in their waning years with money and unfufilled dreams looking to buy back a piece of their childhood. Granted, I am more impressed by waning males who actually go out and spend the money rather than rubbing it up against their virtual bank accounts for the rest of their limited lives, but an influx of such citizens into a culture built around the idea of the the resourceless vagabond striving for unknown greatness through shear freedom is, well, problematic. There’s only so many balding dentists you can put in a circle of desperate leathery toughs before it’s really desperate leathery toughs in a circle of balding dentists. Additionally, Harleys are what they are: laid back cruisers, ergonomically suited best to short rides that don’t put too much stress on the lower back, ideally in grid-fashioned city streets or agricultural backroads or American style highways where the only turns are made right after you’ve come to a complete stop. I mean, how are you supposed to really lean a bike through a self-respecting switchback when your centre of gravity is in line with your knees?

And there is this: I have heard that because of the lopsided supply/demand curve and the obsession with “authenticity”, almost all Harleys actually gain in value as they age. Buy low, sell high. Any motorbike that serves as a good financial investment immeadiatley deserves suspicion.

But. I like Harleys. And the people who ride them.

First of all, if you strip off all the flashy bits that appeal to crows and folk who have never really ridden a horse, I dig the basic, naked silhouette. It is primally lodged in the old brain. It does look good.

(As an aside: that sounds like fun. Getting some bolt cutters and repairing the self respect of a accessorized Harley by stripping off all the flashy bits. The chrome would be more difficult. Sand blasting?)

Secondly, they are union made. That counts

Thirdly, the company does have a rich history. Not that it justifies uncertainly engineered bikes, but if all other things could be equal, I wouldn’t mind buying from a company that maintained it’s status as family owned for so many decades, then after going public in desperation actually bought itself back out. It’s a shame it had to once again go public, by some accounts if they had held on a couple more years in the late 80’s they would have been able to maintain privateness until now. But that’s second guessing and 20/20 hindsight. I also dig that they got their start marketing serious daily machines for serious daily people. The early “silent grey fellow” models were advertised for their quietness. Cool.

Fourthly, the new one. The V-Rod. Someone down in Milwaukee must have woken up one morning with a plan. I would ride that bike.

Finally and most importantly. Two times I have been stuck on the side of the road. Once it was just because I’d launched onto the highway without putting my glasses on and had to stop on the precarious shoulder. The other time I was being chased along the shoulder by my downed, sliding motorcycle after misjudging a turn. Both times a truck stopped and almost instantly some dude in a harley cap was checking in on me. No attitude, no condescencion, just a hand and a wave. That really counts. And I clearly wasn’t riding no Harley.

For that I can forgive the company all the loud grey fellows who are swelling the old Harley people’s ranks. I think it will be good for the newcomers. And I can forgive the dangly things they staple on, and the studdy do-nothings all over their undersized saddle bags, and the racket-tuned mufflers, and the “my other car is a Harley” plates on the backs of I-class Beemers. Fine, be that way. The world is not perfect, and somewhere in the heart of Harleydom, there is a real heart. Good enough for me.