Harley Pete

A couple of years ago my uncle sold his mid-70s Corvette and bought himself a brand-new, top-of-the-line, Harley-Davidson.

It’s his new love.

During winter, he brings the bike into the house, parking it in his front foyer. And on warmer winter days, he opens all the doors and windows, backs the bike out the front door just far enough so the tailpipe hangs out, and starts her up. He revs the engine a few times, giving it a little exercise even though she can’t get out on the road.

I should mention here that he’s single…if that wasn’t obvious.

Around the time he told me this story I just bought my first motorcycle. It’s a ’72 Yamaha DS7 that runs about as well as a legless man on ice. So I was jealous that not only did my uncle have a great bike to ride, but one that actually ran! I could just picture him on one of those cold days, turning the bike off, pushing it back to its spot next to the coat rack, and looking longingly out the window as he waited for that first warm day when he and his love could be together again.

What an image.

And last night, I saw it from another perspective.

I pictured waking up on a cold February Saturday in my nice suburban home, pouring myself some coffee and wondering, with it being so cold outside, how I would spend my day in this quiet little town. As I look out the window I notice my neighbor across the street has his front door open. It looks like he’s trying to move something. Is that a wheel? Is that…it is…it’s a motorcycle!

And then I hear that distinctive roar that makes me think the Hell’s Angels are rolling into town.

Coming from my neighbor’s front door.

Who’s running a motorcycle. In his house.

I start to wonder what my house might be worth.

Oh yeah…that’s my family.