Harley Davidson: American Machines that Destroy American Families

Harley Davidson. Wow. As the syllables roll between my lips I can feel the power of the American-made machine. I can feel the brawn associated with the name and I can almost sense the familiar rumble of the engine in my chest as I speak the words, and for a brief moment, I can consider myself to be a badass.

The American-made motorcycles that boast the name "Harley Davidson" are some of the finest machines on the planet, but it's not just the motorcycles' quality that enjoys a stellar reputation. The name itself is worth millions. That's because the company utilizes some of the finest marketing strategies out there. The name is universal and Harley owners exist on almost every continent.

The emotions associated with Harley Davidson are strong enough to move a person to complete elation or war. Many Harley owners are proud to be an American and proud to ride on the American-made tradition known as Harley Davidson. If you say anything bad about a Harley, many riders will be tempted to kick your ass. When someone finally gets their dream Harley after years of fantasizing and saving, they are often overcome with joy and a sense of belonging.

Such an astounding machine with coveted technology has the power to change lives and give its owners a sense of freedom. The open road can be very appealing, but that can be both good and bad. I'm going to tell you how Harley Davidson opened a road for my family...and that road led straight to Hell.

The timing of my Grandmother's death was impeccable. The end of her life came as my Dad started to suffer a mid-life crisis. Consequently, his inheritance went straight toward the purchase of a new custom Harley Davidson motorcycle. It was obnoxiously loud and my cowboy father had no business being on the damn thing, but man was it pretty. We took turns touching the shiny metal and feeling the leather seats. None of us dared ride with him. He didn't know what he was doing or how to operate it. After a few weeks, we got braver and took turns riding behind Dad on his Harley. Boy, did we feel cool! Soon came the leather jackets and the Harley paraphernalia. Before I knew it, my Dad traded his leather horse training chaps for some black motorcycle chaps. In the beginning, I hoped it would all blow over and my Dad would give up the iron horse, but no such luck. We were in it for the long haul.

My father was always an easy going cowboy. He spent his days breaking colts and training horses. When he got his Harley, he spent most of his free time learning how to ride it. Although he wore the regulation helmets in the beginning, he soon developed an image as the "cowboy biker" and wore his spurs and cowboy hat every time he hopped on his iron horse. This was dangerous to say the least, but he sure loved it when he'd rattle his spurs leaning around corners.

With the new Harley black leather attire, came the new Harley attitude and Harley friends. He started hanging out at the local biker bars and making new biker friends. Then they'd go on rides and cruise through the mountains. My Mom soon realized that if she wanted to be a part of his life, she'd have to play the game too.

Her ass would fall asleep every time she rode with my Dad. Most women can tell you how uncomfortable it is to ride on the back of a motorcycle. The seat sucks and you have no control over the driver. To acquire that comfort and control, my mother decided to buy herself a Harley Davidson. She started out with a Sportster (bad for beginners) and bought a trike-kit to put on it. She wanted to be sure that she wouldn't fall over. We called them motorcycle training wheels. When she finally decided that a squirrelly Sportster was a crappy bike for a beginner, she traded it in for a Softail. It was a pretty orange one and it looked like a Halloween bike with the black trike-kit on it. Before long, Mom and Dad were off all of the time riding their new motorcycles around and playing with their new biker buddies. The closets soon filled with enough leather and fringe to choke a dozen horses. It seemed as though my parents easily accepted their new renegade lifestyle and my brother wanted to be a part of it.

My parents finally discovered a hobby that my little brother would readily accept (he was never into playing cowboy and riding horses). In a matter of weeks, my brother had purchased a Harley Davidson with "ape-hangar" handlebars. They worked perfectly because of his incredible height. My brother put a lot of work into his bike and had it painted green to match the classic car he restored. My family had become a Harley Family and we frequented the biker bars, picnics, and parties together. I switched between riding behind my father and my mother and it was a lot of fun to hang out together and let the wind tangle my hair. Even though I didn't have a motorcycle of my own, my parents bought me the clothes and the helmet so I could join in on the fun and feel like I belonged. The camaraderie between Harley owners is amazing. It's like they have been your friends forever.

With the motorcycle comes the lifestyle, and with the lifestyle come the trouble. It is so stereotypical, but bikers tend to get in trouble a lot. For my family, it started out with the occasional speeding ticket. Then came the verbal skirmishes and fist fights at the biker bars. I didn't think much about my brother fighting, but when I heard that my Dad punched a guy in the bar, I was shocked. That's just not like him! Our alcohol consumption increased ten-fold and it seemed like we were always partying. That was hard because I was the only one that would stay sober to drive my car. When my Mom, Dad, and brother would go out and drink, I'd try to get them to ride home with me in my car, but they would never agree to it because they didn't want to leave their bikes. It was infuriating, but I didn't feel like there was anything I could do. I was always afraid of the stereotypical biker rage they had adopted, so they did whatever they tought they wanted. So, I'd follow them home as they swerved their motorcycles down the road, praying the whole time that everyone would make it home safely.

As my father and brother started drinking more and more alcohol, my mother started to lock herself away in her room more often. She'd scope out Harley websites, buy leather gear on eBay, and meet other Harley Davidson owners online. My Mom stumbled upon a forum for these female Harley riders that belonged to a motorcycle club called "The Amazons". At first it sounded like fun because she was getting involved in a group and making lots of friends. In a matter of months, she was initiated into the club and started to travel all over the country to meet with fellow Amazons. I would make fun of her saying, "Those women are all dykes!" and for the most part I was right. By the time the local motorcycle rally rolled around, some of my Mom's Amazon friends even showed up to meet in Colorado and camp out.

Feeling more and more alienated from my "biker" family, I decided to find my own "open road" and follow my career ambitions out of state to become a licensed mortician. I was doing just fine for a few months until I got the news that my parents were fighting and preparing for a divorce. What the hell! I leave for a few months and it all just falls apart!

During those grueling weeks, my parents weren't speaking to each other. My Dad drank even more and my Mom did too, only my Mom had the computer for a drinking buddy. Whenever she was home, she'd stare at that damn screen and type messages to her carpet-munching Amazon buddies. One day during all of this, my father got hammered. He got on his motorcycle to go buy some horseshoes and staying true to his style, he wore a cowboy hat instead of a helmet. STUPID! Anyway, the drunk dumb-ass leaned too hard into a corner and caught one of his pegs on the blacktop going pretty fast. He wrecked hard!! I got the phone call and caught a plane back home.

The ambulance report said that the skin had been peeled from half of his face and was hanging over his eye. It also said that he was acting intoxicated. He was taken to the hospital and later put on a helicopter and flown to a hospital in a different state. He broke many bones in his face, "scalped" himself, and broke his leg in several places. He was in rough shape and he looked like hell when I saw him. After a long recovery, he was able to walk and get around on his own. But by that time, my mother had already moved out of the house and relocated to Arizona agreeing to file "legally separated".

I was so incredibly pissed to learn that my family was tearing apart and I blamed it all on those damn Harley Davidson motorcycles. Yeah, my parents had issues in their relationship, who doesn't? But it was the biker mentality that contributed to the pain, neglect, damage, alcoholism, and disrespect my relatives endured.

When my mom moved to Arizona, she moved into a large house with one of her Amazon biker friends. When I heard who she was living with, I asked her, "So, are you a lesbian now?" She skirted the question and didn't really answer it saying, "You have to be born a lesbian to be a lesbian, don't you think?" Whatever. It was her way of shrugging it off by answering a question with a question.

When I went down to Arizona to visit her over the weekend, it was all confirmed. I walked into their large house and saw an alarm clock on either side of the bed in the master bedroom. In the spare bedroom, there was no alarm clock. I yelled down the stairs, "Hey Mom, are you a lesbian!?" Her childish answer betrayed her attempt to make everything sound normal, "Yes, I live with a girl, but no, I am not a lesbian."

Whatever. I tried desperately to get through the rest of the visit without throwing a major tantrum. I couldn't believe that my Mom left my Dad to be with a bull dyke. I'd always thought of her as having such a strong personality, but I watched all weekend as she let a carpet-muncher boss her around and tell her what to do, where to go, and what to eat.

My Mom tried to get me to find a job in Arizona, and although it would be a good career move for a mortician, I have no desire to be an audience for my mother's disgrace

I thought she was cool when I first met her. She was smart and good at riding motorcycles. At first glance you could tell that she was a lesbian. They just have that stereotypical look. The butch haircut and the manly gate. There was no mistaking it. But I didn't care. To each "his" own, I say. It wasn't until she started living with my Mom that I got to know her a little better.

The lesbian that my mom is sleeping with is a pompous, condescending, know-it-all. She claims to know everything about everything we are talking about. Especially when it comes to food. Every time we ate out, she'd say "such and such has so many calories" or "that food has good carbs and that food has bad ones". Just let me eat my food!!! She was hailed as an "expert" cook, but I never saw any of that, just her attitude. She was also very condescending toward "country folk". Being from a city, she thought she was so much better than us horse-owners claiming that she rides only "iron" horses. She liked talking about her job a lot too. She test drives Harleys. Yeah, it's cool. I'll give her that. But she was very controlling. She controls what types of food are in the house and the cupboards are filled with all-natural hippie food. Also, every time we went somewhere, like the mall, she'd take off with my Mom and lead her away. I didn't get to spend much time with my Mom when she did stuff like that.

I'll admit that I wrote this article to vent. I know that the relationships in my family had their problems, but I blame the whole motorcycle thing for sparking the fire and fanning the flames. Even though they all still own their Harleys, my poverty stricken Dad and brother are on the verge of homelessness and my carpet-munching mother abandoned us all, caring only for herself. The funny thing is..... she has completely lost touch with herself! She doesn't even know who she is anymore. If she really was a lesbian, she wouldn't be afraid to declare it.

You see, my Dad bought a Harley to cure his mid-life crisis identity issues. My mother, on the other hand, became afflicted with a loss of identity after buying a hog. Explain that one....

Anyway, I still like to ride motorcycles. But as for me, I'm gonna buy a crotch rocket!