Angels in Loafer's Glory (Part Two)

"God's Little Acre Chapel"
This must be where the Angels
of Blanchard rest

She drove up out of nowhere in a little white car. She stopped on a dime at the sight of my fallen Harley. Ever so warmly she pops out of the car and speaking softly queries, "May I be of some help"? In my head I am wondering how the heck this petite, soft-spoken woman is ever going to be of aid. I try explaining how heavy Harley is, and I would hate for her to throw her back out of whack on a Good Samaritan endeavor. She gets this twinkle in her eye and asks how many other options I had standing by? Well...I had to give her that one. Not a male in Blanchard to be found, and I still hadn't seen any soul in town other than those seniors in red hats (assuming I really did see them).

Reluctantly I watch her grab hold of Harley's chrome bagger guards. I grab the handlebars and we both give a heave ho. Incredibly, Harley straightens right up with what seemed to be nary an effort at all. Goodness...this woman packs quite a punch! I offer to pay her a few bucks for her trouble, and she kindly refuses. She says she was just passing through and was off to visit some friends. That was the last I saw of her. She got back into the car and away she went. Can you imagine the time she must have had telling her girlfriends how she helped this bad biker boy pick up his dropped Harley?

I was feeling pretty thankful, but figured I best fire up Harley right away. Wouldn't you know? No go. Is this a bad day or what? I try four times, each effort met with no success even though the EFI sounds fine and the battery is doing its job. My mind is racing now, as I seem as stranded as ever. But at least this plight is less embarrassing! Harley is upright and my CF (cool factor) is somewhat restored. Anyone can have a mechanical malfunction - even the toughest of bikers. Surely no shame in that?

That's when I look down at the handlebar and see that the bike's on/off switch is positioned "off". Golly gee, I am feeling real good about myself now. It has to be time for lunch. I order up my soup, sandwich, and a piece of pie. No, I didn't enjoy it. I was much too rattled over this entire episode. The only assuring moment was when I realized that the red hats were not a mirage. I had come to find out they were some sort of women's group.

All the while I was gulping my food down, I was thinking how much I wanted to go home. I almost ran outside - eager to mount Harley and ride away. I swung my leg up and over and popped up the kickstand. My helmet seemed to need an extra tug, so I straddled the bike as I adjusted the strap. Then I heard that nasty squishing sound again. My foot started sliding and before I could mutter a word - well - you guessed it. Harley went down for the count...AGAIN!

Just about the time I looked to heaven and was about to ask "God, why me?" I see this little red pick up truck. This guy slams on his brakes and gravel spits through the air. A big burly man and his wife sit inside. Without even asking if I need help, the guy leaves his truck parked in the middle of the road and walks over. His wife was commenting that I sure had a "pretty" bike. This guy must have weighed over 200 pounds, and the two of us tried three times before we got Harley upright. Suddenly I had new respect for the abilities of the female species to succeed in weight training.

I finally did make it home from that ride. I must admit that for a few days thereafter I was almost afraid to sit atop Harley, let alone go for a ride. I kept imagining dropping Harley in towns all across Michigan. Maybe next year I could continue the routine in towns across America. What a reputation I could garnish. How could I ever avoid this potential nightmare? Truthfully, I even looked in the H-D accessory catalog for a winch that might be ordered as an accessory for the Ultra Glide. Trust me. It isn't in the catalog.

Ron still hasn't told me the secret about how to single handedly pick up a dropped Ultra Glide. Speaking of secrets, don't tell anybody about this. I suspect the only person who really knows that I dropped my bike might be my mechanic - Beetle. I have this paranoid dream that when I took Harley in for his 1k service check up, Beetle may have noticed the tiny scratch under my bike. Do you suppose such evidence destroys my rider credibility ?

Yeah, I did get over all that.

Still it rattled my cool. I've often since reflected why H-D would make a bike one guy couldn't pick up by himself. I've also reflected on my ego, and the exaggerated amount of time I have spent on developing and keeping some sort of cool factor over the years.

...if our ego gets
bigger than our bike,
we may fall down.

....we all need a helping
hand when life goes
south on us.

I guess for many of us it does start in junior high. Somehow we either define and interpret cool by ourselves or (worse yet), let others define cool for us. We then expend untold hours of self-absorbed effort trying to achieve a standard that was mostly fiction from the start.

Of course not all folk buy into that silliness. I am guessing Angel One never did. If she would have been an egomaniac she sure wouldn't have gotten down in the dirt and the tar in order to help some stranger by the wayside. Angel Two never cared about how he looked when he huffed and puffed, working up a sweat and risking a hernia because some foolish leatherneck couldn't keep his bike upright.

I guess it is pretty sad. Sometimes people in the real world can look cool enough, but when the rubber hits the road cool wears thin when they have to get down and dirty and do some grunt work. Trust me, there was more cool that emanated from Angel One's jacket than from my leather vest that day. Angel Two would have never made GQ's best dressed list, but his CF (cool factor) far surpassed mine that day.

Finally, I've considered that maybe H-D makes a bike too big to pick up by yourself for two reasons. First, to remind us that if our ego gets bigger than our bike, we may fall down. Second, no man is an island, and we all need a helping hand when life goes south on us.

There are a lot of guys that have already figured that stuff out. I guess I am a slow study, and still aspire to look cool in my leather but have a heart that can easily match that strength. For example, I've heard of some of the good deeds done by the the Forgotten Eagles and the Warriors of Light. Seems those folk are made of leather inside and out. They go about their days without much attention, but silently help those they meet along the way. That's a standard that is real and not fictitious, worthy of imitation.

Meanwhile... if you ever do drop your Harley...do it in Blanchard! They are really sensitive about one's cool factor. You can make a fool of yourself there, and there never seems to be anyone around who will notice, other than those angels that keep fluttering in and out of town.

Click here for first installment...

-JR
Posted 02/06/2004

Dr. Joseph Rivard, PhD, is an educator, motorcycle enthusiast, and former competitive handgunner. He has written extensively on topics related to the field of education, and now enjoys writing for pleasure about his newest passion - riding his Harley across the backroads of Michigan.

Joseph was born and raised in Michigan, but feels he is only beginning to appreciate the hidden beauty of the rural areas now that he is seeing it from a two wheel perspective. Joseph lives in Mt. Pleasant and looks forward to meeting new friends and fellow riders as he seeks out the best in 2 lane blacktop across the state. When not riding or working, Dr. Rivard spends much of his personal time with family, which includes his best buddy {who gets around on four paws}.

©Copyright 2006, Joseph Rivard, all rights reserved. No text, graphic, or video found on this site may be archived or redistributed without written consent of the publisher, Lee Wonnacott, Kannapolis, NC. Copyright 2006.