Submitted story: The day I learned to forever respect a Harley

When I was a young kid, I had an Uncle that always seemed to have more than a few Harley Davidson’s parked in his garage, as well as sometimes parked in his kitchen, living room, and even down the hallway. Looking back now that I’m older, I can see where he was coming from.

He once had two of his Harley’s stolen out of his garage at the same time, even though they were parked behind a car that was broke down and fairly difficult to move. The thieves actually picked up the bikes and carried them over the hood of the car to get them out. Apparently when it comes to stealing a Harley, nothing is too much to overcome.

After I graduated high school and being a typical seventeen year old kid who of course knew it all by then, I had moved in with that same Uncle and within six months had him talked into co-signing on either a new Harley Sportster or a new sports car. Being that the winters in Illinois can be brutal and the fact I couldn’t afford to have a new Sportster and pay for even a beat up car to survive the winters, I chose for the latter of the two. This would be a decision I would regret ever since and probably for the rest of my days. I look back and wonder where I would be now if I had gone for the Harley and not the sports car.

During the year or so that I lived with my Uncle, I did get to learn a lot about his Harleys as well as plenty of others. On more than a few occasions I would spend hours upon hours detailing his bikes, of course after I had finished with my nice shiny black Mustang parked out in the front yard. Back in the day during those times, regardless of having a driveway off the main street, when you wanted to show off your rides, you didn’t park them in the driveway, you pulled them onto the front yard for everyone to take notice.

Even though I never learned to ride and had never ridden a motorcycle, I was allowed to move my Uncle’s bikes in and out of the garage, either after he had finished riding or if I was cleaning them for him. Surprisingly enough, just cleaning and detailing a Harley seemed to make a difference in the way I felt, I could only imagine actually owning one and taking one out for a ride.

Well one day after my Uncle came back from one of those oh so enjoyable rides, I asked if I could park it in the garage for him, which I had done countless times. Of course he let me, although I always asked before just touching one of his bikes. That was something that never needed to be explained, you never touch a man’s Harley without permission.

As luck would happen, that day I was wearing shorts, and after hopping on it and just as it started going forward, as the second step from my right leg had gone back, I was immediately aware of my mistake. I had just for a half a second made contact with the exhaust pipe with my right calf and immediately smelled the burnt flesh which was about three inches wide and roughly eight inches long. The only good part of it was I had managed through the pain not to drop the bike and for some reason continued on to move the bike into the garage.

To this day I have a scar about half that size and will forever remember the day I forgot, even for less than a second, to respect a Harley, even if it wasn’t mine.