I love my Harley.
Logic tells me I shouldn't, that I can't because it is an inanimate object.
Other people look at me like I'm some sort of freak if I tell them and I have noticed that people react differently according to their level of empathy. For example, the vast majority of motorcyclists that ride Japanese bikes either develop a way of looking at me that successfully mixes disdain, pity and wonderment or an attitude that I am simply uninformed, having a mid life crisis or dust plain dumb. Its worse when I open up and tell people who don't ride at all and even some of the Harley riding guys think I'm a few nuts and bolts short of the whole packet.
The other motorcyclists often cite really logical arguments as to why I should ditch my harley and buy a Japanese bike, but I don't care. I don't care that they're cheaper, more reliable, more powerful and easier to insure. I don't care that I can't keep up with the sportsbikes in the mountain switchbacks and scratchers roads.
I just don't care.
Funnily enough, its the ladies who seem to understand my weird affliction more than the guys, although perhaps they don't understand at all and don't want to hurt my feelings by laughing?
But I can't help it, I love my Harley.
She's even got a name....
I called her "Lucky" after the bike shop fire that was supposed to consume her didn't. Like a typical lady, she was fashionably late arriving and was still safely sitting in a shipping container on the docks as several of her brand new sisters burned to the ground.
Lucky has got something none of those other bikes have and I should know, I've had sixteen of those other ones.
She's got soul.
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