Poor Delilah. Sitting there all cold and alone, with nothing to keep her company but a 6-month supply of bottled water and a cold steel garage door who gets far more action right now than she does. In fact, the garage door is kind of a jerk to Delilah, always opening just long enough to blast the poor girl with some awful arctic chill. What did she ever do to you G.D.?
What the hell am I even writing about? Hahaha. I don’t know.
Delilah. My 2013 Harley-Davidson Heritage Softail.
It was love at first sight, and when I saw her I had to woo her. I had to win her over. I had to have her. She was exciting and dangerous. She is a constant reminder that if I’m not careful with her, she’ll be the end of me. That’s why I named her Delilah.
I miss her. I don’t know how or why some people still ride their bikes in the wintertime. When I ride, I ride to enjoy long, slow, and mostly empty roads. I ride to disappear into the heat of the sun above while the wind floods through my riding jacket. I ride to forget the world for a moment. Winter riding, and layering deep to keep at bay some horrible wind chill, holds absolutely no appeal to me. Too much effort, there.
What the hell am I even writing about? Hahaha. I still don’t know. I sat down to write about something completely unrelated, but before I did, I went to the garage to grab an ice cold winter-chilled water, and I caught myself longingly looking at Delilah before I came back in. So, she’s on my mind.
It was never really my choice whether to get a motorcycle in my previous life and relationships, so I never did. Any talk of it over the years always ended in my significant other demanding that I would certainly die, and I not having any way to promise them I wouldn’t. It’s true. People die on motorcycles. But it’s rare. And it’s even more rare with a bike as big as mine and a love for going on long, slow, and mostly empty roads like I do.
Finally I drug my longing butt into a Harley-Davidson learners’ school and I took the four-day course where we would learn how to do all sorts of things like… not die.
We practiced on these teeny tiny Buell 500s. I am 6’4”. I am solid. And big. And by the end of that course I had both validated my suspected deep love for riding, and had learned that big guys riding little bikes leads to cramps, and pain, and discomfort, and general bitterness toward the world for their bigotry against giant sexy gorillas like me.
The moment the course was over, and I mean the moment it was over, I walked into the show room, and I started eyeing and sitting on the different Harleys. My entire life I have wanted a Harley. I don’t know why. I had Harley-Davidson posters growing up. My favorite stuffed animal as a kid was this bad-ass boar with tattoos. The words “Harley Hog” were printed on its little pleather jacket. I even took him to college with me. I wonder if he’s still sitting in a box somewhere. I kind of want to go dig through my mom’s storage room and see.