I’ve never owned a Harley Davidson and I’ve never been a biker chick, nevertheless, I have always liked the unmistakable sound of a big masculine Harley pulling up beside me at a gas station or passing by me on the open road; I like the look of them too. If I was ever to purchase a motor bike (not that it’s very likely now) it would have to be a Harley. Of course, Chris knows my feelings on this subject so, when he saw a big beautiful three-wheeler in the car park at Trago Mills (our favourite store in Devon) my husband thought I might like to inspect it.
“There’s a three-wheeler bike with lots of chrome on it over there,” Chris pointed into the distance.
I squinted my eyes and nodded my interest.
“Well, if you like Mum and I can pick up the paint in the car and come back for you in the car park in a few minutes,” Chris continued obligingly (he knows how to make a girl happy).
So they zoomed off in the car and I hastened over to the bike. A good-looking lad wearing a red football kit sat on a rail and looked at the bike.
“Is it your motor bike?” I queried.
The lad smiled, not quite answering, but somehow suggesting to me that I wasn’t far wrong.
“Or maybe it’s your dad’s bike?” That seemed the more likely scenario.
The boy beamed at me but still he said not a word.
“You must feel very proud sitting behind your dad as he drives his bike,” I continued.
The boy smiled a sheepish smile that made me think he was a nice modest lad.
Then a man came along – not the owner (because he didn’t talk to the boy, and he didn’t look like him) – just another interested person. We a had a short chat about chrome and the nice sound a Harley makes compared to other bikes. He walked around the bike as we conversed and, satisfied, smiled a goodbye before slipping through a gap in the trees to find his car.
Suddenly, another, younger, boy wearing a red football kit appeared beside his big brother and a lady across the road spoke to both boys, perhaps urging them to “Come along”.
“What a shame you haven’t brought your phone,” I heard her say.
“I have,” I called out, “I’ll take some photo’s and put them on my blog so the boys can see them.”
I was still smiling to myself a little while after the mother and her children had gone (the boy hadn’t lied) when a man and woman came along. It seemed to me that they came to look and sneer at the big shiny attraction.
“It’s not even a Harley Davidson,” he derided.
“But it has the eagle insignia,” I answered (well he was standing exactly opposite me).
“Anyone can stick an eagle on a machine,” he leered and showed a set of dirty teeth, “but look closer – it’s a Peugeot! It’s a car with a wheel missing, and it’s got a French engine!”
When I was younger I might have been too frightened of the xenophobic gnome with the wicked glinting eyes and nasty teeth to dare answer back, but I’m older now and less fearful of speaking up.
“I’ve got a French engine – a “Vel Satis” – a Renault (I added in case he didn’t know the make of our obscure car)”. I fancy I may have jutted my chin a tiny bit at him.
“The ‘Vel Satis’ were so awful that Renault only made four!” the gnome could hardly contain his laughter.
At that moment Chris drew up silently beside us in the car (anyway, one of the four) favoured by stylish French presidents. Chris tooted the horn.
“Here it is,” I said, “powerful, luxurious – like a limousine…”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” the ignoble man shook his head and a thin but long lock of lank greasy hair fell over one eyebrow.
Actually, he wasn’t that bad – I was getting a tad carried away; but you know what they say… that “there’s many a true word said in jest”!
Needless to say, it was not without some pleasure that I got into our car and Chris, somewhat impatient at having to wait for me, put down his foot and the Vel Satis took off like a rocket.
-
- Bad luck to be stood next to the dream machine.
