27 April 2009
 
Hogs

(Night Train Hog)

They don’t call Harley-Davison motorcycles Hogs for nothing. They are big and noisy and as efficient as a Zippo Lighter.

My pal road his over to Big Pink on Saturday, and we compared the matchless classic lines of this unique American breed of swine.
 
My pal looks positively regal on his Hog, which is a full-dresser with all the bells and whistles. I don’t know the precise model- it looks like a Road King with a lot of heritage touches, but not as big as the gigantic touring bikes with the fiberglass fairings. There are flashed of crimson, and plenty of chrome and big springers on the fork that sports three big lights to let people know he is coming.
 
His bike has crimson touches, and wire-laced wheels, fat whitewall tires, and gorgeous leather-wrapped fittings. It is enough to turn heads anywhere.
 
Mine is understated; black-on-black with a low custom seat. My pal tells me part of the issue is the stock stainless drag bars on top of six-inch risers, which causes me to lean forward to grip the controls. He sits upright, with excellent military bearing.
 
I still like the hefty, one-piece tank that settles down on top of the Twin Cam 88B motor.
 
It is a minimalist approach to chrome, and the machine still intimidates me a little, which is a good thing. I do not want to be too far in front of this bike, and there have been cautionary tales aplenty;
 
Another old pal is about to go into surgery, having attempted to use his knee to correct a skid on his seven-hundred pound steed. Our Executive VP always stops by my office to tell me about the bikers he has seen laid down on the road.
 
‘Tis the season, I guess, with the warmth coming back to the asphalt and the earth and the lunatics all let out of the asylum of winter.
 
I am content to learn the two-wheeled mysteries in good time. My buddy and I share the same philosophy about the bikes, or at least I aspire to his: it is about wind in the face, not speed, and the risk-raking can be left to those younger who are not as afraid to get hurt.
 
We motored over to the gas station by Ballston Mall to check tire pressure and fluid levels- two standard prophylactics which are ignored only at your peril. I was briefly perplexed by the air machine, which cost four quarters for a brief spurt of pressurized gas.
 
I recalled the President’s admonition to check your tire pressure as a remedy to the fuel crisis. It seems like “free air” that ought to be one of the first priorities of the stimulus.
Anyway, I was stimulated enough just by getting out and feeling the breeze in my hair.
I got back to Tunnel Eight positively glowing, and turned on the radio as I cleared up the book-work that had piled up while I was outside not thinking.
 
Mexico, Canada and the US all are reporting an outbreak of a new flu that has elements of chickens, humans and pigs all mixed up.
 
They are not sure yet, but they say this could be the big one.
 
I am betting it is not, but tomorrow we will take a little ride on the Hog of memory, and talk about how these pandemic things go down.

Copyright 2009 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com