The Road King

The Road King

In my Mom's arms. Sturgis 1983.


It's not hard to understand how one of my favorite sounds could be that of an 88 cubic inch Harley Davidson V-twin engine. It's the most precious sound. Ever since the beginning of life, I've been exposed to it. Whether rumbling from the garage, roaring as Daddy leaves or returns, or from as close as I could get to it: on the back. It's a sound I can hear from far away and it's sentimental enough to put an emotional lump in my throat. From the initial sound the engine makes, to the powerful turn of the throttle, to the chugging sound of its idle, I wholeheartedly embrace it as a true love.

My Dad comes from an era when owning a Harley wasn't a sign of economic status, but a bad boy way of life lived by motorheads and fueled by wild house parties and bar fights. Long hair and stubble was topped with bucket helmets and tattooed skin was covered with broken-in leather, when it was covered at all. Expensive gear purchased by the those who can afford it to keep the elements out didn't exist. Sturgis wasn't a commercialized event for the masses, but a certain crowd's big camping trip supplied with booze, where bikes ridden in rather than trailered.

Just one of Daddy's custom creations.

Growing up, there was always a room in our house dedicated to housing parts, where a frame, exhaust pipes, saddlebags, and a headlight would be sit unassembled. Meanwhile, Dad was at swap meets every weekend hunting for parts and selling others. In the garage, burnout marks decorated the floor on which a beautiful custom-built bike stood proudly next to at least one other work-in-process. When the engine finally roared after months of wrenching away, it was an accomplishment we all felt proud of. I would stand in the driveway watching the maiden voyage, down the block and back beaming with pride as Dad rolled back in with a huge smile on his face. Every time the sound filled the house, I begged to go with him. I begged to feel the power of the engine, the heat of the exhaust pipes, and the fresh open air whizzing passed.

A very special finished product.

Finally, grown up and out of the house, while visiting home with my boyfriend at the time, he and my Dad shared a moment I'll never forget. A newly outfitted Road King was sitting on the back patio, not yet adorned with bags or pedals and all the other final touches it needed to be called complete work. He complimented the bike inquiring about its specifics, to which my Dad responded with an offer to sell it to him for an amazing deal. At that point, I felt that my life had come full circle and there aren't words for what I felt. "If a man can entrust his daughter’s boyfriend with the key to his Harley, all parties are set for life." My Dad's blood, sweat, and prideful lack of tears would soon sit in my own garage for me to admire every day. Sitting on the back of the bike was the best feeling I'd had since I was a little girl inspired by my Dad's hobby. A bike built by the most adored man in my life especially for a new one. Even though the bike wasn't my own, I miss it as if I'd lost something so close to my heart. It's satisfying knowing that a piece of my family will live on in that way.

Daddio



My Grandpa and I sitting on his Anniversary Edition Softail Heritage.



Grandpa leading the Rally for the Troops run.



Isn't she beautiful?

As Harleys get built and, later, leave my life, one thing holds true: I've yet to hear another sound that can tug on my heart strings like that of its engine.