My father had an ex WW2 Harley, a Norton long stroke and an Indian, all of which I grew up on. At the age of three (1949) he would put me on the pillion (blown up inner tube held onto the back mudguard with string) of the Harley and wrap the belt of his Army greatcoat around both of us and off we would go - father and son into the wild blue yonder - or Bristol city centre as it was known to everyone else.
 
As times got harder the bikes were sold and it wasn't until I was 16 that I climbed on one once more. It was a second-hand BSA C15 (250cc) which I rode daily to school when in the fifth form (1963). It was the bike on which I first courted Jill, the girl I eventually married in 1968 (we celebrated our Ruby Wedding Anniversary this year). In 1964 I bought a second-hand Matchless 500cc twin. Both fine bikes, but the one I wanted was a Harley. However, I couldn't afford one at the time. Jill and I and our friends (who we still have to this day) loved going out on picnics and rides to the beach - usually Weston Super Mare, somewhat renowned then for the sea never being in. Our 'gang' hung around on a north Bristol suburban street corner outside the house of one of the friends with all the bikes lined up alongside the pavement until a policeman moved us on one day. There was no argument - we just shifted and came back when we saw him ride off. He rode a brand new Aerial Leader and we were all in awe of him - how different respect for the law is nowadays.
 
Promotion in my company meant a move to Plymouth in 1972 and the longing for a Harley persisted - but was not realised because family came first and times still weren't that flush. Fast forward to 1995 - a particularly good bonus from Grand Met the company I was with then allowed my dream to come true. I saw a 1991 Harley sportster for sale. (I wanted a Harley Softail, but the bonus wasn't that good!) I bought is as soon as I saw its bright yellow paintwork and sparkling chrome. I spent the next year putting on a three gallon tank, forward controls, saddle bags and high rise bars - it looked magnificent (and, I liked to believe, something like a softail - or was that just my wishful thinking?). I rode it as often as I could in charity rallies and across Dartmoor, close to where we live. It was my pride and joy. Everyone looked at it when I rode out or when it was parked. The polished yellow paintwork and bright chrome turned heads. Despite that and after a gap for me of not riding a bike for thirty years, Jill wouldn't ride pillion with me - not that I blamed her - I don't think I would have ridden pillion with me, either. I retired from business in 1997 at the age of fifty and pursued my strong interest in painting and writing thrillers. I had the bike until last year when I realised that I was losing my confidence on two wheels. When I was out I was constantly checking to see if motorists had seen me or if they were going to pull out in front of me at the last minute - or cut me up - all of which I had experienced riding the Harley. It wasn't fun for me any more. Selling it was like cutting off my right arm - but I sold it to a fellow Harley lover and I'm sure it's gone to a good home. The day he rode it away Jill and I and a couple of neighbours watched it disappear out of the cul de sac and over the brow of the hill. It was like waving goodbye to an old and trusted friend. Now I know how dad felt when he had to sell his bikes all those years ago. I always get a good feeling when I hear the throb of a Harley exhaust. Loud pipes not only save lives they save me from going loopy!

John White