though I will grant you that considering the burgeoning population growth of "Bikers" it may be "old(er) biker" lifestyle. I would be remiss if I reprinted this without including a pic of Chainsaw and Girl Geek. You can determine whose who (if you miss Ms. Geek replace old"er" above with dead).You can get more of Chainsaw at: http://www.soeastbiker.com/
"Back in the days before there were even the slightest of inklings, or the blue spark of an idea to overdose the customers and the curious, with gee-gaws, coffee, baby clothes, and over the top jewelry, devoted exclusively to a boutique style section of so-called "officially licensed merchandise," Harley-Davidson dealerships that I encountered, didn't offer much more than t-shirts, and very limited selection of them, if there was a selection to be made at all.
This was before it was "cool" to own a Harley and made an owner of new bike, instantly, a weekend bad ass by virtue of possession, and Jay Springsteen was the hottest dude on the flat track circuit.
Most folks with two brain cells left to rub together, know that this equation does not compute. Try telling that to all the Doctors, Lawyers, C.P.A.'s, and any ugly redheaded stepchildren that have an over expendable income.
Most old schoolers wore the Harley-Davidson shirts with pride, as it separated them from the herd just by wearing one of those white t-shirts, with the red, white, and blue number one on it.
I couldn't afford the seven to ten bucks for those things. Seven to ten bucks, that's pretty funny looking back, huh?
I wanted a black ball cap with H-D wings on it. None were to be found. They say that necessity is the mother of invention so, I finally found myself a plain, black, mesh, ballcap at T.G.and Y., a retail store that died long before Wally World left Bentonville, Arkansas.
I made the trek to Herb's Harley-Davidson in Gainesville, Florida and bought myself a patch that belonged on the back of a vest for three dollars. It was the classic, black and gold, silver-winged patch with the bar and shield in the middle, and set about sewing it onto the front of that black ballcap. I didn't care that the ends of the wings almost touched together at the back of the hat, I had me a "one of a kind."
I am far from being anywhere close to a seamstress, or seamster, if you want to use the correct gender vernacular, but after sticking myself a couple of thousand times with the needle, I had those wings sewed to the ballcap like kevlar. That hat was the coolest of the cool in my opinion, others may have thought that I was nuts, but I could have cared less. I wore it everywhere I went. E-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e, and it didn't have a tag inside that mentioned anything about any kind of licensed product.
Those closest to me had the most vocal and negative reactions to the hat after it had been sweat in, rained on, and various biologicals from fish and fowl, embedded in its natural bouquet, from wearing it for years without it once seeing a washing machine.
Wash my hat? I don't think so. The concept was inconceivable. Forget about it.
Visiting my family up in Georgia, I was harangued by my stepfather to take it off during the time spent in the dining establishment we all went out to eat at...Hardees. Woo-hoo, look out Mr. Moneybags! I finally complied with his wishes as the family hadn't been together in one place in many years, but to me that was all the more reason not to take it off.
As I got caught up in the conversations with my brothers and stepbrothers, the big spending Patriarch slid the hat away from me without my knowledge. We got up to leave and I felt that something wasn't quite right and when we all got into our respective vehicles it dawned on me just as he passed by in his car holding up the hat, what was not quite right.
Back at his home, I played hell getting it back from him. Not because it was all funky and nasty, he just hated the fact that I valued the hat to the degree that I did, and that Harley-Davidson was emblazoned across the front.
I did agree to wash it at my mother's request.
Now, you know that you have to truly love your mother, if you permit yourself to cross that line after that much time, and grime went into the hats personality. Yep, you know that the worst case scenario happened. My treasured headpiece fell totally apart.
The brim had fallen off, the plastic mesh separated from the front of the hat, the cardboard that stiffened the front of the hat and the bill had turned to pulp and was falling out from between the black outer material and the green inner material. The only thing that remained intact was the classic, black and gold, silver-winged patch with the bar and shield in the middle.
The hat went into the trash can, almost like a burial at sea. I let the patch air dry, and when I got it back home, it ended up being the perfect excuse to cut the sleeves off of my wrangler jacket and sew it onto the back, at the bottom edge of the jacket.
Since those ancient times, I've not coveted anything to that degree other than my large, eight and half inch glass ashtray, that sits beside me on my desk that is thoroughly seasoned with about a quarter inch of nicotine crud.
The only coveted items with the factory brand or markings on them from Harley-Davidson are, "dip-dots" that have been collected from the boutiques from whatever area of the country we happen to be in when we are on a road trip."
"I can relate. Besides my hat I have a pair of jeans so worn out I only wear them on special occasions for fear they may suffer the same fate"
This was before it was "cool" to own a Harley and made an owner of new bike, instantly, a weekend bad ass by virtue of possession, and Jay Springsteen was the hottest dude on the flat track circuit.
Most folks with two brain cells left to rub together, know that this equation does not compute. Try telling that to all the Doctors, Lawyers, C.P.A.'s, and any ugly redheaded stepchildren that have an over expendable income.
Most old schoolers wore the Harley-Davidson shirts with pride, as it separated them from the herd just by wearing one of those white t-shirts, with the red, white, and blue number one on it.
I couldn't afford the seven to ten bucks for those things. Seven to ten bucks, that's pretty funny looking back, huh?
I wanted a black ball cap with H-D wings on it. None were to be found. They say that necessity is the mother of invention so, I finally found myself a plain, black, mesh, ballcap at T.G.and Y., a retail store that died long before Wally World left Bentonville, Arkansas.
I made the trek to Herb's Harley-Davidson in Gainesville, Florida and bought myself a patch that belonged on the back of a vest for three dollars. It was the classic, black and gold, silver-winged patch with the bar and shield in the middle, and set about sewing it onto the front of that black ballcap. I didn't care that the ends of the wings almost touched together at the back of the hat, I had me a "one of a kind."
I am far from being anywhere close to a seamstress, or seamster, if you want to use the correct gender vernacular, but after sticking myself a couple of thousand times with the needle, I had those wings sewed to the ballcap like kevlar. That hat was the coolest of the cool in my opinion, others may have thought that I was nuts, but I could have cared less. I wore it everywhere I went. E-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e, and it didn't have a tag inside that mentioned anything about any kind of licensed product.
Those closest to me had the most vocal and negative reactions to the hat after it had been sweat in, rained on, and various biologicals from fish and fowl, embedded in its natural bouquet, from wearing it for years without it once seeing a washing machine.
Wash my hat? I don't think so. The concept was inconceivable. Forget about it.
Visiting my family up in Georgia, I was harangued by my stepfather to take it off during the time spent in the dining establishment we all went out to eat at...Hardees. Woo-hoo, look out Mr. Moneybags! I finally complied with his wishes as the family hadn't been together in one place in many years, but to me that was all the more reason not to take it off.
As I got caught up in the conversations with my brothers and stepbrothers, the big spending Patriarch slid the hat away from me without my knowledge. We got up to leave and I felt that something wasn't quite right and when we all got into our respective vehicles it dawned on me just as he passed by in his car holding up the hat, what was not quite right.
Back at his home, I played hell getting it back from him. Not because it was all funky and nasty, he just hated the fact that I valued the hat to the degree that I did, and that Harley-Davidson was emblazoned across the front.
I did agree to wash it at my mother's request.
Now, you know that you have to truly love your mother, if you permit yourself to cross that line after that much time, and grime went into the hats personality. Yep, you know that the worst case scenario happened. My treasured headpiece fell totally apart.
The brim had fallen off, the plastic mesh separated from the front of the hat, the cardboard that stiffened the front of the hat and the bill had turned to pulp and was falling out from between the black outer material and the green inner material. The only thing that remained intact was the classic, black and gold, silver-winged patch with the bar and shield in the middle.
The hat went into the trash can, almost like a burial at sea. I let the patch air dry, and when I got it back home, it ended up being the perfect excuse to cut the sleeves off of my wrangler jacket and sew it onto the back, at the bottom edge of the jacket.
Since those ancient times, I've not coveted anything to that degree other than my large, eight and half inch glass ashtray, that sits beside me on my desk that is thoroughly seasoned with about a quarter inch of nicotine crud.
The only coveted items with the factory brand or markings on them from Harley-Davidson are, "dip-dots" that have been collected from the boutiques from whatever area of the country we happen to be in when we are on a road trip."
"I can relate. Besides my hat I have a pair of jeans so worn out I only wear them on special occasions for fear they may suffer the same fate"
