When We've Seen One, We've Only Seen One.
A THREE MINUTE READ
Does anyone like the idea of experiencing personal, reality-busting surprises? I don’t see a lot of hands going up. We may like it when other people grow as we’re turning the pages or sitting entranced in front of some screen. But more times than not, our minds are pretty settled. We know what we need to know, and everything fits at least loosely into our bone-encased narrative. So, there’s no reason to shake things up, right?
The older I get, the more I think we may be missing some golden opportunities for enlightenment when we shut down new ways of thinking.
Years ago, as a relative newbie in the motorcycle world, I remember a sense of freedom as I worked my way from upstate New York toward the Florida Keys. On a long stretch through southern Georgia, the endless highway beckoned ahead, and all 50 horses of my Honda purred beneath me. Life was good, until it wasn’t. My eyes started to burn as I passed one lush farm field after another. The burning and tearing got progressively worse and I was having problems seeing - so I drifted onto the shoulder. As I lifted my leg off the bike I heard a guy yell - are you OK?
His Harley was parked maybe fifty feet behind me as he approached. He had seen me meandering and was hoping I would stop. After I explained what was going on, he turned, went back to his bike and rifled through his saddle bags. “Harry” returned with antihistamine eye drops because he’d apparently “been here” before. Over the course of maybe fifteen minutes, we shared a few road thoughts until my eyes responded to the curbside treatment, and we were off on our separate ways.
But I remember his concern and that kindness stayed with me.
There’s a slightly strained relationship between Harley riders and all the other two-wheeled travelers - at least when pack-behavior kicks in. Think “rice-burners” hanging from trees. If I asked you to describe the distinguishing features of a typical Harley rider, most northern Americans could oblige within a few seconds. Most of us know “the look,” and Harry had it. When asked to describe a typical Kawasaki or Honda motorcyclist, you might find yourself up a dead-end road.
Motorcycle aficionados don’t drive Harley Davidsons because they’re less expensive, burn less fuel, need less maintenance or go faster than other bikes. Those would be the characteristics of Japanese bikes. A substantial number of Harley enthusiasts, at least to my biased mind, are drawn to the brand, its “uniforms” or clubs, as a means of belonging. There might even be a collective sense of machismo that rides along with the HD Logo.
What I’ve realized is that loyalty to almost any group entails putting on blinders which protect the member from alien thoughts or different ways of thinking. To be certain, some blinders are more opaque than others, but they’re all key to the branding process.
The slow creep of blind loyalty precludes considerations of the evolving costs of that loyalty, both literally and figuratively. As some “brands” morph into something that would have been categorically rejected at the onset, they are slowly rationalized for fewer and fewer defensible reasons. Please feel free to read all you want to into this paragraph.
So, what do we do with the Harry’s in the world?
How about we give them the benefit of the doubt. If we had had exactly the same backgrounds and experiences as Harry had, would we be thinking or behaving the way we do today? I have zero reason to believe that Harry was anything but a decent guy. I actually know nothing about him, though tattoos, beard, Southern accent and a gruff character make it all too easy to toss him into one of the larger baskets that I carry. Would we have agreed on most of the answers to life’s biggest questions? Maybe. Would we have agreed on the best policy initiatives to address societal challenges? I doubt it.
Let’s presume that there are millions of people who have been drawn onto chutes with no easy exit ramps. Be it problems with addiction, poverty, consumerism, homelessness, or misplaced loyalties, none of us are immune from taking the first step toward the greased slide.
Full disclaimer, Harley’s do have a wonderful and distinguishable exhaust note.
When my daughter lived in 'Dogpatch' in San Francisco, the neighborhood started experiencing a string of street robberies. People were being jumped as they walked to the local grocery or went about their day. The Hells Angels have a club in Dogpatch. It wasn't far from where she lived.
Perhaps your first thought as you read the above might have been that the Hells Angels were responsible. After all, they are lumped into 'that group'.
But you would be wrong. The members of the Hells Angels protected their neighbors, setting up around the streets and making sure there were no more attacks. One of the members followed my daughter home from her trip to the store so she wouldn't have to worry. He made sure she was safely back inside before riding off with that unique Harley sound you described.
In the story I posted last week I talked about the man who took 20 minutes out of his day to walk my husband and me to the museum in Balboa Park. He was really kind and generous. What I didn't mention in my story was that he was covered with tattoos, clearly visible because he wore a sleeveless t-shirt. Why not mention it? Because the story was about his kindness, not about the labels someone might attach to him. The tattoos had nothing to do with whether he was kind or not. But the mention of them might have influenced readers. Perhaps if we stop attaching labels to others we can begin to remove the stigmas attached to them.
Thanks for bringing this topic to light, Mark.
It is good to have some curiosity about people. Opening up to the possibility that another person may have a thought or a concern worth listening to, instead of immediately judging them on surface characteristics, including contrasting preferences about a lot of issues.
PS I'm familiar with both rice burners and Harleys. Did some long distance riding in my younger days (not actually driving them myself - except the dirt bike my dad let me have until I got too many burns from the muffler). I remember being amused at the blockades for missile testing at White Sands - totally different treatment when in an 18 wheel truck, in an RV or on a motorcycle. Same people every time but the differences in how we were treated was enormous.