Day 0: In the Beginning

By Jim

If a man's motorcycle is his baby, then shipping one crosscountry is like sending your child away, unaccompanied, on an airplane, to Grandma's house. You don't rest until you know it's landed where you intended, safe and sound. Delays drive you crazy.

Well, until about noon on Sunday, we could have retitled this blog "Four Crazy Men." "The motorcycles may arrive as early as Monday or Tuesday," came the early word. But Tuesday came and went, and we heard nothing more. "Your bikes will be there on Friday evening," said the shipper when we called on Wednesday. But as week faded into weekend, they still hadn't arrived. "They'll be there on Saturday morning at the latest," a voice from Milwaukee reassured Robb. But when I stopped by California Harley (the dealer in Harbor City, California that agreed to receive them for us) after landing in L.A. on Saturday afternoon, they still weren't there.

At least "Grandma" turned out to be nice. Our contacts at the Harley dealer are some of the friendliest folks I've ever met in the business world. First there was "LL," a salesman who turned out to be the nephew of one of my closest friends from--get this--Estonia! He hugged me and bought me a T-shirt before I had even caught my breath. Then LL introduced me to Dyna Dave, his manager, an urban cowboy who could probably sell his-n-hers towels to the Pope if he wanted to.

When the bikes finally arrived on Sunday at about noon, the service garage was closed, so Dave rolled them straight into his showroom, and parked them in his roped off "Sold" section. I stopped by again later that afternoon, on my way back into L.A. from my morning service down in San Diego County, just to thank Dave, and--of course--to check on my Bimmer.

It's strange to see a BMW cruiser sitting in a Harley showroom. The other guys' hogs were hulking next to it. They looked like burly American body guards watching over my little German sissy (a sissy with a small bladder as it turns out, compared to the Harley gas tanks).
California Harley Davidson opened at 10 on Monday morning, and by 10:30, LL, Dyna Dave, and a legend named Oilcan Al had moved our bikes out onto the lot, given us free t-shirts and a multi-tool, and we were ready to roll. We posed for a picture, and then cranked up the engines to begin our 4,500-mile adventure home. Or at least the Harleys cranked up. My little German just sat there with a dead battery. I felt like a stranded tourist from Stuttgart, sitting in a general store full of rednecks.
But Bubba and Co. were kind enough to give little Hans a push start, and once my bike revved. We hit the road. Eleven hours later--frozen to the gills and dizzy from riding Big Sur in the dark--we landed in Monterey. But that's another story.