In midst of hoards of bikers honeymooning with their motorcycles, I decided to call it quits. As it is with the ending of any relationship, this one had been rocky for quite some time. Of course in the beginning I was in love and it was blissful, from the moment I saw my first Harley.
It was early June of 1978, in central Illinois, when the air was still cool but held the promise of heat that would be liquefying asphalt come August. I dropped my mom’s hand in the Kroger’s parking lot, blinded by sunlight glinting off the thundering pipes, and watched the burly bearded driver and his much younger looking blonde passenger cruise around the corner until my …
