The late April sun bathes the central Florida rolling hills, normally serene under an azure sky bereft of the billowy formations that portend intermittent relief from the radiant, celestial beams. Normally serene, yes, because on this day a parade of joy-riding bikers donning leather jackets and black helmets from some Bismarckian era pollute the countryside with their belching exhaust pulses. The stream of Harley-Davidsons sounds like the deck of the Akagi on an early December morning, 1941.
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Nature bows before the steel hogs, waiting for them to eventually pass beyond the next hill of what locals refer to as Dungarvin Road. For now, the “quiet of the sky” as Wordsworth wrote, is extinguished by the unmuffled blasts of 20 45-degree V-twin engines. The procession is slow, and the noise lingers without end and without passage for those following.
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From the rear, a familiar and high-pitched buzz quickly rises in volume as a forward-leaning kid in a fire suit races his Kawasaki Ninja around the score of thunder bikes, middle finger raised defiantly in the air. What appears to be a battle won by the rocket rider is seen more as a mosquito-like nuisance to this gang on Harleys. It is just another skirmish in a long war pitting rival cultures that refuse to believe they have anything in common, when in fact they are more alike than either would care to admit.
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It is the culture war of the new millennium: the hog riders versus the rocket riders. And like the gang wars of the inner city, most observers simply wish both sides would go away. And although what was once a “hot” war between these two factions of riders has cooled over the years, the cultural divide still exists.
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“They used to burn motorcycles if it wasn’t a Harley, back in the day,” said Harley rider Jack Smith of Palatka. “There used to be a rivalry, and I guess there are pockets of that, still.”
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The Harley-Davidson heyday coincided with the heyday of Hells Angels, and the reputation still follows, though unfair.
Whereas the criminal gangs whose calling card was the hog – a Harley or Indian or perhaps a Victory – still exist in places, that machine now does the dirty work for gramps, grannies, former yuppies and suburbanites as much as it does for the unwashed rebels and self-proclaimed bad asses in our midst. Most Harley riders one encounters these days are simply on a joy ride, soaking in the wind and rays in ‘Status Symbol Land.’
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To many sport bikers, such is the picture painted of the cruiser: old and slow, a relic of a bygone era that just gets in the way. The saddlebags of the cruisers serve as a punchline, much like the picnic basket balancing on the handlebars of an ancient Pashley. Built for comfort, not speed, the rumbling hog appeals to the younger generation no more than wall calendars or Windows 7.
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“I think some Harley riders are kind of mean to sport bikers,” said 16-year-old Gavin Smith (no relation to the aforementioned Jack), who rides a Yamaha R6, the newer versions which are strictly racing bikes. “They think they ride stupid, ride too fast.”
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On that point, the Harley riders may have the high ground in this battle. According to Consumer Reports statistics, fatality rates among high-performance sport bikes are four times that of cruisers. Whereas the liter class sport bikes such as the Yamaha R1 or Kawasaki ZX-10R can reach speeds of 185 mph, the standard cruiser can generally only reach speeds in the 100 to 115 mph range.
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Too fast, or too stupid, or both?
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“Some of them are pretty young and have never been to the two-day bike course which is required,” Jack Smith said. “Some of these kids, they hop on them, and you find them down the road in a ditch. A seasoned rider has retired into something a little easier, a cruiser instead of a Ninja.”
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The Harley-Davidson built its reputation through leather, chrome, and thunderous exhaust in addition to hardened ruffians who make their own rules. The accoutrements remain the same while the ruffians have given way to those who still look the part but are more likely to gather for charity benefits than bar fights. The notion is not lost on the cynical sport bikers, who view the cruisers as tough guy posers concerned more with looking like a tough rebel than actually living it.
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But, just as a certain romance and mysticism follows swashbuckling pirates and outlaw cowboys, these historical miscreants are nonetheless envied for their careless freedom. The rebel biker these days still stands as a point of emulation today, even if cosmetic. To a biker, though, the freedom of the ride is a very real thing despite the cynicism.
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Gavin’s father Jason, 52, likens biking to a therapeutic drug, and he’s hardly alone. “It’s always been my anti-depressant,” he says. “Me and the wife get in an argument, and I get on (a Harley) and go ride, and come back with a smile on my face.”
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Wife therapy – definitely NOT among the selling features of a high-performance sport bike and yet another divide in the culture. According to the leather-clad cruisers, sport bike riders are not likely to have wives at home, anyway. This divide is mainly about young and old, more of a generation gap instead of a culture gap.
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“We’re slower, older people,” says a Harley rider from Daytona who calls himself Umpy. “I’ve ridden Kawasakis and Yamahas, but strictly as I got older I prefer the Harleys.”
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And those who ride the sport bikes? “There are some ding-dongs that like the speed, but there are some guys who just like to lay down and take the turns nice. If one of our friends was riding a ‘Yami’ or a ‘Kawi’ they could ride along with us; we don’t care.”
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The hog riders know they’re old and the sport bike riders know they’re careless – oil and water just don’t mix. For decades, the very notion of a sport bike rider among a clan of cruisers was akin to a sumo wrestler in a ballet: Not only does it look weird, it is just plain wrong. Today, though still an oddity of sorts, such a scene happens without much fanfare.
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“15, 20 years ago, Harley riders and sport bike riders, they didn’t get along, but it’s a different deal now,” said Jason Smith, whose family consists of both. “Me and my wife go to bike weeks, and sport bikes are part of the group – nobody cares.”
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Today, the cultural war boils down basically to fast versus slow, slick versus gruff, plastic versus chrome, composite fabric versus leather, rash versus cautious. It’s the parent who drags everyone to the bird-taming show while all the kids want to ride SheiKra. It’s a divide created simply via the passage of time and just when one happened to hop on board. Even those riding rockets today are likely to be riding hogs in the future as their cerebral cortices finally develop.
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In the 1960s, Honda tried to convince the world that there was nothing inherently rebellious or nefarious about riding a motorcycle. Claiming “You meet the nicest people on a Honda” the company successfully invited the world of squares into the biker fiefdom. Ever since, the biker world has been at war with itself, throwing competing conceptions of reality and ultimately world views at each other as though it was one big cock fight. But one does not see riders of Harleys and Vespas engaging in verbal showdowns, nor are dirt bikers somehow thrown into the mix – it’s all one big multi-cultural drum circle.
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No, the friction is relegated simply to hogs and rockets, where the cosmetic differences seem to trump all the other seemingly-more important similarities. Both bikes are loud, both are ridden for the sake of fun, and both require a level of respect for a machine that no car driver will ever possess. And that is where the real war is actually brewing: the common enemy of those on four wheels.
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If “the enemy of my enemy is my friend” then cruisers and sport bikers should shake hands and call a truce immediately.
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“Most people from my experience think it’s dangerous enough without us being at each other’s throats,” said Gavin’s brother Logan. “We have to look out for each other.”
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Case in point: At the stoplight, a biker pulls in between two cars and the drivers cast daggers with their eyes at him. The expectation of the biker is that he will do anything to beat traffic and use that tighter frame to his advantage, this being another of those times. Even the thought of opening the door to block the biker’s way crosses the mind of the annoyed motorist.
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But assumptions of intentions are better left to psychics.
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Logan, only 24, loves to use this example of how bikers are sometimes misunderstood, at no fault of their own: “They don’t do it to be rude; they do it because it’s safe for them, so somebody doesn’t rear-end them at the light.”
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That misdirected ire goes for bikers of all strands, thus uniting them against a common foe: danger.
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“No one knows more how dangerous a bike is than a biker. Half the people driving a car aren’t looking out for bikers, so we’ve got to look out for each other.”
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They both love the freedom of the open road, they both spend high percentages of their wages on gear and cycle accessories, they both fear the unaware car driver and, most importantly, they both love to ride. The similarities outweigh the cultural differences so perhaps the time has come for a treaty, an alliance of sorts to protect them from everybody else on the road.
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“There isn’t any animosity; they respect each other to a degree,” says Jack Smith.”You’re all still bikers and you’ll have a beer together.”