I am a 60-plus-year-old kid that still works as an IT consultant. I hope to write a humorous, slightly apocryphal column with some real life insights.
Well, the title is not completely accurate, but I got your attention, didn't I? I noticed our freeways and local roads are filling up with the Harley riders. You know, celebrating every 5 years or so the advent of the Harley mechanical birth. I haven't ridden a motorcycle since I was a young man, but I am the faux Harley guy you notice at the local bar. I talk loud, wear a Harley bandanna, and I display my cool skull chain that hangs out of my jeans pocket. I have a Harley logo removable tattoo on my left bicep(I hate needles).
Coming back from a vacation car trip, I happened to run into a veritable sea of moving Harley bikes. Luckily they were going in the other direction, and I waved at the roadside parade watchers. I kept screaming out my window at people and said "How about those Harley potatoes potatoes!!!!". I then turned my car around and brought up the rear. The sheriff deputies kept looking back at me, but I waved at them and gave them a thumbs up. When we all got to the Kenosha lakefront, I told the deputy that I was related to David's son. I said it real fast and I do have an Uncle David. The deputy shrugged and I then grabbed my Harley getup from my trunk and changed in the porta potty. With my dangling skull key chain, I then started walking towards the V.I.P. tent.
There were a lot of ZZ Top look alikes and that was just the biker kids!! I knew I was in harms way with my lack of Harley vernacular. So this tough looking woman came my way and asked me, "What are you riding?" I almost mentioned my current red and orange Chevy Cavalier. I came to my senses and muttered, "A four banger with clutch recoil." She looked at me up and down and snarled, "Get out of here before I wipe my Harley boots with you, and I don't like to mess up my boots!!!" I started backing up real fast and then I bumped into a Harley guy with the name "Bubba" on his vest. I'm not first generation ethnic, but my brain was screaming "oy vey, oy vey."
I could clearly see Bubba's name. His head turned my way and then the shadow of his skull darkened my outlook on life, but I perked up! It was somebody I knew from grade school. I said a few words to him and reminded him of the times I would willingly turn over my candy and lunch to him. He smiled and said "Yes, I remember. You were one of the few kids who thanked me." I grinned and slowly kept walking out of the tent. The morale of this story for me is "No more Harley Holidays anytime soon."