That’s one title for this blog….the other might be: How to Empty a Harley Showroom.
Yep, that’s what I did today, without really intending to. No kidding. This is words-only blog, folks. I left my camera at home. Didn’t even have my cell phone with me, so bear with me, and I’ll try to paint a picture with words and letters.
We had a gorgeous in So Cal day today…temps in the low 70s, clear skies…perfect riding weather. After being cooped up all morning and part of the afternoon doing a bit of work on the computer, I knew I needed to get out. Don’t get me wrong…life is good here in the house, too. Susie had a big pot of corned beef on the stove (I love that aroma), there was a beautiful breeze gliding through the house, and I can waste time as good as the next guy checking email and brainless Facebook musings. But I knew I needed to get out and get my knees in the breeze. Yep, the Baja Blaster beckoned…
I grabbed my helmet and gloves, pushed my Scooter outside, and fired her up. Like always, that little 150 kicked over on first touch of the starter button. I pulled on my Bell helmet while the CSC warmed up, and I was off.
I cruised downtown, thinking maybe I’d get a haircut, but all the barber shops were closed. Just as well; that’s another ten bucks that’s going to stay where it belongs (in my wallet). With my bald noggin, getting a haircut probably works out to about a buck a hair. But not today.
Well, let’s see…I haven’t stopped at the local Harley dealer in a long time (and I knew he would be open). I had two Harleys in my younger days and I like their bikes, but wrestling with an 800-lb motorcycle that’s about as fast as my KLR 650 stopped making sense a long time ago.
It’s a Sunday, and I was right: The Harley dealer was open. There were maybe 5 or 6 big Harleys parked out front. I stopped my little CSC next to the big boys, killed the engine, took off my helmet, and wandered inside.
I like looking at Harleys, and the bikes inside were top notch. Visiting a Harley dealer has always been a little like going to a museum for me. The stuff inside is fascinating. Their styling and the paint jobs are absolutely awesome…they’re as good as it gets…which is to say they’re as good as a California Scooter. No other bike manufacturer is in the same league.
The Harleys did not disappoint, and to my surprise, I think they have actually come down a bit (the stickers seemed lower they used to be). Heritage Softails (like the one I used to ride) were in the $17K to $18K range, which is less than what I remembered. Two or three years ago I think the prices were higher by a good $2K or so.
At about this point, the two Harley sales guys who had locked onto me as soon as I walked in the door asked if I needed help. “Not today, guys,” I said. “I don’t want to waste your time or get your hopes up…it’s the Memorial Day weekend and I’m just getting my annual fix at the Harley art museum…”
They smiled. I guess I made it a bit easier (if not a bit disappointing) for them. Then, one of the sales guys suddenly lit up. “Are you the guy who rode in on that bike that looks like a Mustang?”
“Yep.”
“Hey,” he said to the other sales dude, “let’s go take a look at this…these are cool!”
Before I could react, the two sales guys were out the door, headed to the parking lot. There were three other guys in the showroom (I don’t know if they were customers or other guys who worked there…I can never tell the difference in a Harley showroom). They all followed the sale guys outside. Suddenly, I was alone in the showroom, lost among a sea of brand new Harleys and T-shirts. Well, almost alone. The receptionist was the only one left. (You’ve probably noticed this at your local Harley dealer. Harley dealers actually have a receptionist sitting just inside the door. As far as I can tell, it’s their job to say hello to everyone who walks in the door. And it’s always a pretty young lady. I probably wouldn’t even be allowed to fill out an application for that job.)
Anyway, all the action seemed to be headed out to my Scooter, so I went outside, too. There were now seven guys standing around my California Scooter. At first, I didn’t realize what was happening. Were they upset with me for violating a Harley sanctuary?
“Would you mind if I took your helmet off the bike so I can take a picture?” the first sales guy asked me.
“Uh, no,” I said. My sarcasm sensor was on full alert, but I wasn’t detecting any.
The Harley sales guy gingerly lifted my helmet off the bike and handed it to his compadre. He had his i-Phone out. He started snapping pictures. Then another Harley guy pulled his phone out and started doing the same thing. And then another one.
“I heard about these,” the sales guy said. “They’re awesome.”
“Yeah, they are,” I said.
“How fast does it go?” another Harley guy asked.
“Mine will go 66 mph,” I said.
I still wasn’t sure if these guys were having a bit of fun at my expense. But they weren’t. They were fascinated.
“Where are they made?” asked another.
“Over on Brackett Airfield,” I said.
“Here? In America?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“How fast does it go again?”
“66 mph.”
“Awesome.”
“So how much are they?” the sales guy asked. At this point, I decided that I would have some fun.
“Are you ready to buy today?” I asked. He smiled and then started laughing.
“They go for about $3700,” I said.
More pictures being snapped. More questions. I’m kind of used to the rock star treatment; I just didn’t expect to encounter it at a Harley dealer, and I sure didn’t ride over to steal their thunder or empty their showroom. I certainly didn’t expect to get it from guys who get paid to sell Harleys.
“Can I sit on it?” somebody asked.
Now it was my turn to smile. I handed him the key. “No wheelies or burnouts, okay?” I said. He was the first of several to take it out. Like always, they all came back smiling.
And me without a camera.
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