Jack Frost Considers Architecture of the Harley
By Jeffrey Ross
On his way home one evening,
Frost, rumbling along on his aging Sportster,
Passed four bikes—three Dyna-glides and a modern-day Indian
on the long hill approaching Woods Canyon Lake.
The riders were typical— doo rags, chaps, tats, vests, boots sprawled on forward controls.
Their passengers-- lovely, fully-kitted long-legged women— with fashionable shades, spiked boots, charming tube tops, Motor Company bandinis— were hugging the tough guys...
An hour later, Frost sat on a white plastic chair, gazing at the still-cooling engine of his tired old Sportster, which was glowing dimly in the yellow bug-resisting light.
[A half empty bottle of good scotch was perched on the steps to his travel trailer...]
And it came to him like so many lightning bugs.
Yes, the women were lovely. Yes the tats and clothes were noticeable.
But when you distill things down to the truth—
It’s the architecture—not the culture.
His Sportster was still clinking as it cooled. He turned off the bug lamp and lit a smoke.