Tommy in Harley Davidson's magazine

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The early 1970s was a time when a Harley-Davidson rider still carried the stigma of a borderline outlaw and was often viewed with suspicious eyes. We got pulled over by “The Man” more than once, for no apparent reason. One time, while two Texas policemen were checking out us and our bikes, a bunch of teenagers across the road grouped at Dairy Queen to watch the show. When the cops couldn’t find anything wrong and sent us on our way, the kids all cheered. Very cool. We waved in appreciation of their support and rode on. Small-town gas and food stops were also exceptions to the “outlaw” perception. While fueling up, a friendly voice might ask where you were from or where you were going. If there was an old timer around he would want to know how far you could make it on a tank of gas – a good thing to keep in mind in the desert! But curiosity more typically centered around the mystique of the motorcycles themselves. Dawg’s Sportster always drew onlookers, but the alien lines and radical appearance of my chopper always called for closer examination. 36 HOG
Other encounters were memorable for different reasons. Once we came upon a café on a mountain road in Arizona and stopped for a meal. When she – call her “Desert Flower” – came to take our drink order, it occurred to me that I might be making the trip back to Louisiana by myself. The Dawg never shows an opening, but I was watching, and with the click of a shutter recorded for all time his enchantment with Desert Flower. He was enamored and moonstruck all in one bundle. And embarrassed. Yep, he sure was. Resisting the charms of young waitresses was one challenge; keeping the Panhead rolling was another. One afternoon on a broad, sweeping curve, I felt the rear end begin to fishtail. By the time I stopped, the rear tire was all but flat. To my knowledge, this was before the handy CO2 inflatable tire kits many riders carry now. What I did know is how to find rocks to support the bike, remove the rear wheel, load it on the Dawg’s Sportster, and head back to a small burg we recently passed to repair the tube. While I was doing all the work, the Dawg rested in the open sun of an Indian reservation near Tres Piedras. When we finally made it to the Grand Canyon, we parked our scooters at a ranger station warehouse and began our trek down the Hermit Trail at the South Rim. By the time we had descended a few hundred feet along the trail, I had the feeling of getting a tour inside the largest living thing on earth, as the canyon felt absolutely alive. On one side, a wall rose hundreds of feet straight up; on the other, it dropped hundreds of feet straight down. We made camp on the trail and fell asleep to undisturbed quiet like I had never heard. And until that night I only thought I had seen the stars. HOG 37
Page 2 and 3: 32 HOG
Page 4 and 5: 34 HOG
Page 8 and 9: Today, the “Canyon Run” remains
Page 10: Find out more about the adventures

Tommy in Harley Davidson's magazine

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