It was Saturday, May 19, 1997, another beautiful day to ride in New Mexico. The mornings are almost always clear in Albuquerque and by the time the sun rises over our moderate mountain range you know you should bring the sun screen along. Our varied and always breathtaking Countryside is crisscrossed with scenic roads that offer spectacular views. The best and most enjoyable way I know of traversing these vistas is on a motorcycle. More specifically, a Harley Davidson.

As often as we could my husband Mike and I would get on our bikes and meet up with friends for a run or just take off for parts not recently explored. It never mattered to me where we went; just that we went. This Saturday would not be like the others though, because the reality of what I had done suddenly became clearer to me than the New Mexico sky. Instead of sunshine I was cloaked in darkness. I found myself caught up in a storm of tears with unending waves of uncontrollable sobbing. It seemed impossible to escape from this terrible nightmare. No one could help me. My heart was broken and there was nothing even I could do, so I mourned. I mourned for the part of my future that I felt would never be and for all of the years it had taken me to get where I was. The brutal fact I confronted that day was that I would never ride my Harley again.

I've often felt that I possess a free spirit and I tend to listen to it. In 1972 I was lured to the local Harley shop by a force unknown. I was setting myself up for a disappointment because I knew I couldn't afford one of those beauties. I know now that I never wanted to be viewed as part of the general public and that I merely wanted to be seen there and absorb a little of the atmosphere. It took just one glance and I was mesmerized. I don't remember the model anymore, but I do recall the beauty of the lines, the design that implied strength and perseverance and the easy way it just rested there-waiting. In the distance I could hear the rhythmic heartbeat of the only thing I would ever come to love, a Harley Davidson.

Something about this magnificent machine was the cause of my inner turmoil. The vibration of its engine was identical to the rumbling in my soul that I'd felt for years. I could feel it's affect, but it never dawned on me to interpret the sensation. It was however, clear to me that this was the reflection of my desire. That was not the day my dream came true. I didn't get THE bike, but I did get a bike. It didn't take long until the thrill (if there had actually ever been one) of riding this motorcycle wore off. I upgraded to a larger bike, but that didn't help. I traded up once more, but this time with radical cosmetic changes-to the bike, not me. When it was all said and done, it didn't resemble the critter it was at all. I guess I was happy. I wasn't quite sitting in the seat I wanted to be in, but it looked darn close to it.

Things happened. I got divorced. Years went by. A lot of years went by. Eventually, I got another bike, but this one, although it had an appealing appearance, meant nothing to me other than it was my only mode of transportation. As it usually does, life went on and until two years ago I continued to struggle with the turmoil within. The incessant rumbling was so much a part of me that at times it was difficult to distinguish it from the occasional menopausal hot flash! How Mike put up with my nearly constant reminders of how much I wanted, no, needed my own Harley I don't know.

Mike has a Harley Davidson FLHTC which translates into a full dresser. As passenger, I couldn't complain. I was confined to comfort in a lavishly padded leather seat with wraparound armrests. I was even privy to my own set of stereo speakers. On many occasions I would actually fall asleep on our rides, especially the longer ones. It wasn't that the ride was boring, but being the passenger was. For years this was the way it was, though I was grateful that we were able to ride at all.

Mike had been in one of those, "I didn't see you" type accidents on his bike a while back and the case was finally settled. Unfortunately, his father passed away just days later and his mother, three weeks after that. The days, weeks and months following these tragedies were tortuous. I am an extremely compassionate person, but I withdrew myself from his anguish. It was too painful for me to realize. I didn't know how to feel. I could not comprehend the extent of his suffering and yet, it was at his suggestion that we went Harley shopping. Needless to say, I was humbled. All I can assume now is that he knew the burning desire in my heart and it helped his to gratify mine. On the other hand, he may have sensed that the free spirit in me was clamoring to get out and it wouldn't have been a pretty sight. Whichever it was, he made me his Queen for the day!

I rode with my husband to the Harley Davidson dealership where a few years before he'd found exactly what he'd been looking for. As we entered the building, I became aware that my feet were no longer touching the ground. I felt as if I were in a dream and I didn't want to wake up. I walked softly and remained speechless. At the same time I felt as though I didn't belong in this special place. I'd been here many times before, but only to dream. Today I was here to seize the subject of my dream and make it my reality. I'm sure I must have had some conversation with Mike, but I remember nothing other than hearing him ask me, "Is this the one you want?" After all the frustrating years of settling and regretting, here I was.

This was the moment in my dream where I always woke up. I never quite got to the part where I actually rode into the sunset and lived happily ever after. I seemed to be doing fine until he put me on the spot. Now I felt fear. Sounds ridiculous I know, but that's what it was. Maybe my dream should stay just that. Maybe I just think I want this Harley and after he spends thousands of dollars to make me happy, I'll come to my senses and determine this was a mistake. After what seemed an eternity, I meekly nodded my head yes, wrote the check and did my best to hide the mounting panic that was on the verge of taking control.

I know I rode my fire engine red prize home, but the trip is as much a blur now as it was then. This was also a remarkable day for another reason. It was, without a doubt, the last day I remember feeling that ominous rumbling deep in my soul. I was at peace the moment the rhythm of her engine matched the beat of my heart. In the two years since then, Piglet (so named because she's just a little Harley), and I have gone through some hair raising, soul searching times together. She's been like my best friend. I've trusted her to handle unbelievable stunts of stupidity and she's always come through with flying colors.

One time we really did fly, quite by accident. I took a long curve just a bit too fast, ran up the side of a median, cleanly flew over it and landed wheels down. I hit the brakes at just the right time upon landing, did a 180' turn and ended up heading in the direction I needed to go. It was remarkable. After every ride I thanked God and Piglet. I'm not foolish enough to think that this motorcycle had some special power or even an appreciation of what it did so well, but when it did what it was fashioned to do, combined with my lust for riding the end result was, in a way, magical.

I love visualizing an impending ride and then replaying it in my mind when it's over. Even the routine of putting myself together before a ride gets the adrenalin flowing. Pulling on the boots that give my fairly short stature a boost; putting on the leather; and getting the hair just right so it doesn't give my face a whipping down the road. Most important is wearing the right attitude. Anyone who rides with a serious mind set knows the value of having the correct attitude. I find the whole process exhilarating.

I am a wife, a mother and a grandmother. I work full time and still have two out of six kids at home. I know my priorities in all of these categories and do a pretty good job, even if I have to say so myself (and I usually have to). I never considered her a possession. This bike integrated my fractured selves and made me whole. I know who I am and why because of where she took me in my life quest. My head finally understands and my heart holds dear the meaning of all those years of unrest in my soul. I've learned that we all have our own special rumblings. The differences between us depend on whether or not and to what degree we seek them out. From my vantage point today, I know we must all travel many roads in our lifetime in order to pick the one that will get us where we want to go. Some of these roads are flat and easy going, others may a bit rocky.

A couple months ago I had to make a decision. The bills had gotten out of hand. There was no one to go to for help and something had to be done. Mike offered to sell his bike to get us back on our feet, but that wasn't logical to me. My bike was a single seater and on his we could still both ride on the runs. I was OK with the plan to sell my bike, or so I thought. I ignored the inevitable, put it away to deal with when the time came. What I hadn't anticipated was just how much this was going to hurt. On this day in May the full impact of my decision hit home. Initially, I felt ridiculous about how drastically I fell apart, but this was genuine sorrow. An irretrievable loss. My dream had come true and now she was merely a possession of my past. We still had so many memories to make, how could I have let this happen? And the tears, they just wouldn't stop!

So here I am again, but not quite back to where I began. I've learned many lessons, experienced more than I would have cared to and most days still love God, my country and all of the strange people in it, but that's another story. Seriously, this has been an extremely difficult story to tell. Perhaps in the process of recording my experiences and how and why they have affected me, I have come to better understand myself. I know that my life has and will involve much more than what I have related here, but somehow I sense I have reached another plateau in my journey. I won't accept that this was my only opportunity to pursue my desire. I will ride again because I know for sure that dreams do come true. I am neither the person I was, nor I alone in my sorrow. The rumbling inside never left . . . it was just temporarily stilled. I recognized its return immediately, but now it's a bit depressing. I wouldn't want it to leave though. It's who I am. Just remember, when you see me down the road and it appears that I am doing OK, I probably am. I'm very tough and I believe you can't get where you're going if you don't keep on trying. I learned a trick, that dark day in May, that's helped me many times since and that is, that it's hard to cry . . . if you're smilin!

By Diane Sandlin

AUTHORS NOTE:
This story, along with photos is available in the May/June 1998 issue of Harley Women.

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