As a father for two wonderful adult sons I am blessed with my first-born,
who has a matte-black, nicely curving playmate with an almost iconic name.
He could realize his dream due to a 6-month maritime service in special forces
off the coast of Somalia, an undertaking in which he was risking his life.
I am lucky because he had requested me to take care of his dear baby –
a Harley-Davidson Sportster powered with the famous 883 cc V2 engine –
an iron horse on two wheels with a distinct sound from its double pipes.
This is the musical background to my story about the fine art of biking,
a symphony to a father-and-son relationship that spans over three decades.
The truth is also I used to have a dream of two wheels when I was 16.
My reasonable dream machine was a light 125 cc twin-cylinder Honda,
but both my old man and my mom feared the risks of letting their son ride
a motorcycle and they kept reminding me of all the young men in wheel chairs.
As a result, I only saw these small Hondas with whole families riding on them
in black-and-white news films from the bustling streets of wartime Saigon.
So my teenage dream was efficiently killed and, after all, I did not mind.
Years passed, I got used to bicycles and four-wheel motorized transportation,
but my rebellious teenage dream never surfaced, not even when I reached 50,
you know, that age when a man buys a sports car or starts fooling around.
I was satisfied in my bourgeois role as an old fart middle-class family man.
Until my dear son’s request, ”Pa, I will spend the summer in Madrid, how ’bout
taking care of my bike for the summer? How much trouble would that be?”
I said, ”No problem, son, there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you sake. You bet
I’ll take care of your wheels as if they were my own. After all, I’m your dad!”
What a nice responsibility to fall into my arms from the blue sky, I smiled!
How strange that my caring, well-meaning parents’ old denial turns into a ’yes’
by my dear son who – I dare to assume – would not wish to have me killed.
No, I am not denying the dangers of motorcycle driving – while I do admit
that the danger creates excitement and increases the adrenalin in your blood.
But there are more than one poetic, precious moment in the fine art of biking.
Like the other night, after midsummer, when daytime lingers into late hours
I started the black girl, guided her out of the gate and off we rolled west-bound,
beyond the bridges, past a tiny place called East Village, all the way into the
winding country roads following the long bay of my summer town, Ekenäs.
The longer I rode, the less traffic did I encounter while I watched behind the goggles as the sun descended behind the pines and the road turned into gravel.
It followed the undulating terrain in a pleasing way, the curves were in right places like on a good-looking woman, and I felt like the king of the road.
I had to watch the grains of sand on the surface as sliding was a real danger
and there would be nobody the help me out had I found myself in the ditch.
However, Ms. Harley followed my still pretty inexperienced commands nicely
and I felt confident and very pleased in the midst of the sights and aromas
during this enchanting white night when all dreams were meant to be fulfilled.
When I passed a lonely farm house I could smell someone grilling steaks,
as I did drive across a field I could smell the earth and the roadside flowers.
Cutting thru a bit of forest I could hear the midsummer birds still singing
as if they were welcoming a lonely rider into their secret world in the shadows.
I was discovering a forgotten country road I had never set my foot on before.
The only comforting sound in the stillness was the strokes of the V2 engine
resembling my heart beat, a sign of life as I rode into the heart of darkness.
I felt the machine was fully alive and beating ceaselessly, very much like myself
breathing in the chillier air and feeling gratitude for being so much alive.
There was none of my fear left and I felt, years before, this was meant to be.
© Martti Korpijaakko, July 2017
