Jeremy Clarkson, of BBC Top Gear fame, was asked by Steve Kroft of 60 Minutes what, in his opinion, makes a good car.
“Soul. Definitely soul,” he had said. “Something that you just think, ‘Wow…there is something about this thing. It’s talking to me.’”
I kind of knew what he meant. I could understand the words. But I didn’t have anything that did that to me.
I was wandering about Luxury Avenue, popping in every other store, when I decided to walk into the Harley Davidson shop.
And then I saw her.
Unlike everything that never attracted me to a Harley Davidson, she had that certain something. She was understated but you knew she was proud. Deep down, she knew she was hot and she smoldered with an intensity that many got, but only at face value.
Her style isn’t about being loud and wild like her siblings and she certainly isn’t flashy. The matte white of her casing made sure of that.
She looked like she would wear Swarovski crystals in her nails, a Dior tote on her shoulder but wear a functional set of knuckle dusters for those who disrespected her. She had a black strip down her engine, like cascading locks, reminding me of Shelby’s Cobra.
I looked at her and she told me her secrets. She talked to me. She sang. She was the other half of me that I had always looked for. She didn’t want to overpower; she complemented.
And as I write this, I wonder if it is normal to fall in love with 1250 cc of machine?
The 2013 Harley Davidson V-Rod Muscle.
I would have never considered myself a Harley Girl. Never.