Will There Be Harleys in Heaven

7/28/2019 Will There Be Harleys in Heaven

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Will there be Harleys in Heaven?

It was barely daylight when a shattering explosion rocked the tiny village of

Colville, 18 kilometres north of Coromandel Town in rural New Zealand. Birds barely

awake screeched in fright and flew panic-stricken in all directions. Lights flashed on

in windows.

In his narrow timber garage beside a paint-challenged clapboard shack, Davo

was oblivious to the noise. He allowed his full lips to curve upwards just a little, as

the 883cc V twin engine of his 65 Harley Sportster settled down from its first

cacophonous breath of life, and began to idle with the steady heartbeat of a runaway

loco on gold-top mushrooms. It was no Captain America, but it wasoriginal.

It was his pride and his joy, and the only reason that he stayed on as a driver

for one of the local logging firms in town. Flogging his huge Mack truck with the

jinker behind through the twisty mountainous terrain every week paid his bills. After

six days straight of this excruciating albeit dangerous boredom, Sunday morningswere his release.

The Harley was running smoothly now, and Davo felt the vibrations of the big

twin through his backside like a lovers caress. Inside the garage the noise was

stupendous, but he hardly seemed to notice. Sliding on a pair of mirrored aviators

shades and a black open-faced helmet, he dismounted and opened the garage doors.

After a final check over the hog with a critical and practiced eye, he remounted and

roared off into his chosen world.

Davo was a loner by choice. Although it was rumoured that he had family

down on the West Coast somewhere, no one was really sure, and his facial tattoos

were enough to discourage even the most curious from enquiring. He was an

exemplary if reclusive citizen, paying his bills with cash and owing nobody a cent. He

dated no girls, at least not in Colville, and the unattached female population in town

discretely lusted after this enigmatic man. Unusually, he had no local mates either,

and never drank in the pub. Nor had anyone ever seen visitors at the old house. He

was polite but reserved with the shopkeepers, his fierce demeanour inviting no

personal questions.

Hed found the Sportster in the old garage in which it still lived. Someone had

stripped the machine down and just never got around to rebuilding it. It was a mess.The frame, tank and seat were covered in solidified chook crap, and the boxes of

engine parts were barely recognisable. The agent was going to dump the wreck when

Davo leased the house, but Davo sweet-talked him into a reduction on the rent in lieu!

No fool, Davo

For the best part of a year he spent all his spare hours--and cash--lovingly

restoring the old Harley, polishing each part with care, and reassembling the entire

machine slowly and methodically. Most of the parts he needed had to be imported

from the States, and these he ordered over the Internet, paying for them with his

platinum Visa card. He thrived on the quiet evenings in his ramshackle garage, sitting


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on a low stool checking and rechecking, oiling and greasing, breathing in the aromatic

perfume of old oil and metal through wide flattened nostrils.

Invariably, while he was absorbed in his work late into the evening his stereo

would be blasting out the oldRetro Rockers heavy-bass hit tune from the 70s Will

Therebe Harleys in Heaven? at a moderate-to-high volume. Sometimes during hisleisurely Sunday rides he would hear those same words and music pounding in his

head, over and over, and unconsciously he would mouth the words along with Josh

Pruett, the hard-driving lead guitar/singer. He and Josh had been inseparable as boys

and young men, back when Davo had been a very average bass guitarist and Josh a

rising singer/lead guitar in a Christchurch rock band. Davo had realised early that his

talents were meagre, and regretfully withdrew from the group. Josh, however, had

flown high, and with his new band found international stardom. He also found that the

price of fame was too high and had eventually overdosed. Davo grieved silently for a

long time. The tune had become a sort of anthem for him and his beloved Harley.

Finally he was done.

Now each Sunday morning just after daybreak, he headed out into the

countryside, no direction in mind, just following the occasional whim or turning at a

signpost that held interest or amusement. He would stop somewhere for lunch and a

few beers, then arrive back in Colville just after dark. On the open road he was a

prince. He was unencumbered by duty or responsibility and revelled in the freedom,

however temporary. He was not a religious man at all, but wryly believed that if God

had had to drive something it would have been a Harley. He often hummedWill

There be Harleys in Heaven? as he worked, a slight smile decorating his

handsome, brown-skinned face.

The sun was up, and Davo began to feel warm at last. He traditionally wore

only a plain sleeveless leather vest revealing his muscular tattooed arms, and oil-

stained blue jeans over a pair of well-worn, steel capped work boots. As soon as he

was off the main roads he liked to remove his compulsory helmet, and his long dark

dreads would stream behind him whipping like pennants as he cruised at moderate

speed through the forested mountains. At peace.

He was anticipating a leisurely lunch at a small roadside caf he knew of

which served the best fish and chips on the Coromandel Peninsula, and also the

coldest beer. On a whim he wheeled the big Harley onto a secondary road he knewwell. It was a mountainous logging road he drove over regularly, usually loaded with

tonnes of pine logs. On Sundays, the trucks would be parked back at the depot, except

now and then for special deliveries, and so Davo anticipated a leisurely amble through

the forest.

He rode for a while enjoying the smell of the heavily scented pines, until in his

mirror he saw another motorcycle, headlight blazing in spite of the bright day,

approaching rapidly from behind. The image in his mirror grew dramatically, until

suddenly it screamed past him like a wailing banshee, leaving a stinking blue haze of

two-stroke fumes hanging in the air. That in its self was bad enough, but then the

Yamaha rider flicked an insulting pair of leather-clad fingers at him.


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Davo saw red.

Usually, not much fazed Davo, but this cheeky rider in his bright colour-

coordinated leather suit and helmet crouched over a despised rice-burner made

Davos blood boil. Unconsciously Davos lips pressed together, becoming almost

invisible. Just a knife slash wide. His dark brown eyes became cold andexpressionless as he dropped a cog and accelerated in a bellow of exhaust noise. His

strong fingers gripped the handlebars tightly as the hog picked up speed.

It took Davo a while to reel him in, but it soon became obvious that the multi-

hued creature in front had realised that the Harley was, as they say, in hot pursuit.

Davo drew close enough to the other rider to smell the two-stroke fumes again, and

his lips curled downward in distaste. He realised at that moment that the other

motorcyclist was inexperienced, and immediately began to push harder, allowing the

roaring Harley to fill the rear vision mirror of the Yamaha for a second or two, and

then dropping back.

Davo settled into the chase, and began to enjoy himself. He forgot about the

fish and chips, and even the cold beerat least momentarily! They passed, and were

passed by, no one, and it seemed as if they had the entire world to themselves as they

hurtled along the winding narrow road, totally focussed. The Harley didnt handle so

well on these sorts of roads, but Davo relentlessly kept the throttle turned on, ignoring

the scraping of the Harleys side cases on the bitumen, and the alarming wallowing

through the tight corners.

His grim mood had passed, and he began to plan his strategy. He would harass

the other rider until they were almost through to the end of this section of road,

making forays as if to overtake, then as he drew almost alongside, close enough to see

the growing alarm in the young eyes behind the helmet visor, he would let the Harley

drift behind. What a game!

It became obvious that the Yamaha rider was beginning to panic, and his

riding became more erratic. Just for a second, Davo considered letting him go, but he

already had his finale planned, and wanted to blow this cheeky creep into the weeds

before that happened.

Thatllteach this young pakeha feller to flash fingers at David Davo

Raupita! Heh heh heh! The great-great grandson of a great-great Maori chieftain!

Up ahead there was a section of road that Davo knew very well. There were a

series of twists and turns, then a long straightaway through the pine forest before the

road crested and dropped away on the other side, joining the main road on the eastern

side of the Peninsula. Davos plan had him riding very close to the Yamaha along the

straightaway, making fearsome warrior grimaces at the young rider, then flashing past

at high speed before the crest. Great plan!

They entered the series of left and right corners, and Davo was right behind

the Yamaha as they broke out onto the long straightaway. Both engines howled their

individual howls, and Davo increased his speed to overtake the Yamaha. In sheerfright at seeing Davos tattooed face and arms, and Davos tongue poking out at him


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and waggling furiously, the Yamaha man crouched lower over his bike and tried to

outrun the Harley. The Harley however was in its element on long straight roads, and

Davo began gradually to pass him by. Alongside, Davo was enjoying himself hugely,

doing what his ancestors had done for centuries to scare the opposition. His facial

grimaces were menacing to say the least, but when delivered with an accompanying

shrieking voice from the back of a bellowing Harley they were frightening in theextreme.

Davo cast a quick glance ahead and saw that he had better make his move

quickly, as the straight part of the road was disappearing fast. He and Mr Yamaha

were side by side as they began to climb up the hill, but Davo knew the Harley had

the legs here. As he passed the Yamaha he turned in his seat and delivered a pair of

enthusiastic, thick, brown fingers to the sky. He realised then that they were almost at

the top of the hill, and as he flashed a wide and very white grin at the other rider he

turned the fingers to a thumbs-up! He was a graceful winner, Davo, and had enjoyed

the game immensely. No hard feelings bro, he thought.

He turned back in the saddle, and concentrated ahead as he approached the

crest of the hill. The big Harley thundered underneath him as he settled back and

thought about the cold beer and fish and chips ahead.

Josh Pruetts gravely whiskey voice broke his reverie, and the familiar words

nailed his brain. Something was different. He listened again and at first thought he

had heard it wrong, but then Pruett it sang again: There areHarleys in Heaven! in

something more gentle than his usual hard-edged style.

The black hairs on the back of Davos neck crawled erect, as seemingly out of

the very ground itself in front of him grew a vast, shiny chrome square. Joshs

screaming guitar riff crescendo-ed in his brain as the trucks grill loomed high over

Davo, and in that last split second, as he recognised the well-known Bulldog emblem,

he knew for sure that there were Harleys in Heaven

John Irvine

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Will There Be Harleys in Heaven