Notes From the Hard Shoulder - James May [63]
Except that there are bends in the fens, they can conceal agricultural machinery, and the Harley has the worst brakes I've experienced on a road-going vehicle since I last drove a traction engine, which had brake blocks made of poplar wood. And this 'Sport' version of the Dyna Super Glide has two front discs where most Harleys have just the one.
Poor brakes are simply inexcusable on a new motorcycle. Barely more palatable are the price (£10,495), the lacklustre performance and the shocking detail finish. For a 3,000-mile bike that spends much of its life garaged, our Harley is looking pretty scruffy. There is chrome peeling off the rear spring hangers, the forks and wheels are flaking, the plastic trim is coming off the tank and the engine cases are adorned, like many of the bike's owners, with unacceptably furry nuts. I can see the theoretical appeal of a Harley – easy riding, low stress, a quirky nature – but by the time I arrived at the offices of the Littleport Society I was merely bored and irritated by it. I was also bent double by the whole experience and would have welcomed being hanged by the neck for a bit, though only until straightened out.
Which reminds me. The provenance of Harley the bike builder is beyond doubt. But what of Isaac Harley the rioter? Is he by any chance related? Bruce Frost hopes so. The year 2003 will be the centenary of Harley-Davidson, and the people of Littleport like to think that the company will want to conduct some celebrations in this, its spiritual home. If they do, Bruce has a slogan ready: 'Littleport – from rioting to riotous riding'. All he has to do is establish a connection.
Extensive lurking in graveyards and poring over parish records has revealed this much. There were two Harleys, Jobe and another Isaac, living in Littleport in the 1700s. William, the father of the co-founder, has been traced back to Jobe; Isaac the rioter has been traced back to the earlier Isaac. 'I have the family tree with me if you want to see it,' says Bruce. I quickly stop him. It's about six feet long and compiled in a typesize more normally associated with insurance cover notes.
But if these two elder Harleys can be shown to be brothers, then bingo, Bruce's Harley jigsaw is complete. He is visibly excited at the prospect.
Then again, if several thousand Hog enthusiasts descend on this sleepy village with their Screamin' Eagle pipes and leather chaps, he may regret that he ever dabbled in this local history lark. He may even wish he could invoke the powers of those special constables appointed after the riots to ward against 'parties standing idly in the streets of the parish of Littleport'.
He may even end up thinking, as I am inclined to, that they hanged the wrong Harley.
I'M JUST GOING TO ICELAND, I MAY BE SOME TIME
From about 2,000 feet I could see, from the window of the aeroplane, that the landscape was pretty uninviting. Frosted, treeless, volcanic, desolate and rising only vaguely from the heaving grey bosom of the North Atlantic. I had my penknife and my compass; my adventure hat and my stout boots; my spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch. But, I suddenly realised, I'd forgotten my coat.
Maybe this wasn't surprising. If things had gone according to the original plan, I'd have written this on the sun-drenched terrace of a posh hotel in Johannesburg, with a flunky standing by ready to bring me another gin and tonic.
As it happens, this is a Land Rover drive story, and experience should have told me that anything less than an untimely death miles from civilisation would