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Harleys

Labor Day weekend in Silverton, CO. There is always some excitement in the middle of the day in Silverton, when the tourist train arrives from Durango, and disgorges the suckers and marks. The economy of the town depends on them. I've come to appreciate this daily ritual.

But part of the credit for the festive mood this weekend must go to the Harley riders. Even if you dislike their hobby -- and I do -- they really do bring a sense of visceral excitement to town, like a Biblical plague of flying insect pests.

Do Harley people really deserve the disdain they so often get? Sure, most of us hate their noise and other features like...how shall I say it... their over-studied affectation of a commercially-prepackaged faux rebelliousness.

But to their credit, they've found a partial remedy for the pathological over-earnestness of middle-age, and the joylessness of old age. What is so bad about a matron feeling like a hot young chick in her over-priced leather fashions? Or is an old boy really so crazy to take some risk riding a motorcycle, rather than settling into a meaningless and painful old age?


According to the accident statistics there is a 1 in 1200 chance that a motorcyclist will have a fatal accident, any given year. That sounds pretty bad compared to other modes of transportation, but it also means that most motorcyclists will not be killed.

There is a rational courage in taking some risk to do something you love while you still can, rather than quietly slipping into a more conventional senescence, in which you learn "to lose and neglect the creeping hours of time." (Shakespeare, As You Like It).

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