I don’t know if it was the blue pill the doctor gave me, or that red Softail the fleet center loaned Bikernet, but my life hasn’t been the same since. My flaming pile-of-shit-of-a- existence wasn’t heading anywhere. I sold my last bike to help support my music habit. I needed a descant stack to compete on a pro level. But good equipment is no match for unreliable band members. When you sell your soul for something, make sure your fate is in your hands alone, otherwise you will find nothing but disillusionment.

When Bandit told me we were picking up a 2006 Softail and it would be mine to ride for a week, I was dazed. My first thought was shit, responsibility. I’ll fuck that up. Oh well, like my ninth grade science teacher always said, “You can’t destroy matter only rearrange it.” So when we rode back to the Bikernet Headquarters, I parked her out front, went inside and pondered my fate. Was it true, a new 88 Twin Cam sitting outside the Bikernet barracks door? I grabbed a borrowed cell phone and hit up every chic who asked me for a ride in the last six months. This Softail Standard had a fat bitch seat and I wasn’t going to waste it. There is nothing better than flying down the road with a beautiful girl on the back. Every time you whack that throttle or hit a corner hard she squeezes you tight, pressing her tits into your back. Damn, there aren’t many better reasons for getting up in the morning.

Before I go too far I must take this time to point out that my roommate’s girlfriend helped me grab these riding shots. She is a stunning Latin girl with a damn quick wit. Before this week her favorite thing to say was, ”John, go to your room,” now it’s, “can we go for a ride?”

I didn’t realize the impact of this particular H-D model on my life. I’m a low-buck, no-buck sonuvabitch. My last bike was a rat 1984 BMW. I blew it up and couldn’t afford to fix it. I attended the Harley program at the Phoenix MMI and worked at a dealership for a short time, but then my life took a shit and the thought of riding a Harley never entered my mind. Shit, I would be lucky to ride a stolen Vespa. But when I stood alongside the black framed, limited chrome, affordable Standard, my ego was elevated. Suddenly my life had foundation. The standard, at $14,795 (color, black was $500 cheaper) MSRP, contained the latest H-D EFI technology ever, a balanced 88-inch B Motor and yet was affordable, even for a slouch like me.

I felt like guy who was just given a plot of land to build on as I pondered Molly my first victim. I hadn’t seen her in years. I recently ran into her about a week ago. It was still raining as I got off the borrowed solo-seat 1200 Sporty. Water dripped from my leathers as I stumbled though the door of the single-garage- sized, sandwich shop on the coast. “Wow, he lives,” came from the girl behind the counter. Till that moment I couldn’t remember her face. But, those baby blues never left my mind.

“Molly,” I said in the steadiest voice I could muster? She stammered some as she told me her life’s pitfalls. My ego said I had the upper hand, shit yeah, you’re the man. But, I knew the truth. It was only a matter of seconds before I muttered something really stupid. It didn’t happen that way, though. Somehow I made it out of there, with her number, before making a complete ass of myself. Yes, I was walking on air and wanting more. Shit, how can evil look so good?

With the Standard key in my sweating hand and hot blood coursing through my veins for the first time in months I called the hardcore hippy chic with a two-year-old-son. Molly had seen some shit in her short life. You wouldn’t know it to look at her. On the outside that 24-year-old looked 17 and innocent as fresh peaches. I know, what does that say about me at my age, 31? I’m messing with a chic who looks seventeen. Shit, it’s not my fault that the broad don’t age. Anyway, she wasn’t that easy to impress. We made a date, and the fact that everyone looks more attractive pulling up on a brand new H-D, was my ace in the hole. So I grabbed my gear and out the door I went.

I turned the key. It was just dark enough, on the coast, to make that glistening, classic, instrument dash really come alive. That same timeless style, we’ve loved for decades, with all the new amenities. The wine of the fuel injection stopped in seconds. I hit the starter, warmed her slightly and rolled off the curb. There was a misty chill in the air? I questioned my riding duds? Hell, I questioned everything remotely involved in my life until that cool evening on the LA Harbor. No, was the answer to my attire query. That rich pink sunset hiding behind the blue lights of the Vincent Thomas Bridge reminded me that I was in Califa, and it wouldn’t be getting any colder. I stomped it into first and gave it some gas. I clicked into second around the corner past the methadone clinic towards San Pedro, where the ghetto meets the sea.

Suddenly, for the first time in a couple of years I didn’t question another damn thing. Bandit made sure the 5-gallon, classic, fatbob gas tank was full. I wouldn’t break down, and the 4-piston disc brakes would stop the 651 pound freight train whenever necessary. I hit Third gear, and the harbor container cranes were a blur on my left. My eyes started to water as I hit fourth and turned the throttle. I just hit fifth and remembered the cop shop was coming up fast on the right. Damn, I’ll have to hit the freeway to really check out this new five-speed transmission. If that’s a taste, then I’m already starting to like this beast. The wind died down as the bike slowed, and I could smell the Pacific. I must see it, I thought, as I passed up her street. I rolled the coast and took the long path around to her place.

Suddenly it dawned on me that I hadn’t experienced the opportunity to cruise in years. When you’re down on your luck, it’s tough reaching any destination, usually in the back seat of a friend’s car. No chance of taking a leisurely drive, forget a ride. I just recently picked up a job working for Bandit and Bikernet. My life was turning around slowly, then this, a bike, and I was on my way to see a girl. I must have died and gone to heaven.

Wait, how could I forget? The other thing that makes everyone more attractive, beer. I knew the projects area well, my bro the Cuban lived down there. So, I hit the liquor store.

The store owner stood outside, on the stained curb smoking, as I pulled up. It was just dark, so I parked right under the neon sign that read Nino’s Spirits. He was back behind the bullet-proof plexi-glass by the time I grabbed my beer and hit the counter. As I handed him just enough crumpled money he said, “Nice bike,” in broken English. I nodded and smiled like I cared. I snatched the 12er of keg cans off the counter and headed towards the door. He followed me down the counter and babbled about how he owned an old Shovelhead. But, he gave it to his son when he returned from the army.

What the hell, I thought? This guy hasn’t said more than three words to me in the two years. “Marko,” he said extending his hand as we reached the exit. I shook his hand and introduced myself. We stopped just outside the door, to gaze upon the bike under city lights. I noticed for the first time that rich red almost burgundy paint. It might have been the neon above it, but I could swear there was yellow or gold tint in that shit, too. We talked about the swooping line of the rear fender and how it made it look lightening fast even standing still. By the time we stood over the Twin-cam we’d become like two, twelve- year-old school girls talking about a crush. Turned out that sly old bastard was a gear-head in disguise. He told me he loved the teardrop blinkers and they reminded him of the ‘57 Chevy he drove in high school. I had to agree, for stock blinkers they were sick. After a good fifteen minutes of gab I told him of my shapely night mission. He told me, “You’re burnin’ daylight, boy, chase some tail”.

“I concur,” I replied. Her place was only up the street, so I slapped the beer on the tank between my legs and headed out. That Standard fit the area. It was tough with the wide glide, dual exhaust 33.5 degree rake and fat 200 rear tire. It was as hard as the projects, but as substantial as the container freighters in the harbor.

She lived in a muilti-unit place just a few blocks above the projects. The kind of joint where you expect to see a pair of sneakers hanging over the electrical lines in the alley. I parked out front, in style, and headed toward the outer gate. Locked, shit, call her, fuck that, you must make an entrance. There’s times when I forget my age. There have been many times I’ve been shitty enough to even forget where my pants were. But, I was sober as hell.

Okay, I forgot that I was a man in skin tight leather pants carrying a twelve pack, until I got to the top of her spiked wrought-iron fence. As I tossed my left leg over the top, Keanu Reeves style, I figured I was home free. But that wasn’t the case. The back of my pants caught one the sharpened rods. I hung motionless for a second, a 12-pack of beer in my teeth and 20- feet in the air, a sight to behold. In desperation, I thrust up and out with my legs, and hoped for the best. I tucked and rolled. “Save the beer,” was the only thought flashing through my head, as I flew through the air. “Concrete sucks when it’s this close to your face,” I thought hitting the ground. But the beer was ok. I wasn’t bleeding. A quick check to make sure there were no witnesses to my jackassary, I brushed myself off and headed for her door. I noted there was something about that big bike at the curb that evoked a crazy air in me. I was pumped, secure and alive for the first time in months, as if I pulled into a strange port in a armed Navy destroyer. I had faith.

I knocked three times on the outer steel door. I couldn’t believe she heard me over the thumping of the music vibrating the security door. I pounded this time with some authority and the inner door flew open with a whoosh. It was the evil girl, Molly, my favorite kind. She stared blankly threw the steel mesh of the door. “John” she said, then smiled coyly while opening the door.

“Hey, you” I replied smiling back and attempting to step though the door. She pounced like a tiger, with a hug that almost bowled me over. “I got a babysitter for a couple hours,” she announced like she had won the lotto.

“Yeah, me” a girl’s voice screeched from one of the back rooms not sounding nearly as happy.

“Cool, I’ve got beer,” I announced pleased with scenario shaping up before me. Not really understanding what a big deal it is, freedom, when you have a two-year-old.

I finally stepped inside. It was bigger than I expected. The living room was full but not cluttered. There were a couple of brightly colored, retro, vinyl couches. Some weird plastic chairs, straight out of the ‘70s were neatly placed. The biggest zebra print rug I’d ever seen sat center stage. Framed, signed, band posters were tacked all over the walls. In the corner between the keggarater and two 6-foot PA speakers was a roomate’s 50- framed stack of band promo prints.

Molly pointed to the kitchen, so I could stow away the goodies. I snagged two as I placed them in the frig and headed back toward the living room. I noticed a little man peeking at me from the hallway. Roxy, the baby sitter, behind him, tried to coax him out into the room. He ran, terrified, straight across to his mother, who was sitting on the couch. I know, it’s no surprise, I scare children.

We left the sitter with the kid and hit the road. She felt the freedom aboard the Standard. I felt her tits at my back and a sense of knowing, foundation and confidence as I leaned into every curve certain of the outcome. The bike was as secure as the tides, and I knew at once I was aboard something I could build on, like my relationship with Molly. With a solid foundation beneath me I could go anywhere, build anything. The Standard gave me support, a base for growth.

My life had finally turned for the better.

Below we have the specs and just a handful of the options available to take the Standard to any performance or custom level. Suddenly with the Softail Standard and Molly at my side I was capable of anything. Let’s see what happens next.

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