I have been visiting Maine on vacation since I was a mere lad myself. My family always stopped at the Showroom to impress upon myself and siblings that was I not diligent in school and law abiding it could come to pass that I would be forced to make chunky furniture or thumb wrestling rings sized for giants. I would do this, I was told, under the tutelage of men who had never read an issue of Harper’s, the sort of men who might wear white as late as Columbus Day. Needless to say I was scared, mostly, straight.
On this most recent visit I was troubled to see a great deal of Harley Davidson themed art within the Showroom. Most striking was a life sized depiction of David Mann’s “Neptune”. For those not in the know this painting, and the subsequent rendering in basswood and maple, depicts a triumphant Neptune astride a shovelhead Harley chopper. His pillion is an amply busted mermaid, Neptune clutches trident.
In spite of his Greco-Roman origins Nepture is apparently a Nordic giant with a gym membership. Given the number of clues (mermaid, trident, and title of the work) Mann still decided to depict Neptune with a gangland style tattoo, his own name in gothic font arching over his navel. One simply recalls Magritte, sighs, and recites “Ceci n’est pas un pipe”.
apparatus nomen est meus nomen (The Machine’s name is my name)
There were several other pieces of motorcycle “art” scattered throughout the display. Most of these depicted are various pre-Evolution Harlys. Many of the displays were either identified as pan, shovel, or knucklehead engines. These engines are considered “righteous.” Their lack of oil-tight seals presupposes mechanical aptitude. Images of skinned knuckles and dirt-encrusted nails spring to mind. These are “greaser” bikes, whose ownership precludes professional employ. These motors are emblematic of the loser, the persons at the bottom of the socioeconomic ladder. In choosing these motors one stands against “success.”
Most brainwashing and hazing rituals begin by inducing a person to commit a terrible act, such as a crime. Said inductee is then given a series of coping mechanisms that allow the eventual rationalization of the act as being “worth it” because it allows inclusion into a select group. These coping mechanisms are the ritual behaviors of the “faithful” the Harley rider.
Typically, the faithful have a rich panoply of insignia and symbols to remind themselves of inclusion. These bikes represent “outlaw” values. They include such hypermasculine traits as domination of women, use of violence to solve problems, or the general disregard for any form of social norms or cultural values.
In my estimation the “heritage” and “tradition” they refer to is a time before the repeal of Jim Crowe laws and before the women’s liberation movement. It is a period where white men ruled, at least in the limited canon of Harley literature.
Harley Davidson tacitly embraces motorcycle gang culture with its HOG chapters and their gang-like three panel patches. It’s convenient for Harley to commodify regressive values when their customer base, white men, is under siege. A shifting work and value system no longer values “traditional” male roles of domination (e.g., males as heads of households) or work (the exportation of skilled physical labor).
Nazi symbols have always been associated with 1% gangs. Culturally, highly visible racism is most prevalent at the bottom of the social stratum. Current HD culture turns racism minimally socially palatable with the Prussian Cross. I suggest the Prussian Cross, (the West Coast Choppers logo) is a substitute swastika for those lacking the gall to display the true artifact.
The cross itself is derived from a family of encircled or rotating cross icons that are widely used to identify white racists within the US prison systems. As an example, the Klu Klux Clan is a clumsy translation of “circle cross family.” In essence, the cross becomes a secret language that tacitly communicates racism and every cruiser catalog is filled with items recast as Prussian Crosses.
For purposes of disclosure, I am of Prussian descent. My grandfather, Vadislaw, immigrated to the United State from what was then Prussia. I am aware of the complex nature of symbols, and this symbol in particular. I am referencing this symbol within, only, the criminal subculture and the larger use of the symbol by the Harley community at large to communicate select values.
a typicus prosperitas parumper frater (A symbol of prosperity for our brothers)
It’s impossible to imagine that the inmate is unaware, even if not liminally, of the array of values communicated by the pre Evolution, should we say creationist or intelligently designed (HA!) Harley.
Another piece of art at the Thomaston Showroom was a wood burning of a bear riding a chopper under pennant bearing the motto “Maine.” Choppers are difficult to ride and bears are poorly suited to controlling motorcycles. How like the inmate, then, is this Maine bear, his life out of control as Ursus americanus astride a stretched panhead? This, my brothers, is a cry for help. To aid, we must come.
How much better to direct the inmates of the Maine State Prisons to create modern BMW motorcycle themed art? The stolid BMW motorcycle is invocative of reliability, financial security and upward social mobility. How much better to invoke the tidy shaft drive (when properly shimmed) of the non-Rotex BMW in comparison to the poorly machined cases of the “intelligently designed” Harley.
What better service could we extend to the wayward than to offer our own mounts (except I own a Suzuki) as paragons of reliability? They might, then, turn to lives of incremental advance where after several decades they could apply for a credit application which might allow them to purchase a quality pre-owned BMW.
Moreover we could swell our own ranks, in some distant future, with newly minted converts to the cause of European motorcycling (excluding English and Italian motorcycles). Consider my personal appeal to take these rapscallions to heart and consider the misspent lives, the impoverished and kitschy woodwork and mayhem and appeal to the Maine State Prison showroom when next you traverse Thomaston aboard your mighty K or R bike.
Beemers, lend me your ears, and your motorcycle.
Please forgive my temerity in the broach of such a broad topic within a necessarily narrow framework. Indeed I have swung open many doors merely to gesture down the hallway. I am remiss by means of omission. In my meager defense I invoke the oft repeated aphorism “illic es tantum tot centipedes vos can duco sicco obvius silva” or “there are only so many centipedes you can count out in the woods.”
