How I Fell Head Over Heels for Harley

By Cameron Vanderhorst - November 4, 2019

Cam VanDerHorst's 2000 Harley-Davidson XL883H Sportster

Fifteen years is a long time to wait…but it’s better late than never.

I’ve never really been what you could call a “Harley guy.” I only have two Harley shirts in my wardrobe, and I don’t make a habit out of visiting other dealerships when I’m out of town for shot glasses or poker chips. Regardless, in my diverse circle of riding buddies, I’m jokingly referred to as a “Harley apologist,” and it’s a pretty apt title. I love Harley-Davidsons, but more than that, I just love motorcycling in general. From sportbikes to scooters, I dig anything on two wheels.

Given my appreciation for a wide range of motorized machinery, why did I choose a Harley-Davidson? The answer to that question goes back many, many years, to a time long before I was old enough to even ride a motorcycle.

Being the youngest of five siblings–and the only boy–has its own distinct strengths and weaknesses, which I’ll get into in a bit. As the oldest of my sisters grew up, they all eventually settled down with husbands who rode Harleys. When I was just 12 years old, my brother-in-law Rich was the first to help me experience them firsthand.

My very first ride on a motorcycle was on the back of his beautiful FXDWG Dyna Wide Glide. Rich is a stickler for cleanliness and detail, and when I say his bike sparkled, it’s not hyperbole. Nearly every possible surface of the bike was chromed and polished to a blinding sheen, and the wonderful teal and pearl white paint had depth and clarity unmatched by the likes of Lake Tahoe. It won many awards in its day, and it’s still one of the most beautiful motorcycles I have ever seen.

In my diverse circle of riding buddies, I’m jokingly referred to as a ‘Harley apologist,’ and it’s a pretty apt title. I love Harleys, but more than that, I just love motorcycling in general. From sportbikes to scooters, I dig anything on two wheels.

With my parents’ reluctant permission, I carefully climbed on the back seat and had Rich take me for a ride around the neighborhood. While every stereotype pointed to Steppenwolf‘s “Born to be Wild” as the unofficial Harley anthem, it seemed to me that “Magic Carpet Ride“ was more appropriate. True to its name, Rich’s Dyna Wide Glide seemed to glide over the pavement. Even though I wasn’t the one riding, I was hooked immediately.

I saved up as much money as I could and begged my parents to help me buy a mini-bike to ride around in the yard. We found one in the newspaper and for the next several years, I tore around on 8″ tires with three rumbling horsepower beneath me, trying desperately to recapture the magic of riding on Rich’s Dyna.

Once I had my driver’s license at age 16, my thoughts began to turn to motorcycling. Unfortunately, being the youngest in my family and my sisters’ only brother, I was met with strong opposition. My three oldest sisters–all of whom were married to Harley riders–said it was too dangerous. My youngest sister, by then well on her way through medical school, said that I’d become an organ donor. It didn’t take much for their combined efforts to influence my parents. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I was forbidden from owning a motorcycle while I lived under their roof.

As a compromise, I was told that I could keep as many cars as I wanted, a decision they’d later come to regret. At various times throughout the rest of high school, college, and the beginning of my career, I had four, five, or even six cars on their property. I found myself drawn to small, light, and nimble sports cars most of all. Maybe, subconsciously, I was trying to get as close as I could to a motorcycle.

With my parents’ reluctant permission, I carefully climbed on the back seat for a ride around the neighborhood. While every stereotype pointed to Steppenwolf’s ‘Born to be Wild’ as the unofficial Harley anthem, it seemed to me that ‘Magic Carpet Ride’ was more appropriate.

Over the course of the next decade, I’d occasionally find myself window shopping at Harley-Davidson (and other motorcycle) dealers, wistfully looking at the various bikes on display. Given my predisposition towards sports cars, I found myself drawn to the lightest, smallest, and most nimble of Harleys: The Sportster. I was especially drawn to the sheer variety of customization options available. No two custom Sportsters were alike. Countless times, I’d take home a brochure and a business card, and think better of it and go no further.