Irwin D. Dammers pilots his Harley Heritage Classic down the back roads of Highland Park, heading toward the oasis of the Highland House restaurant. The sky threatens rain, but Dammers is in a summer-Sunday state of mind–and that means hitting the road on two wheels. With the wind flapping his ponytail, and gunning his Harley past 60 miles an hour, Dammers shouts to his passenger that he sees–but does not fear–the cop up ahead on the right. Harley-Davidsons aren’t the automatic fuzz targets they once were, declares Dammers, who’s 33 and has been riding since high school. Hell, these days he sees cops patrolling on Harleys. It supposedly makes them come across as cooler.
A love affair with Harleys has bloomed among motorcycle aficionados in recent years–particularly among the status conscious–and is in abundant evidence at the Highland House. The latest in shiny, top-of-the-line two-wheelers dominate the parking lot, but there are also some hard-ridden cycles that look around 30 years old. Their owners debate whose is best, socializing, preening, and checking one another out well into the afternoon.
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It seems Burger couldn’t resist the 1998 creamy white Harley Road King, 9,000 miles on it, recently dropped off by a local cop. He says it looks way better than the 1996 Yamaha he rode in on. “You should’ve seen the grin on this guy’s face yesterday, I thought he was gonna pass out cigars,” says Scott. “Yeah, Leeza spends 20 bucks on a hair tie, I spend $17,000 on a Harley,” Burger says, laughing. Now he has to decide what to name it.
“Many people just ride a couple years and they’re done,” says Rose, smiling, as she and Bill describe places they’ve seen on the annual cross-country trips they’ve been taking since 1982, when Rose learned to ride. She aced her motorcycle-safety class on a Honda 450, but nowadays she and Bill ride BMWs that register 27,000 miles between them; Bill just took his in for new tires. “We like our motorcycles because they’re comfortable,” Bill says. “They have all the latest things that the automobiles have. They’ve got antilock brakes.”
What Juliana likes is her status as a biker’s daughter. “I’m on the phone with my friend, and she’s like, ‘Where were you yesterday?’ and I’m like, ‘I was out riding with my dad.’ And she’s like, ‘That is so cool.’ That’s the best,” says Juliana, reaching for a napkin to dab at her eyes. They got watery from the wind, even with her new sunglasses. “I don’t care,” she says. “I love riding.”
After their long night partying and brief sojourn at the Highland House, the Zombie Squad is figuring out the best route to their next destination, a swap meet in Woodstock. “Route 41 to 176,” says Blaine. “No, 22 to 14,” counters Dammers. “Where the hell is everyone today?” a latecomer asks. “They were scared of the clouds,” says Burger, seguing into a story about racing a tornado in South Dakota. “That’s the biggest adrenaline rush,” he says. “You hear a rolling thunder, the bike’s just vibrating, and then you get this huge blast of wind in your face. I think we saw Dorothy.”
