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Harley Art Show

The rumble could be heard half a mile away, even over the crash of the surf behind me. A mother herded her children quickly back to their car as the noise grew louder and closer. Bicyclists on the boardwalk next to me wobbled and teetered, then pulled their bikes onto the grass at the sight of what was coming their way. I became nervous and distracted from my painting, wondering what exactly I should do next.
They came into sight just beyond the boardwalk; a dozen or more of them, dust billowing behind them as the rumble of their Harley-Davidson motorcycles obliterated every other sound. They rode choppers with saddlebags and big touring hogs – all shaking and black. Some wore armless leather vests, others tiny Nazi helmets, goggles and black tee shirts with faded emblems. Their bare arms reached high for the stretched handlebars as they sat far back and low in their seats. They rode up and onto the boardwalk, scattering pedestrians and cyclists before them as they made their entry – without paying – into the park.
I had set up my easel at the far end of a quiet parking lot, alongside a boardwalk that ran from the park to a small fishing village. It had been a peaceful morning of painting the colored houses and fields of wildflowers, with only a few of the usual tourist interruptions. I was just finishing up when the growling herd of chrome and leather and dust showed up. They roared by right in front of me, each one of them in turn making eye contact with me. I held my ground and stared right back. I began to reconsider my bravery as I heard them enter the parking lot and come to a stop a few yards behind me. I continued to work, hoping they would go away. They revved their engines, and for what seemed like a very long time I didn’t look back, but pretended to finish my painting. Finally I could stand it no longer and turned my head as calmly as possible, not sure what to expect.
They were lined up one beside the other, engines still running and headlights shaking. Some had taken off their goggles. There were tattoos and beer bellies and motorcycle boots. One finally spoke up
“Nice painting!” He bellowed over the engines.
“I like the colors!” Yelled another, revealing a few missing and broken teeth.
One fellow took off his dark glasses and smiled, giving me the thumbs up sign. Then, as one, they roared their engines and left the parking lot in a cloud of dust. The bicycles returned, and the sound of the surf too, and I managed to finish my painting in relative peace.

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Painting Canada - Harley Art Show