harley davidsons at the Mirador

Each year, your parents' bed and breakfast becomes the place the Harley-Davidsons come home to, over thirty of them rolling in together and settling into neat rows. You hear them before you see them, that "low rumble" of the exhaust announcing the whole group at once. There are black helmets and leather vests, mustaches and the wives riding in side seating, rivets catching the light and flame graphics painted along some of the tanks. You take photo after photo, and best of all, you are allowed to climb up and sit on the back of one. You know your mom carries her own history here, the Yamaha sports bikes she used to ride, and somewhere under it all is the small kid who loved a "blue chopper" bicycle more than anything. It lives now as cedarwood, candlesmoke and saffron.