Friday, June 28, 2002
Bikers, BMWs, and the Nature of Community in Michiana
The other weekend I had to sign two waivers before I could engage in a bit of fun. You know the kind—“I hearby sign over all rights to sue should I be mangled, dismembered or psychologically traumatized while engaged in these activities.” And so, I guess, the lawyers have won whenever a little debauchery is liable to break out. But these two local events were still a blast, even if they could not have been more different. What they told me, upon reflection, is that the nature of community in Michiana is still alive and kicking, even if the naysayers say that America has become a society where all we do is bowl alone.
My first outing involved watching a bunch of car nuts race their old BMWs around a race track. For this one, I had to sign the waiver just in case one of them spiraled out of control and slammed into me. One guy did in fact lose control, but happily, the only thing I saw damaged was his ego. The crucial thing here is that the cars were not just any old BMW...no, these were a model that BMW stopped making in the 1970s called the “2002.” It is as wonderful a car as has ever been made. This small sports car was designed simply for the sheer thrill of driving along the Red Bud Highway.
Now, I am by no means the only person who has fallen in love with this car. But for this yearly get-together in Michiana, folks travel from all over the Midwest to South Bend to show off their aged beauties. In fact, the typical owner of a 2002 seems to be a middle-aged guy who is pretty sensible on most matters—except when it comes to his 2002. This is just as well since it requires extraordinary and loving care to keep these things humming. Preserving the shine of the crazy color schemes from the 1970s, making their engines purr, and keeping the interior from fading away requires real attention. But 2002 owners are troopers if nothing else. These guys who have nice, ordinary jobs during the day--the President of the club sells cookies--are happiest just looking under the hood of each others’ cars, asking millions of questions, kidding each other about the condition of each car and so on. I was surrounded by a real community that cared for a car....but also for each other. If I ever need a liver transplant or at least a transmission I know where to go.
The other event I ventured into was the party held by a group of Harley Davidson fanatics related to their annual Rolling Thunder tour. This waiver was just in case I got hurt while partying with these biker dudes. Happily, I came home unscathed. The party was the tail-end of a weekend to commemorate all MIAs and POWs from Vietnam. In this respect the party was a way to blow off some steam after a moving tribute to their missing comrades. At one point we all held hands and sang about a better tomorrow. This was the kind of patriotism that is so true, and yet so foreign to George W. Bush, that I only wish he could have stopped reading all those big books his aides are claiming he peruses in his off hours, and come and see some real American grit. The Rolling Thunder crowd represent what is best about America--and also how politicians use and abuse these folk. Take a look at H. Bruce Franklin’s M.I.A. or Mythmaking in America and learn how the right-wing has unmercifully exploited these people for pure, political reasons.
Anyway, while having a Bud or two I took part in a great party, heard some old rock and roll, and generally just had a blast. Now to put it mildly, I don’t look like a biker but these fearsome leather-clad, tattooed, chain-laden hog riders could not have been friendlier to me. Most of them are real pussy cats too. I even saw a grandma in leather chaps taking care of her grandson so her son could boogie-woogie with his wife. I’m not sure what all these folks do in their regular lives, though I suspect they are engineers and policeman and maybe even sell cookies, but like the BMW members they preserve a community that is easily hidden from the casual gaze, one of many such fellowships that draw people from all walks of life together in powerful and meaningful ways. The people love their Harley’s, especially love the noise they produce, and believe that America for all its faults is still the greatest place to be. I couldn’t agree more.
A random selection from more than 300 Michiana Chronicles -- refresh the browser to see another set:
Joe Chaney -- More essays by Joe
Louise Collins -- More essays by Louise
April Lidinsky -- More essays by April
Jonathan Nashel -- Bikers, BMWs, and the Nature of Community in Michiana / More essays by Jonathan
Jeff Nixa -- More essays by Jeff
Ken Smith -- More essays by Ken
Jeanette Saddler Taylor -- More essays by Jeanette
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About the series
Michiana Chronicles is a series of radio essays by Jonathan Nashel, Louise Collins, Joe Chaney, Jeanette Saddler Taylor, Jeff Nixa, April Lidinsky, and Ken Smith.
Michiana is the region of north-central Indiana and southern Michigan roughly centered on South Bend, Indiana.
Michiana Chronicles airs on Fridays at 7:35 a.m. and 12:30 p.m. on WVPE (88.1 FM), the home of public radio in Elkhart / South Bend, Indiana.
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