1 Will there be Harleys in Heaven?

It was barely daylight when a shattering explosion rocked the tiny village of Colville, 18 kilometres north of Coromandel Town in rural New Zealand. Birds barely awake screeched in fright and flew panic-stricken in all directions. Lights flashed on in windows. In his narrow timber garage beside a paint-challenged clapboard shack, Davo was oblivious to the noise. He allowed his full lips to curve upwards just a little, as the 883cc V twin engine of his 65 Harley Sportster settled down from its first cacophonous breath of life, and began to idle with the steady heartbeat of a runaway loco on gold-top mushrooms. It was no Captain America, but it was original. It was his pride and his joy, and the only reason that he stayed on as a driver for one of the local logging firms in town. Flogging his huge Mack truck with the jinker behind through the twisty mountainous terrain every week paid his bills. After six days straight of this excruciating albeit dangerous boredom, Sunday mornings were his release. The Harley was running smoothly now, and Davo felt the vibrations of the big twin through his backside like a lovers caress. Inside the garage the noise was stupendous, but he hardly seemed to notice. Sliding on a pair of mirrored aviators shades and a black open-faced helmet, he dismounted and opened the garage doors. After a final check over the hog with a critical and practiced eye, he remounted and roared off into his chosen world. Davo was a loner by choice. Although it was rumoured that he had family down on the West Coast somewhere, no one was really sure, and his facial tattoos were enough to discourage even the most curious from enquiring. He was an exemplary if reclusive citizen, paying his bills with cash and owing nobody a cent. He dated no girls, at least not in Colville, and the unattached female population in town discretely lusted after this enigmatic man. Unusually, he had no local mates either, and never drank in the pub. Nor had anyone ever seen visitors at the old house. He was polite but reserved with the shopkeepers, his fierce demeanour inviting no personal questions. Hed found the Sportster in the old garage in which it still lived. Someone had stripped the machine down and just never got around to rebuilding it. It was a mess. The frame, tank and seat were covered in solidified chook crap, and the boxes of engine parts were barely recognisable. The agent was going to dump the wreck when Davo leased the house, but Davo sweet-talked him into a reduction on the rent in lieu! No fool, Davo For the best part of a year he spent all his spare hours--and cash--lovingly restoring the old Harley, polishing each part with care, and reassembling the entire machine slowly and methodically. Most of the parts he needed had to be imported from the States, and these he ordered over the Internet, paying for them with his platinum Visa card. He thrived on the quiet evenings in his ramshackle garage, sitting

2 on a low stool checking and rechecking, oiling and greasing, breathing in the aromatic perfume of old oil and metal through wide flattened nostrils. Invariably, while he was absorbed in his work late into the evening his stereo would be blasting out the old Retro Rockers heavy-bass hit tune from the 70s Will There be Harleys in Heaven? at a moderate-to-high volume. Sometimes during his leisurely Sunday rides he would hear those same words and music pounding in his head, over and over, and unconsciously he would mouth the words along with Josh Pruett, the hard-driving lead guitar/singer. He and Josh had been inseparable as boys and young men, back when Davo had been a very average bass guitarist and Josh a rising singer/lead guitar in a Christchurch rock band. Davo had realised early that his talents were meagre, and regretfully withdrew from the group. Josh, however, had flown high, and with his new band found international stardom. He also found that the price of fame was too high and had eventually overdosed. Davo grieved silently for a long time. The tune had become a sort of anthem for him and his beloved Harley. Finally he was done. Now each Sunday morning just after daybreak, he headed out into the countryside, no direction in mind, just following the occasional whim or turning at a signpost that held interest or amusement. He would stop somewhere for lunch and a few beers, then arrive back in Colville just after dark. On the open road he was a prince. He was unencumbered by duty or responsibility and revelled in the freedom, however temporary. He was not a religious man at all, but wryly believed that if God had had to drive something it would have been a Harley. He often hummed Will There be Harleys in Heaven? as he worked, a slight smile decorating his handsome, brown-skinned face. The sun was up, and Davo began to feel warm at last. He traditionally wore only a plain sleeveless leather vest revealing his muscular tattooed arms, and oilstained blue jeans over a pair of well-worn, steel capped work boots. As soon as he was off the main roads he liked to remove his compulsory helmet, and his long dark dreads would stream behind him whipping like pennants as he cruised at moderate speed through the forested mountains. At peace. He was anticipating a leisurely lunch at a small roadside caf he knew of which served the best fish and chips on the Coromandel Peninsula, and also the coldest beer. On a whim he wheeled the big Harley onto a secondary road he knew well. It was a mountainous logging road he drove over regularly, usually loaded with tonnes of pine logs. On Sundays, the trucks would be parked back at the depot, except now and then for special deliveries, and so Davo anticipated a leisurely amble through the forest. He rode for a while enjoying the smell of the heavily scented pines, until in his mirror he saw another motorcycle, headlight blazing in spite of the bright day, approaching rapidly from behind. The image in his mirror grew dramatically, until suddenly it screamed past him like a wailing banshee, leaving a stinking blue haze of two-stroke fumes hanging in the air. That in its self was bad enough, but then the Yamaha rider flicked an insulting pair of leather-clad fingers at him.

3 Davo saw red. Usually, not much fazed Davo, but this cheeky rider in his bright colourcoordinated leather suit and helmet crouched over a despised rice-burner made Davos blood boil. Unconsciously Davos lips pressed together, becoming almost invisible. Just a knife slash wide. His dark brown eyes became cold and expressionless as he dropped a cog and accelerated in a bellow of exhaust noise. His strong fingers gripped the handlebars tightly as the hog picked up speed. It took Davo a while to reel him in, but it soon became obvious that the multihued creature in front had realised that the Harley was, as they say, in hot pursuit. Davo drew close enough to the other rider to smell the two-stroke fumes again, and his lips curled downward in distaste. He realised at that moment that the other motorcyclist was inexperienced, and immediately began to push harder, allowing the roaring Harley to fill the rear vision mirror of the Yamaha for a second or two, and then dropping back. Davo settled into the chase, and began to enjoy himself. He forgot about the fish and chips, and even the cold beerat least momentarily! They passed, and were passed by, no one, and it seemed as if they had the entire world to themselves as they hurtled along the winding narrow road, totally focussed. The Harley didnt handle so well on these sorts of roads, but Davo relentlessly kept the throttle turned on, ignoring the scraping of the Harleys side cases on the bitumen, and the alarming wallowing through the tight corners. His grim mood had passed, and he began to plan his strategy. He would harass the other rider until they were almost through to the end of this section of road, making forays as if to overtake, then as he drew almost alongside, close enough to see the growing alarm in the young eyes behind the helmet visor, he would let the Harley drift behind. What a game! It became obvious that the Yamaha rider was beginning to panic, and his riding became more erratic. Just for a second, Davo considered letting him go, but he already had his finale planned, and wanted to blow this cheeky creep into the weeds before that happened. Thatll teach this young pakeha feller to flash fingers at David Davo Raupita! Heh heh heh! The great-great grandson of a great-great Maori chieftain! Up ahead there was a section of road that Davo knew very well. There were a series of twists and turns, then a long straightaway through the pine forest before the road crested and dropped away on the other side, joining the main road on the eastern side of the Peninsula. Davos plan had him riding very close to the Yamaha along the straightaway, making fearsome warrior grimaces at the young rider, then flashing past at high speed before the crest. Great plan! They entered the series of left and right corners, and Davo was right behind the Yamaha as they broke out onto the long straightaway. Both engines howled their individual howls, and Davo increased his speed to overtake the Yamaha. In sheer fright at seeing Davos tattooed face and arms, and Davos tongue poking out at him

4 and waggling furiously, the Yamaha man crouched lower over his bike and tried to outrun the Harley. The Harley however was in its element on long straight roads, and Davo began gradually to pass him by. Alongside, Davo was enjoying himself hugely, doing what his ancestors had done for centuries to scare the opposition. His facial grimaces were menacing to say the least, but when delivered with an accompanying shrieking voice from the back of a bellowing Harley they were frightening in the extreme. Davo cast a quick glance ahead and saw that he had better make his move quickly, as the straight part of the road was disappearing fast. He and Mr Yamaha were side by side as they began to climb up the hill, but Davo knew the Harley had the legs here. As he passed the Yamaha he turned in his seat and delivered a pair of enthusiastic, thick, brown fingers to the sky. He realised then that they were almost at the top of the hill, and as he flashed a wide and very white grin at the other rider he turned the fingers to a thumbs-up! He was a graceful winner, Davo, and had enjoyed the game immensely. No hard feelings bro, he thought. He turned back in the saddle, and concentrated ahead as he approached the crest of the hill. The big Harley thundered underneath him as he settled back and thought about the cold beer and fish and chips ahead. Josh Pruetts gravely whiskey voice broke his reverie, and the familiar words nailed his brain. Something was different. He listened again and at first thought he had heard it wrong, but then Pruett it sang again: There are Harleys in Heaven! in something more gentle than his usual hard-edged style. The black hairs on the back of Davos neck crawled erect, as seemingly out of the very ground itself in front of him grew a vast, shiny chrome square. Joshs screaming guitar riff crescendo-ed in his brain as the trucks grill loomed high over Davo, and in that last split second, as he recognised the well-known Bulldog emblem, he knew for sure that there were Harleys in Heaven John Irvine