Prejudice is opinion without judgment,” wrote Voltaire.
Such errant thoughts seep into the mind despite the hot blasts of desiccating desert air tearing gale-force at clothing and helmet and the muffled roar of several dozen liters of tuned engines shattering the silence of sleepy towns and villages on a high-speed ride to Al-Baha.
Not noticeably patriotic save perhaps for rugby and motorcycles, I have to admit to a long-held prejudice against Harley Davidson motorcycles. Perhaps it was the result of a misspent youth trying to coax life from several antique British velocipedes and defending their virtues.
Now old enough to know better but young enough not to care, when the Harley Davidson club in Jeddah threw down the gauntlet: “We do the bike; you do the riding,” it was a red rag to an ageing rocker.
The idea of riding to Al-Baha was appealing, combining as it did the opportunity to see a part of the Kingdom I had not visited and to confirm a prejudice. For some, prejudice is like concrete — all mixed up and solidly set. Mine was about to be shattered.
OK; the V-Rod is not, as one of the more devoted aficionados in the group said, a “real” Harley. The engine was designed in cooperation with Porsche and sleekly compact, the difference is that it looks like a machine built to ride rather than pose on. (Another prejudice; sorry!) It certainly does not have the characteristic “rolling thunder” sound of the big v-twins or their “potato potato” mutterings at idling speeds. True to tradition though, the footrests — in keeping with the “power cruiser” image are a long way forward, leading to the “laid back” riding position much loved by Harley riders; it took getting used to on the long run. Once asked why all Harley riders look so big, I can now answer; on the V-Rod at least, the small ones get left behind. It moves with a most un-Harley-like burst of acceleration and in that riding position, hanging on to the wide handlebars is physically challenging; 150 kph comes up very rapidly and the engine roars for more. It may not be a “real” Harley, but it is a fine motorcycle.
The stately progress of our group of “Hoggies” (from the acronym “Harley Owners Group”) south to Taif was accompanied by herds of cars with windows down to hear the visceral rumble of the bikes and photograph the riders with camera-phones. Bracketed by police cars at each end, we were relatively free from the sideswiping antics of car drivers who either had no road manners or cut into the column to indulge their perverted idea of “fun.” On more than one occasion during the trip, to the delight of the group, our tremendously courteous and attentive police escort hustled a deviant driver off the road and “engaged him in lively conversation.”
Once out of Jeddah, the joy of opening up across the desert began. The Taif road, a largely featureless run, allowed the machines to settle comfortably into the cruising mode they do so well. Never having ridden a Harley or any motorcycle in the Kingdom, the stinging pleasures of sand grains and thwack of insects impacting exposed skin soon became an integral part of the new experiences. The temperature — somewhere around 45C — mocked the idea of ‘wind chill factor’ and turned the ride into something resembling driving in a fan oven.
The relief of cooler air as we climbed the escarpment was immediate. The sharply twisting road gave us the chance to heave the bikes round the corners and, using the controlled release of power from the big V twins, to balance centrifugal and centripetal forces against tire adhesion, having the sort of esoteric fun a non-motorcyclist can never quite understand. Motorcyclists are much more conscious of road surfaces than drivers of other vehicles, as they have only half the number of wheels. Windblown sand and potholes might cause an interesting tail-end twitch to a car; either could be lethal to a motorcyclist. Almost without exception, the road south to Taif and Al-Baha was in excellent condition. Unfortunately, so was the huge lump of paving slab left in the middle of one stretch. That buckled the wheel rims of one machine and flattened the tires; the biker stayed upright though his outing was over.
With some of the machines, fuel stops were necessary every 150 kilometers or so. In a car, one tends to be isolated from the modern equivalents of the oasis — the isolated gas station. Not so on a bike.
Shy Bangladeshis and tiny children with huge eyes appeared from nowhere and stood, quiet and smiling, staring at the gleaming machines. The station baqalas laden with the usual sweets and dry goods, included domestic cookware, bandoliers and sharp-edged devices for doing eye-watering things to camels. In only a few minutes, the weirdness of these strange visitors who had roared in from the dark supplied sufficient conversational material for weeks.
For many years motorcyclists have struggled against the misconception that they are violent and antisocial. Thus it was a real surprise and pleasure to ride into Al-Baha with junctions manned by police and traffic held back, all arranged by a thoughtful local official. No one on the road or the pavements seemed to mind at all; we were the main event that evening. I could get used to that very quickly.
The mountains around Al-Baha are full of surprises; cool swimming holes fed by springs, dams and abandoned villages built of local stone so that they seem to have grown out of the rock. We swung down a 20 kilometer switchback on a road that clung precariously to the harsh sheer-sided hills and tested our concentration and skills to the limit. The return route in daylight wound along the flanks of slab-sided mountains over deep valleys, the result of eons of floodwater rushing off the heights. About 120 km south of Taif, a white-topped rocky outcrop had pushed its way through the dun colored mountains, towering over the valley below.
The scenery, spectacular and harsh, gave pause for reflection on the geological forces that formed it. Happily, it also provided far more challenging riding as we plunged through long curving tunnels and burst blinking into brilliant sunshine, only to be swallowed again a few seconds later by another tunnel.
Re-crossing the Taif-Jeddah stretch of desert late on Friday afternoon, we encountered no traffic. The group spread out into a three kilometer line formation and just cruised enjoying the scenery and the simple pleasure of riding. Not much given to poetry, I have to say there is a special pleasure that comes from empathizing with the machine one rides. It must derive from the combination of controlled power, speed and exposure to the elements in huge open spaces while gazing down the long perspective of a tarmac road, tapering into nothing at the foot of blue-hazed mountains. It becomes dream-like and is very seductive.
That said, the Kingdom has a lot to offer motorcyclists. Easy riding, long well-maintained roads and a wealth of places to explore. Riders are accepted as a curiosity rather than a threat; that represents an opportunity to develop the positive image of bikers and their chosen steeds. Even if they are Harley Davidsons.