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BORN TO BE MILD
Can a few days of living a fantasy really get your motor running?

Text: CHANTAL TRANCHEMONTAGNE

In the dusty desert town of Twentynine Palms, California, a pair of grannies shuffles toward the exit of the Circle K. At first, they ignore the guttural rumble coming from down the -highway. But when our motley crew of Harley-Davidson riders dive-bombs into the parking lot, they snap to attention.

The one in the pink flowery muumuu clutches her friend’s frail arm and slowly backs away from the door, her eyes fixed on the scene unfolding less than 10 metres away. The first biker to arrive in the lot, Richard, is quick to doff his helmet and jacket. Despite the high quotient of chrome and leather surrounding him, his middle-aged pot-belly and giddy smile betray him as nothing more than a tame tourist. As the rest of us – five men and three women – de-gear around him, it becomes obvious that our group is more Boy Scouts than Hell’s Angels, with one exception: the Real Deal.

His name is Vincenzo, a 33-year-old Italian Stallion mechanic from Rome, decked out in a black fitted leather jacket, tight blue jeans, a bandana and tan boots with snakeskin detailing. He wears a permanent scowl, and when his jacket comes off, his tattoos come out, plastered on every piece of available real estate – from the delicate angel tattoo representing his mother to the motorcycle on his right forearm to (my fave) the V-Twin engine, a Harley-Davidson icon, placed directly over his heart.

The elderly women stare long and hard at Vincenzo, then fling open the door and scurry away as fast as their feet can take them.

"If only you knew," I mutter under my breath. Our gang of chromosexuals aren’t badasses. We aren’t out to rape and pillage the countryside. We don’t have an ounce of meanness in us. Hell, no. We are consumers of a rebel fantasy.

When I signed up for an eight-day trip with EagleRider, a Los Angeles-based motorcycle rental and guided tour company, I was ready to get my motor running. Through the high desert of California, into John Wayne Country and the bright lights of Las Vegas, I would join the legions of easy riders taking to the road for Harley-Davidson’s 100th anniversary. But that wasn’t all the trip had to offer. This was my chance to be cool. I could leave behind my safe little office-bound life, throw on some leather and emerge a motorcycle mama. At least, that’s what the brochure offered, with its photos of the open road, fabulous motorcycles and promises of reliving the Old West. EagleRider president Chris McIntyre reassured me: "It’s more than just a getaway. This is a chance to rent a dream – to be someone else."

Apparently, I’m not the only one interested in taking on a rebellious alter ego. In 2001, EagleRider attracted about 20,000 customers, primarily affluent European men between the ages of 31 and 51. Helping people change identities is a lucrative business. The company’s success – witness their 30 rental locations worldwide, with a fleet of 1,500 new-model Harley-Davidson motorcycles – is but one example of companies cashing in on the experiential tourism craze, which includes life-altering adventures ranging from military training to Survivor-like expeditions. "We’re a culture that is -looking for the next exciting thing," says Jane Reifert, president of Incredible Adventures, a tour company that offers everything from space adventures to covert-op training. "People are getting older; they have more disposable income and more free time."

Luckily for us, adventure no longer means roughing it. Though you may be living a gritty fantasy during the day, at night, it’s pure luxury. Companies know their clients don’t want total authenticity; they still want their luxuries, like first-rate accommodations and meals. All this comes with a price, of course. The EagleRider trip rings in at about $4,000 (souvenirs not included).

I assumed that for that price, my group would buy into the rebel fantasy. I was wrong. Our first lunch together was painfully polite. Silence engulfed the table. Joel, our 24-year-old guide, stepped in to make conversation, expounding on the virtues of snowboarding, his first bike (Fat Boy) and why he loves Harley-Davidsons ("I am a freedom seeker"). Vincenzo rolled his eyes and sipped his Coke.

As the trip progressed, the inner rebel started seeping out of the riders’ pores. Chris, a ragged looking 49-year-old Brit riding with his wife, was the first to lose the polite veneer of his day job as a customer service manager for AT&T. By day two, he threatened to moon the group and spun his wheels in the dust every chance he got. Peter, a cherubic lad from northern England who also rode with his wife, started making references to the classic biker flick Easy Rider: "Is this where we throw away our watches?"

Vincenzo, on the other hand, just rode his bike at 130 kilometres an hour: arms draped lazily over the handlebars, feet hooked up beside the studded leather saddlebags, upper torso leaning against the gas tank. I tried to emulate his relaxed look, swaggering a little when I walked. I talked shop with the men and learned a thing or two about the art of the bike. I was converted faster than you can say "metalhead." I planned to buy my first child a Fisher-Price H-D motorcycle, finance a new H-D bike and transform my wardrobe into a mass of fringed items. I may have even signed up for an H-D credit card.

But halfway through the trip, I figured out that nobody else in the group was interested in the rebel fantasy (with the exception of Joel, who tried so hard, and Vincenzo, who didn’t have to). Peter mentioned that he and his wife chose the trip to celebrate their 25th anniversary: "We just wanted to see the landmarks." Chris’ wife, Lynn, explained that they simply "wanted to do something different." Richard just wanted to get away from the monotony of his work as a building inspector. But I wasn’t giving up on my biker dream. So I aligned myself with Vincenzo, revelling in his ability to ride no-hands and look dangerous on demand. Through all that toughness, I could still see his soft side. He slurped up American icons: a California license plate with a bastardized version of his name (Vincent), a Route 66 road sign, a steer skull that he bungee-corded to the back of his bike. I even thought he might be ready to move to the good ol’ US of A when he mentioned having his mama open up an Italian joint in the middle of the desert.

On my last night, as we walked through the epitomy of American excess, a Las Vegas casino, Vincenzo took me aside and revealed his disenchantment with the tour. "This is not real," he said, rolling the rrr. He was right, I admitted to myself. Ultimately, experience-based tours like this one are targeted at the person who wants to dabble in an exciting, exotic life – not someone like Vincenzo who was already living it. Amid the cacophony of bells and clanging change, Vincenzo yanked the spark plugs out of my rebel fantasy by reminding me of one truism that the tour companies probably hadn’t considered: Money can’t buy everything.