It’s not often that a motorcycle arrests my attention and demands satisfaction. As a rule of thumb, the aforementioned arresting motorcycle isn’t a Harley Davidson so I’m at a loss to explain why the Rocker grabbed my attention purely on looks alone. I’m convinced that Harley have seen those Teutuls (Bill Gates is insisting that “Teutul” should be “Tutu”) at work and noted that their design philosophy centres around a huge rear tyre, a low slung single seat, and a tall raked front then developed the perfect motorcycle to start the customisation process within the scope of the Teutul idiom.
That would be a horrible shame.
The Rocker manages to combine eye grabbing looks (like it or loathe it, you WILL look) with an air of quality often missing from some of Harley’s products. Exposed galvanised roofing nails can sometimes poke out of crevices at you when investigating the cheaper Dyna and Sportster models (see my Nightster review), inevitably drawing your attention to lesser elements of finish. The first time I spotted a Rocker in the flesh, I just had to sit on it and I was surprised to find, that far from being a cruciform torture implement, the seat was comfortable, the controls were within reach and the bars weren’t uncomfortably high. The matt grey finish on the non-chromed, unpainted parts of the chassis give life to the overall design, presenting subtle detail to your visual cortex and giving the “look” of the Rocker definition. Harley probably look at this design statement as the starting point, but it reminds me of Phillipe Starck’s broad sweeps of industrial colours with bright details giving meaning to the overall form.
But what is it like to ride and how the hell did Harley-Freaking-Davidson just draw me into that paragraph of wanton over-intellectualisation?
Is it heavy? Yes. Does it have two indicator buttons? Yes. Is that rear tyre Phat? My word, yes!
The new Harley big block with fuel injection is a delight. Harley’s genius for maintaining its image but moving technologically forwards is really starting to manifest itself. The image has been maintained but the parts that make the whole have changed radically. The gentle vibro-massage at idle is still there, but the moment the clutch drops home and those big, heaving lumps of torque push you away from the curb the (brilliant) mirrors clear as your feet rise to the not-as-forward-as-they-look controls, and you’re off. I’ve been lucky enough to experience flying in both a Cessna 195 and a Harvard. Radial engines really do sound like all the Dwarves of Moria going to town on a Troll’s forehead. It’s a visceral sound that makes you want to shout embarrassing things like, “Woman, NOW!”. Instead of a gentle chuffing “PO-TA-TO” rhythm Harley critics so often use to deride Harley’s latest Euro mangled exhaust sound, I swear that somehow this thing sounds like a Harvard at full 720bhp noise, supersonic propeller tips and all.
I’ve ridden 100 metres to the first set of lights, and yet again, I’m totally in love with the latest bike I just happened to swing my leg over. I need help.
The first surprise is that once you get over 20kph it doesn’t steer like a wheelbarrow. The only time it fights back is when the back finally tracks through that pothole the front went through about 2.5 seconds ago. It’s predictable though, and the suspension actually works. It looks like a hardtail but is anything but. Front and rear soak up bumps, even the worst that some of Wellington’s less friendly roads can throw up. The first speed bumps I get to don’t provoke any Supercar–like scraping sounds from the sump, frame, or pipes. In fact it has more ground clearance than a Nightster, and adopting a riding style of using the road camber to slingshot yourself through turns proves that Harley’s neo-Custom does actually handle.The brakes require a manly squeeze, but the rear provides loads of useful power in that typical cruiser fashion. A simple adaptation to make.
As it all comes together I start dragging heels (it wasn’t me that ripped the peg feelers out, honest!) and paying a bit more attention to my surroundings. People look at this bike. My non-Gang bro attire makes me approachable, and people are waving and nodding, some of them, even old crusty people, are just staring open-mouthed. If you don’t mind the attention it is terrifically gratifying. If you don’t want to scrape your heels, simply point and clench your toes, imitating orgasmic repose. The moue and girlish scream are optional, but go on, you know you want to!
It goes around corners too. It handles better than a V-Rod. There’s no flip flop through roundabouts and you are generally travelling 10-20 km/hr faster than you would estimate.
Every time I wend my way around Wellington’s rugged coastline I always tip my hat to one of the few statesmen of the 20th Century worthy of the title. The Atatürk memorial is both a reminder of needless sacrifice and a memorial to the sometime necessity of war to engender radical social, political, and economic change.Harley has achieved something similar with the Rocker. They’ve addressed US biker culture, customisers, long term Harley faithful and “real” riders too. You can ride this bike. There are limits of course, just like the average dirt bike can’t do 200 km/hr, and a 50cc scooter isn’t motorway transportation. But there’s no excuses needed for the Rocker. On the motorway it all comes together, though that new 6 speed gearbox just isn’t necessary. A light comes up on the tank mounted dash, the number 6 to be precise, to tell you that you are in top gear. If you are at all mechanically sympathetic you KNOW you are in 6th gear. The vibration is painful at 100km/hr. Drop down to 5th and it all smoothes out again. Down to 4th and that Radial Aircraft Engine noise comes back to the fore. Apart from 6th, gear selection just doesn’t really intrude as an issue, and the Rocker will tempt you into license losing speeds very quickly, without apparent effort.
The effort of will required to take this bike back to the shop was immense. I really wanted a much longer engagement. I wonder just what kind of degrading act I have to perform to get away for a weekend, just so I can parade my extrovert self over hundreds of kilometres in search of the perfect Long Macchiato? Or a couple of beers and a plate of chips. Who cares. The Rocker Rocks.
P.S. Thanks to Pete McDonald of Wellington Motorcycles for the loan of the bike, the camera, and the PC. I owe you another one of those big Red Bull cans.
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