Can a sport biker learn to love a Harley-Davidson?

It sure doesn't look like a sport bike...

I walked into Eastside Harley-Davidson with the anticipation of a virgin on Prom Night.  Fair enough, because relative to Milwaukee twins, I was as chaste as they come.

I knew H-D was running a national test ride promotion so I figured I'd find a bike to ride, but I was completely unprepared for the hospitality of this dealership.

Eastside's manager, Scott Cook, welcomed me to the fold and walked me through the showroom, where he patiently explained the various models.  He then offered an Ultra Classic Electra Glide decked out in stunning Red Hot Sunglo paint.

When Scott suggested we go over the controls, little did I know I'd want to take notes.  AM, FM, CD, weather band.  Cruise control.  Proximity key.  There were vents to open and cases to close.  Much of which can be controlled from the grips.  Even the turn signals were different from my Japanese rides.

Scott asked me how long I'd have the bike out and thinking I was in a normal motorcycle dealership, I promised him I'd be back in half an hour.  He looked at me blankly.  "Half an hour? We close at six," he said, "just have it back by then."

Six?  That was four hours away!

With four hours, a key, and a full tank of gas, it was just me and the Ultra Classic, mano a mano.

I settled into the huge seat like a shrink's leather couch.  Thumbing the starter brought all 95 cubic inches up with no choke, thanks to finely tuned fuel injection.  At idle, it felt much like the Road Star had earlier that day:  A paint shaker.  And lifting it off the side stand was the same test of strength, but more so, at roughly 900 lbs. wet.

But riding it was different.  As the throttle increased the vibes decreased, creating the foundation for a very civilized ride.

Despite its substantial girth, the Ultra is remarkably easy to handle.  It's well balanced and the  power delivery is precise.  The suspension and frame (both new for 2009) soaked up bumps with grace.  With 450 improvements built into the 2009 models, this is not your grandfather's Harley-Davidson.  I rode around the neighborhood trying some corners then headed for the beast's natural habitat, I-90.

Nearing Snoqualmie Pass, leaning back with my helmet shield flipped up, groovin' to some tunes on the FM radio, effortlessly cruising in my relatively controlled environment, I had an epiphany:

This is fun.  I could do this.  I might even be able to get my wife to ride pillion.

Later, stopping for food and fuel, watching people enviously check out the Ultra in the parking lot, I had a familiar feeling the pit of my stomach.  No, it wasn't gas, it was pride of ownership.  Pretty good, considering my "ownership" was only a couple hours old and ending even sooner.

This is a great motorcycle.  Regardless of your affinity for retro styling, it's well designed, meticulously built, and delivers all that it promises.  A sport bike it's not.  But a sport bike is no Harley, either.

Will I be trading in my FZ1 any time soon?  For where, how, and why I ride, the bike I have is still the right choice for me.  But renting a Harley from Eastside every now and then is an idea I can get behind.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got go shopping for chaps.

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