And sure, that’s pretty cool. A more iconic piece of late sixties counter culture you’re unlikely to find. But I’m left wondering who’s going to fork over a a hundred grand to own a piece of that image, to hang it in some multi-million-dollar mansion, admired by the kings and queens of hollywood or silicon valley.
The word irony comes to mind.
Still, I saw items about this auction in BoingBoing, and SFGate, and My first thought was the chopper – which isn’t for auction.
My mother used to save things like old christmas wish lists, and she recently ran across several from my childhood. You can imagine the things on them; GI Joes, ‘Major Matt Mason’ dolls. Hot Wheels and SST racers. Weapons, of course, knives (which I usually got), guns (which I would get if they were BB guns), and machines guns (which I still vaguely hope Santa will leave in my stocking). But the one thing that was always there – always – was chopper.
My god, I wanted a chopper. I used to dream about roaming the highways in leather, my motorcycle one of those absurdly raked, over-chromed monsters like I’d see from time to time roaring down the main streets near my house. My aunt used to date bikers, and I desperately hoped for a ride on some snarling monster of a bike (though when we visited, her boyfriend tended to have a truck full of harley parts (always pronounced as one word, harleyparts), and never a running bike one could actually ride.
I can’t say that absurd chopper lust has ever gone away. I recently watched Ghost Rider with my daughter, and all I could think (other than wishing the film were better) was I want that bike. No, not the cartoon skull-and-bones one, the real one, the one they called grace (which I can’t find a decent picture of, anywhere). The one that looked just like the Captain America bike. “You need a bike like that,” Ruby said to me, after the movie was over. And I agree with her.
I watched the above-linked intro from Easy Rider – a film I haven’t seen in years – and it brought bake all that silly, boyhood notion of the wide-open road, and the tragic, doomed hero. And you know, that’s part of the appeal, I guess. Because who can separate the image of that flag-striped machine, from the aerial shot, flames on the side of the highway. Pointless, random, manifest destiny.
Or maybe, you know, I just need a shiny new toy.