A characteristic of Harley owners which I have always thought a bit stupid is their penchant for wearing a uniform. I am not talking about the coppers who have the good fortune to be paid to ride around on them all day long. I am referring to private owners and I see few exceptions to the rule.

I have been a fan of Harley Davidson motorcycles for many years, but have never warmed to the uniformed look. I guess I just don't particularly like uniforms in general. Actually, just thinking about that, that's not entirely true. I can think of one exception. The female members of the Caribañeri in Italy do look rather fetching in theirs. But that's beside the point.

Despite having had other bikes over the years I had never owned a Harley, until recently. Suddenly I was confronted with having to make some decisions of my own about the uniform.

Like most uniforms it has some basics from which you build. The basic kit for a recruit is as follows. The first and most important element of this great boringness is an open face helmet which under no circumstances should be any colour other than black. When riding in this you will have trouble with wind and bugs in your eyes (unless you only ride the bike as far as the local café) so a seriously cool pair of black shades are necessary as well. Under no circumstances the pilot-look ones though. They are strictly for coppers.

A black leather jacket is also imperative. If you are looking for instant promotion, you can rip the sleeves out. Alternatively, leave the sleeves in and put an old denim jacket over the top with the sleeves torn out. The pants are an area where personal preference can be exercised. Either jeans, or leather chaps, over jeans. Footwear is not an area for options. It must be black boots.

Finally, like the army, depending on how tough you are, you are allowed to add little embellishments. Harley owners don't refer to these embellishments as rank, but I'm convinced they think of them as such, the difference here being that rank/toughness is largely a matter of self-assessment. An assessment that leans a bit more these days towards self perceived coolness and self perceived rugged individualism. The approach is akin to that of a third world dictator. You decide for yourself what rank you consider yourself worthy of and add badges accordingly, some stitched on, some tattooed on. If you end up regaled like Idi Amin you have gone a bit too far, though you probably won't be aware of it.

So you get the picture. Here is this group of people who like to see themselves as some of the free spirits of the world, people able to step aside from the stultifying stupidity of society's mores. As such, or maybe as part of a desire to demonstrate their individuality to the rest of society, they ride a Harley. To me this signifies that the last thing you would then want to do is be influenced by what other people think you should wear. These are some of the people who decry the tie wearers. Nevertheless they take particular care to piece together a uniform which is supposed to look as though it is the antithesis of the same. Just seems silly to me.

Anyway, I had bought this bike and I needed to update some of my protective clothing. The dilemma was, what to wear?

First up I needed a new helmet. I live in Mexico and despite the fact that the majority of riders here don't bother to wear them, it is actually compulsory. Further a foreigner flagrantly breaking road laws in Mexico is a gift from heaven to the federales. Not actually having to invent a traffic offence is the equivalent of just telling them to name their own price. Being a highway policeman here is considered an entrepreneurial occupation. This, combined with the fact that I don't actually have a driver's license, inclined me heavily towards buying a helmet and wearing it at all times.

Given that most Mexicans aren't interested in wearing a helmet and if so do it reluctantly, the range for sale tends to be very limited. Most are just cheap uncomfortable ones, not to mention unsafe. As chance would have it I happened to be back in Australia about this time and decided to make the purchase there.

I went to a large bike shop in Melbourne where they had a terrific range. The shop sold Japanese bikes. The very helpful sales guy began by having me try on a few different brands and sizes to narrow the field a bit. I settled on what I thought was a pretty whizzo fully enclosed one which was a very comfy fit. Open face helmets give good visibility which is handy in traffic, but I bought the bike for touring and a full face helmet is much more comfortable for long trips. I also thought a dark visor on a fully enclosed helmet may make it a little more difficult for the police to recognise me as a foreigner.

At this stage the shop guy, in the course of making polite conversation, asked me what sort of bike I had. I told him and he seemed to be taken a bit aback. He obviously thought I should be looking at other helmet styles. Then he adopted a barely concealed knowing grin and said, "we have that size available in black sir, should you wish, and the same company makes a very nice open-faced model." Jap bike riders know that Harleys attract wankers.
I said that the silver, full-faced one I was holding would be just fine. So that was the helmet.

I already had an old oilskin three quarter jacket, so I figured that removed the need for a leather jacket. Jeans, I have no problem with that part of the uniform. Now I just needed some boots. Mexicans make a big range of boots so I waited until I got back there to go in search of them.

Boots tend to get wrecked riding a bike. The gearshift destroys the toe of one boot and they both suffer lots of wear from constantly rubbing against the engine. I didn't really want to spend a lot of money on anything very special. Just something sound and comfortable.

I love cowboy boots and have always had at least one pair. It was now just a matter of what style and colour. The Harley uniform requirement is for the ones that have a strap across the arch of the foot. This is added to the outside of the boot and has a large silver ring on the side. I have always disliked these additions. In fact I reckon they look pretty stupid. The strap is the same sort of look as if you have spurs on. Enough said on that one I think.

As you might expect in a Mexican rural centre, there are many boot shops in Oaxaca. I had bought boots and shoes here before and always had terrible trouble finding anything bigger than a size nine. I take a size nine-and-a-half to ten. The result on previous occasions has invariably been that I have visited virtually every shop in town and ended up having to take the one pair I found which actually fitted. Forget having a choice of styles or colours. Above size nine that just was not an option.

Rather un-optimistically I set off in search. I flogged my way around town all afternoon. Same old result, nothing. As I headed home, annoyed with the experience, I stopped in at one last shop which was actually quite close to where I live. The elderly lady in attendance said she had a few styles available in sizes larger than nine.

My spirits were not that easily lifted. Numerous sales staff had told me the same during the course of the afternoon and each time they had been proven to be just bullshitting me in order to entice me into the shop. I waited with a heavy heart while she went in search.

I was fairly tired by then so sitting waiting didn't bother me all that much. She reappeared and proceeded to un-box a pair of tall, red, imitation crocodile skin boots. I couldn't even be bothered going through the motions any more. I told her she had to be joking and got up and started heading for the door.

She flustered about a bit, assuring me that these were only to see what size would be comfortable on me in the brands they carried and that they had plenty more styles and colours. I was skeptical and more than a bit weary of being lied to, but she did seem a lot more genuine than the young smart-arses I had mostly been dealing with that day. I sat back down.

Upon her further urging I tried on one of the crocodile numbers to check the size. At least she had that right. They were the only pair of boots I had found all afternoon that were actually a nice comfy fit, pointy toe and all.

I relaxed a bit, she relaxed a bit and I waited while she went off in search of some half respectable styles and colours. I probably even would have accepted a black pair by that stage. She returned and to give her her due, she actually had four or five pairs about my size. She hadn't been lying. My spirits were lifting.

Unfortunately, as much as I tried to like any of them, I just couldn't. They were all about as awful as the red plastic crocodile, which incidentally was still clinging to my left foot. It seemed like she was trotting out for my inspection a whole lot of left over rubbish that was not only too big for the locals, but also too horrible.

Keep in mind here that there are plenty of ranchero bands and mariachis around Oaxaca and these roosters just love outrageous cowboy boots. So if even they wouldn't buy these things, then well ... you've got the picture right. My spirits flagged again. I was sufficiently down-in-the-mouth about yet again not being able to find footwear, that as I sat there sulking I even let her cajole me into putting on the other crocodile.

There I sat, tired and sulky, with a pair of stupid looking red boots on. Sulking wasn't solving the problem unfortunately, so, as I'm wont to do when contemplating a problem, I got up and started to pace about a bit. I had probably done half a dozen laps before happening to notice in the foot level mirrors that these imitation tropical reptiles were actually remarkably similar to the colour of my bike. I stopped and for the first time had a close look at them.

Running up the centre line of each boot, from the long pointy toes, were artificial versions of the little ridges that line either side of a crocodiles spine. The rest of whatever the material was had a croc' skin sort of a pattern to it. It occurred to me that the little ridges were in just the right spot to reinforce the toe where it goes under the gear lever. They were also a remarkably good fit. Very comfy in fact.

I couldn't help a weak, almost defeated little chuckle to myself. At this the sales lady got a little sales-type glint in her eye. I was thinking that if you are going to ride a wanker's bike there is probably not much point trying to hide what you are. And I knew a few friends who would be horrified. That was a benefit.

I gave in to stupidity and lack of choice. The sales lady in the end was reasonably subdued about the deal, though I suspect that when I walked out the door she may have won a sales prize for having been able to flog them.

It's doubtless says some quite unfortunate things about my character that I am now deeply attached to these boots and won't go anywhere on the bike without them. And here they are.

In this photo they appear to be brown, but believe me they are red.

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