Communism and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

I hop on the back of Pedro Vejerano's red and white '52 panhead. As we take off, Sergio waves and hollers, "!Nos vemos en Sturgis!"

Pedro gives me a ride down the road to the plush Hotel Nacional. His Harley rumbles and growls its way up the hotel's long driveway. As we pull up at the front entrance, cameras click and heads turn. It's as if a movie star has arrived. Someone asks, "ADe que ano es?" Another shouts, "!Mira eso!" And another: "?Que motor es ese, chico?"

The porter's lips move in a whisper as he says to himself: "Arly Daveeson.