It was designed to look edgy and menacing, and it’s called the Cross Bones to reinforce that perception, and it’s the instigator and spiritual spearhead of the nascent Dark Custom Culture campaign that The Motor Company’s embarked upon in an effort to restore their neglected reputation as the bad hombres of motorcycling. As luck would have it, I had the opportunity to try out that whole badass ethos on an unsuspecting public—and a tough audience, to boot—but I hadn’t exactly set out to do that.
How that came about was that upon picking up the Cross Bones at the Harley-Davidson Fleet Center in Carson, California, and setting out for the Laughlin River Run, I promptly made a wrong turn and proceeded to take the Dark Custom on a merry excursion right smack into the aorta of LA’s own heart of darkness, Compton. Finding myself suddenly amidst a crumbling urban wasteland of gang graffiti and security grates on every orifice of every structure, I pulled into a heavily fortified filling station to take a route check.
I drew a lot of attention. I drew it from the guys under the hood of the dead Impala at the pump, and from the guys driving by exercising their subwoofers, and I drew it from the zombie-eyed streetwalker working her beat unsteadily at noon.
Fortunately for me, I was on the raw flat-black Cross Bones and not on some- thing like, say, a Pacific Blue Pearl De-luxe Rocker C. With the Cross Bones, the snap assumption of the onlookers was that I must be a heavy dude down in the hood on purpose—to peddle ephedrine in bulk, maybe, or snuff a snitch—rather than the stupid lost tourist I was. I saw no point in disabusing anyone of that notion, and adopted my best snitch-snuffing mien to emphasize the point. As you might imagine, I decided against pulling out a map or asking directions before casually pulling out and riding the hell back the way I came.
So you might say I bonded with the Cross Bones pretty quickly.
In truth, though, I knew I would, having had an opportunity to plant my cheeks on the model for a tantalizing few hours in the bustle of Daytona Beach during Bike Week. That brief exposure was sufficient to arouse my curiosity mightily about the bike—its unusual ergonomics, in particular—and I thereupon arranged with the Fleet Center to have one set up with the old-school touring accoutrements offered for the machine: a pillion, sissy bar/back pad, and pair of saddlebags.
The plan was to pile a good 1,200 miles on the Cross Bones in short order, heading from LA to Kingman, Arizona, spending a couple of days riding around the rally region, and then booking home to Northern California, and in so doing get a sense of the bike’s overall capabilities, and particularly its suitability as a touring mount.
With that in mind, the first order of business was getting out of the LA sprawl, and that ordeal provided a thorough testing of both the Cross Bones’ prowess on battered urban freeways, and my own short-term memory. With regards to the latter, I’m happy to report that I was able to remember to take the 91 to the 710 to the 105 to the 605 to the 210 to the 15 en route to hooking up with the 40 in Barstow. (Notice that I prefix the route numbers with “the” like true Angelinos, who are unique in that habit—an indication, I suppose, of the reverence they hold for the places where they spend most of their lives.)
In regards to how the Cross Bones manages the pavement conditions, I can say without reservation that no other Harley—and probably no other contemporary motorcycle—does it better, and the reason for that stems from the bike’s two most distinguishing design features: its springer front end and its sprung saddle. As outmoded as the springer front end is among current suspension setups, it has some honest advantages in certain circumstances, those being minor bumps and pavement irregularities and expansion joints. With its negligible static friction compared to telescopic forks, the springer reacts more quickly and sensitively to the minor inputs presented to it on these roadways (and its fearsome torsional rigidity and nose-dive rake angle seem to play a role as well). We found that to be the case before, when riding the discontinued precursor of the Cross Bones, the Springer Classic, but we also found that the springer was so compliant that the Softail suspension in back couldn’t keep up, so we couldn’t fully enjoy the smoothness of the front end. That’s where the sprung saddle comes into play on the Cross Bones. Those springs—having exactly zero static friction—readily absorb the bothersome little jolts telegraphed from the rear, resulting in a smooth steady-state ride over LA’s asphalt irritations.
The only occasional drawback to that arrangement comes on the real kidney-bangers when the rear suspension section levers up abruptly into the unsuspecting seat springs and bottoms them out with an oof. And then, since there’s no rebound damping, you get a pogo-moment in the saddle. It’s nothing unmanageable, though, and after awhile it becomes… well… fun.
Once out of the LA thrall, it was a run up through the mountain gap between the San Gabriels and the San Bernardinos in blustery conditions and heavy truck traffic, quickly proving the bike unflappable in holding its line against the blast, and we checked that one off our list. Barstow, here we come.
Call it the High Rider
When first mounting the Cross Bones in Daytona Beach, I was struck by several things. The first was how the seat placement put me up over the back of the tank in a position reminiscent of the seating position on the old pogo-seat machines the bike emulates so effectively. The second was how the apehangers put the grips comfortably within natural operational reach despite their stretched appearance, and the third was how far the floorboards were spread and how far they were from the seat. I was then struck by how effortless it was to pick up my feet and plant them on the boards, since it required minimal bending of the legs or wondering where exactly they were down there. My boots found the pavement just as effortlessly at a stop. It all made riding around the rally a relaxed experience, but all the while I wondered how that unusual arrangement—a dramatic departure from anything else Harley has offered in recent history—would play out on the open road for long periods of time.
The answer came as a surprise. Once I was familiar with the bike, I began to appreciate just what a marvelous saddle this thing has on it; one that offers a variety of seating positions suited to different circumstances and one that, in combination with the various boot positions offered by the floorboards (once you remove that extraneous heel shifter) lets you change your posture and stay comfortable for long miles. While the saddle is not dimensionally any larger than any other Softail perch—scaling out at roughly 14″ x 14″—it’s sculpted and angled in such a way that it has three distinct butt placements. The first is the one you naturally assume when mounting up, which is well forward, and works well for zipping around town. The second is further back in the pocket, up against the back ridge, which is dandy for general back road scooting, and the third—the surprising one—is with your ischia perched on the back of the saddle, aft of the springs, and your back touching the front of the pillion. In that position, you’re in a high-speed stretch to the bars and the floorboards, and also optimally positioned for letting the springs take the chatter bumps out of the ride. Over the course of this adventure, I never once grew weary, numb or agitated in the saddle, and that included a 450-mile day from Kingman to Paso Robles, California.
Getting into character
Sure, it’s bad with its apes and fat 200mm rear tire and general darkness, but the overriding styling theme of the Cross Bones is vintage bob-job, circa 1946. From the operator’s perspective, the view of a cat-eye style dash, half-moon floorboards and oval brake pedal is a glimpse into the past. Viewed in profile, the patent plate on the oil bag is a nice retro touch, and, of course, the springer front end and sprung saddle are as vintage as it gets. Put that all to-gether and throw in the palpable romance of Route 66 winding up Black Mesa to Sitgreaves Pass in Arizona, and I defy anyone not to feel like they’re riding 60 years ago—the baddest cat on the Mother Road—and running from the law.
That’s how I felt, anyway, and it’s a tortuous pursuit up the pass—tight switch- backs on a narrow sun-warped bead of old asphalt. With the quick handling characteristics of that tight 24-degree rake, the impulse is to flick the Cross Bones through the turns, but that impulse is quickly disciplined by the scraping of one floorboard or the other with every lean of any conviction. The floorboards, as noted earlier, are unusually wide-set, extending outboard a good inch farther on each side than the floorboards on other FL Softails. The result is a restricted lean angle, and while that proved but a minor annoyance on Route 66, it became a real frustration two days later on Kern County’s lonely Highway 58 between McKittrick and Santa Margarita.
That highly recommended 70-mile stretch is scenic and virtually devoid of traffic (and fuel, and water, and cell phone reception), and early on it presents a serious climb over a mountain. Tight—but not too tight—switchbacks and excellent pavement invite serious motorcycling, but the Cross Bones can only get half-serious about it, grinding metal prematurely—even for a Softail—and demanding a leisurely gait.
Gearing up
Accessorizing the Cross Bones for long-distance duty costs about $1,100. For $939.85 of that you get the well-designed and eminently functional pillion, sissy bar/pad, and saddlebags—all in perfect pitch with the vintage theme of the machine. Figure budgeting the rest of that for a handlebar bag—there are a number available from various manufacturers—and some black bun-gee cords. With that combination of components I easily packed up everything I needed for six days on the road, including camera and video gear—and still had some space remaining for in-cidentals on the road. The saddlebags are the star of the performance, providing both the good looks of leather bags and the substance of hard-panel reinforcements that retain the bags’ shape and keep them weather-resistant and easy to access. The sissy bar is high enough to accommodate a lot of bungeed gear, including, on top of everything else, your riding leathers when the day turns hot.
Takin’ a trip?
After traversing Highway 58 to Santa Margarita, I hooked it north up to Paso Robles and called it a day at 450 miles. Still in time traveler mode, with the spell of the Mother Road era well upon me, I spotted an old 1930s vintage motor court called the Farm-house Motel on the edge of the downtown district. It drew me like the pro- verbial moth. I got a room and discovered the place to be even more evocative of that earlier time than I’d antic- ipated, being something of a transient domicile. That’s something I suppose
I should have picked up on from the “Weekly Rates” sign out front, and again from the $35 I was charged for a night’s lodging, but I didn’t. I picked up on it once ensconced in my cottage and noticing what a colorful bunch my neighbors were—most of the color in the form of tattoos—and then in casual conversation with my new homies.
Once again, I drew a lot of attention. This time, though, of a different order entirely. The neighbor on one side of me immediately assumed from the looks of myself and my ride that I was an old-school two-wheeled vaga-bond, and she remarked (and this is verbatim), “That’s what you guys do, isn’t it. Just ride around the country and stop in some town for a few days.”
Don’t I wish. And then a short time later my other immediate neighbor, upon sizing me and the Cross Bones up, felt comfortable in confiding that he was—I kid you not—a Satan worshipper. And when he then asked what brought me to Paso, I couldn’t resist:
“Business,” I told him. “I’m here to snuff a snitch.”
