Alright folks, buckle up. Wanted a proper American cruiser lately – that deep rumble, the low stance. Kept staring at pictures online. Started simple: Harley or Indian? Both scream Americana, right? But staring ain’t riding.
Getting My Hands Dirty (Literally)
Saturday morning, fired up the truck. No fancy dealerships first – hit the used bike spots downtown. Needed to feel ’em, not just see polished showroom models. Found a beat-up 2018 Harley Fat Bob parked behind a diner. Owner was finishing his eggs. Talked fast, offered him twenty bucks just to sit on it for ten minutes.
Hopped on. Heavy. Like, really heavy. Felt solid though, like a chunk of iron. Gripped the bars – wide and straight. Could picture it cruising highway miles, no sweat. But turning? Forget squeezing through city alleys. It felt planted. Owner wiped grease off his hands, pointed at the V-twin. “Shakes ya good when it fires,” he grinned. Yeah, I believe it.
Contrast Hit Hard at the Indian Lot
Walked into the Indian dealership later that afternoon. Shiny floors, shiny bikes. Sales guy pounced. Saw a used Scout Bobber tucked in the corner. Looked leaner, meaner than the Fat Bob. Asked to throw a leg over.
First shock? It wasn’t a wrestling match to get upright. Felt lighter, lower. Leaned into the turn sitting still – way easier. Controls felt tighter, closer. Sales guy blabbed about “liquid-cooled” nonsense. Don’t care. Felt more… flickable. Like I could actually hustle it around corners without needing a forklift. But did it have that iconic thump?
The Wallet Reality Check
Okay, okay, time for numbers. Found similar years/mileage:
- Harley Fat Bob: Sat on that 2018. Owner wanted $12k. Felt steep for something needing new tires yesterday. New ones? Sales flyer said mid-20s. Ouch.
- Indian Scout Bobber: That 2019 felt tighter. Dealer asked $11.5k. Cleaner than the Harley I saw. Looked up brand-new sticker. Still punchy, but started a few grand lower than comparable Harleys. The Harley Tax is real.
Crunched rough numbers sitting in my truck eating gas station chips.
Taking the Plunge… Sorta
Nagged me for days. The Harley’s raw vibe, that unmistakable look, the sound even parked – pure history. But that Scout… it just worked easier. Felt less like steering a barge. Didn’t want just a bar hopper, wanted something I could actually ride twisty backroads without needing a chiropractor on retainer.
Went back to Indian. Test rode that Scout. Yep. Confirmed. Pulled like a freight train down low, flicked side-to-side without a hernia. Smooth, almost deceptively so. Felt modern under me, even if it looked classic.
Made the call. That Harley image is powerful, man. But actually riding? My back and bank account whispered “Indian.” Pulled the trigger on a used Scout Bobber. Felt like I compromised, kinda. Betrayed the dream? Maybe.
But riding it home? Smiled the whole way. Sometimes practicality wins. Still eye those Fat Bobs though. Heart’s dumb like that.
