Read Online The Peace Correspondent by Garry Marchant - Free Book Online

haven’t seen a foreign vehicle since before World War II.
    It is a multinational biker gang of Hong Kong Chinese and American, German, British, Canadian, Swiss, Swedish, Dutch and Malaysian expatriates. Riders have come from Europe, the U.S. and South Africa. Two bikes have been air-freighted from the U.S. and one from Holland for this historic run.
    At dawn, midweek in early October, the riders are out in an Esso service station near Hong Kong’s Western District polishing the chrome, checking their machines and slapping on stickers from Esso, the trip sponsor. The smell of oil and exhaust and hot metal smothers the reek of Fragrant Harbor, and this could be a gas station in Middle Town America, with a bike gang gathering for a weekend run. Connie, the only woman rider, a Harley dealer who flew her Softail from Los Angeles for the run, is dabbing on lipstick before pulling on her helmet. Steve, Asia’s Harley representative, is showing off the police bike complete with siren and flashing red and blue pursuit lights that he brought from Milwaukee to demonstrate to the Hong Kong police.
    For executives and financiers, they are a bulky bunch. Peter is a six-foot-six German outfitted all in black, from boots to T-shirt to fringed leather jacket. Reed, the safety officer and lead rider, chapter chairman George, Peter, an aircraft engineer acting as the volunteer mechanic, and most of the other riders are above average size, especially for Asia. While corporate Hong Kong strides purposefully to work, the HOG riders blast out of the Esso station with roaring engines and squealing tires, bound for China and the free, ride-like-the wind adventure of the open road.
    Not exactly. Within sight of China, they face their first obstacle. The Hong Kong driver of the support truck carrying the bags, compressor, tools, spare parts and tires doesn’t have a permit to enter China. The assemblage of 24 bikers, a half dozen riders, support cars, van and truck grinds to a halt, while the organizers sort out the bureaucratic problem. Finally, the truck isallowed to back up to the middle of the bridge and the Chinese truck that is to accompany them from here backs up to meet it, and they transfer all the gear across.
    While the Hong Kong border guards are tense and officious, panicking at the sight of a camera, the mood changes across the border. It is like the circus had rolled into town, with friendly Chinese officials gawking at the bikes and posing next to them for photographs while the bikers cool off with Budweiser beer from a duty-free shack. One uniformed soldier asks the typical Chinese question, “How much do they cost?”
    Now the born-to-ride-free bikers face an unpleasant reality. The Chinese will only let them ride in a convoy, with a police escort. Much later, only a few renegades will get to ride solo. The police hold back all the traffic through town while they assemble the convoy, with much shouting and instructions. Lead biker Reed blows his whistle so often, the other riders joke that he will start blowing the whistle to announce that he is blowing the whistle. After much confusion and shouting in English and Cantonese, the cavalcade departs.
    For the entire length of China, the convoy screams through towns and villages with a wedge of police motorcyclists in front, then police a car with screaming sirens and flashing lights, followed by Harleys in full, window-rattling roar. These aren’t just motorcycles, they’re American Harley-Davidsons, the ultimate macho machines, bikes with soul and style. There are a dozen different models, Softails, Sportsters, Fat Boys and Electra Glide Classics, bikes more expensive, with bigger engines, than most Japanese family cars. The big, classic 80-cubic-inch V-twin engines give the bikes that power and the distinctive Harley roar, so different from the agitated sewing machine whine of lesser bikes. Although once disparaged as Hardly-Go Davidsons, these are HOGs,