HOG in Andalucia

My latest reading week has passed to the constant background music of chromium-plated exhausts throbbing up and down the Paseo Maritimo. It's been the European convention of Harley-Davidson Owner Groups - with Chapters visiting from as far afield as Brasil, Saudi-Arabia, and the Isle of Man (if that doesn't sound too bathetic). And what an astonishing collection they are. Mainly middle-aged men with tatoos, handlebar moustaches, black T-shirts, sunglasses, and Nazi war helmets. Closet gays I thought, but some with scrumptious totty pillion riders, others in fancy dress (suit of armour, Elvis lookalike) lots of nationalistic flags, and all of their bikes without exception highly polished and well-appointed. They don't tear through the streets: they parade. The principal intent is to display the machine. But they occasionally throttle up to let out eardrum-blasting roars of power, just to remind us what they have under their control - and of course between their legs.