In "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," the Cheshire cat disappeared and left nothing but his grin. My adventures in riding also have faded, leaving a grin and a purr.

The grin results from my motorcycle memories. The purr is the sound of a Harley tooling along the highway. Not that raucous sound when a rider cranks it up to an ear-splitting level just to attract attention. That, to me, isn't what it's all about.

My first (and only) Harley was a well-worn 1946 model purchased shortly after high school. It made such an impression that I still remember the serial number -- 46FL6970. Who remembers automotive serial numbers?

Old-time riders will recall Lou Bacon of Allegheny County Distributors on Federal Street. He made the sale in 1951, and the $295 price included a lesson behind the North Side H-D dealership.

Seasoned road riders wore distinctive soft caps, with shallow peaks, in those days. Guys like me wore no head covering, no boots, no gloves, no leathers, no eye shield. Not the smartest of decisions, but somehow I managed to survive. The closest I came to disaster was when the drive chain broke one Saturday morning and my dad towed me home on a bull rope attached to the bumper of his Chevy. Again, not a recommended procedure.

That bike had a hand-operated gearshift to the left of the gas tank. No mirrors, no windshield, no turn signals, and a stand that pivoted from a bracket near the hub of the rear wheel. You released it from the fender, then rocked the bike backward until it stabilized. I personalized the two-wheeler by painting it blue and white -- with a brush!

Military service intervened, and four years later I began my quest for another big-bore Harley. But they were pricey and Japanese bikes were not, so my comeback started with a used 350 Honda road and trail, followed by a new 350 Honda four-cylinder model (ghostly quiet), a new 450 Honda twin and a new 550 Suzuki. I traded up every few years, feeling that a new machine was safer.

Helmets, boots, gloves, face shield, a leather jacket and a safety course at the community college increased the survival factor, but I still managed to lay those cycles down four times -- once on damp grass in my yard, once on exposed rails along Smallman Street and twice on loose roadside gravel -- all low-speed spills with little or no damage, save humiliation. This, despite the fact I never drank while biking and rarely rode after dark.

So there I was, almost halfway to an Electra Glide (in terms of cubic centimeter displacement, at least), and I quit. Cold turkey. Figured I had tempted fate long enough. I had a couple of rides on big-twin hogs, thanks to a cousin and a neighbor, but never returned to the Harley quest.

Through the years there were lots of two-lane blacktop adventures: visits to diners, swimming pools, state and county parks, tennis courts (I was evicted from Scott's community park after challenging a sign that prohibited motorbikes), a poker run and my favorite Sunday morning hangout -- Resurrection Cemetery in Moon, where planes approaching the airport came in at near eye level.

And so, current riders, keep those Harleys humming, or purring. I'm with you in spirit.

Ride and write

Welcome to Pittsburgh Rides, our regular feature on motorcycling. Here we bring you the latest in rides, trends and events, but we need your input. We're looking for voices from the local biking community willing to share (in roughly 500 words) your experiences on the road and what you think is hot on wheels.

Send your story or pitch to Weekend editor Scott Mervis at smervis@post-gazette.com.