The Harley Lady

Rose Schoch mounts her “hog,” dressed head-to-toe in black leather, with fringes. Oh, and prim pearl earrings. There’s no reason a rebel can’t still be a lady.

The 72-year-old grandmother pops a helmet over her strikingly white hair, cruises out of her Harley-Davidson dealership, and revs her way through the streets of Snyderville, a township within Stroudsburg, Penn., (pop. 5,800).

“Everybody knows Rosie,” her 37-year-old son, Calvin Jr., says with pride. “She’s a legend.”

Rose, entrepreneur, road warrior, community booster, feminist by example, and town matriarch, gobbles up life with a great big spoon and enjoys every bite, even the hard parts, such as when her business suffered break-ins and her home was destroyed by fire in the 1960s.

“Every day brings a new miracle for me,” she says.

The oldest of eight children born to a barkeeper and his wife, raised in a home where having fun was a rule, Rose could be the person in the song Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. Retirement? Are you kidding? She’s got to run Schoch’s Harley Davidson Retail Merchandise Store, where customers can buy everything from the latest hogs to Harley baby clothes and Harley underwear.

She also runs Schoch’s Exxon and Convenient Store and keeps an eye on Schoch’s Car Wash. That little old lady thing she’s got going—the snowy hair, the sweet smile, and chirpy voice? It’s a disguise, Rose says, to defuse disgruntled customers. Who can yell at someone who looks like that?

Maybe customers see a grandmotherly figure, but when Rose looks in the mirror, she sees a young woman who just happens to have a lot of life experience. “I’m still maturing. I’m growing up … maybe,” she says with an impish chuckle.

Until the late 1970s, Rose’s life seemed to be going according to plan. In 1948, she married Calvin Schoch. In 1965, a friend talked him into selling Harley-Davidson motorcycles. Twelve years later, Harley sales were so slow that Calvin, now 72, gave the dealership to Rose so he could concentrate on his other businesses.

“People were skeptical of a woman running the company,” she recalls. Rose worked hard, but sales were so poor that sometimes she just put her head down on the table and prayed. The turn-around came gradually as customers responded to her personality and her knowledge of all things hog.

Rose’s business skills and community service have won her numerous awards, most recently the 1999 Woman Entrepreneur of the Year Award, presented by the University of Scranton’s Small Business Development Center.

Rose learned to ride motorcycles pretty much the way she’s done everything else—just jump on and go. One day back in the ’70s, she asked her then 10-year-old son if she could ride his dirt bike. After a few pointers, Rose was flying through a field when she realized she didn’t know where the brake was.

“I landed upside down in a briar patch, but there wasn’t any damage to the bike or me,” she says.

Today, Rose cycles less but still belongs to the Motor Maids, a group of women who have been cycling for half a century. Once riding a Harley gets into your blood, Rose declares, you can’t give it up.

Dolores Laugerman, 83, founder of Laugerman’s Harley Davidson in York, Penn., agrees. The women confess that customers and younger dealers are tickled they’re still involved with the motorcycle business.

“The younger generation thinks we’re great,” Dolores says.

Calvin Jr. believes women like Rose and Dolores put a positive spin on the public’s image of bikers. “Bikers have had a bad rap. Rose goes against the stereotype,” he says.

For Rose, riding is a spiritual experience. “When you’re flying along on two wheels, you’ve got to have a deep belief God will get you through,” she quips.

Rose speaks lightly, but she’s serious about safety. It was an issue she addressed often during a six-year stint as a township supervisor, and a motorcycle safety class meets in her shop. When an accident occurs, Rose marshals everyone around her into a prayer chain.

If she has any qualms about what’s coming next in her life, Rose doesn’t express them. She’s too busy making plans for future businesses to be afraid of aging.

“In the past, having white hair meant you were at the end of the line, and people were expected to hand over the reins of their business,” she says. “That has got to change. After all,” Rose adds mischievously, “when you hold your chin up, people don’t see the wrinkles.”

Pamela Rohland writes from her home in Bernville, Penn.

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