Havana - The characteristic roar of engines heralds the arrival of the coveted Harley Davidson motorcycles.

Slowly, pairs of proud riders parade down Havana's Malecon outside the US Interests Section and the statue of Cuban independence hero, Jose Marti, who points an accusing finger at the representatives of the empire.

Harley Davidson may be one of the symbols of the "American way of life" that Cuba so despises, but passion for these vehicles knows neither boundaries nor ideologies and is so deeply entrenched in the hearts of Cubans that the stir caused is considered compatible with being a good "revolutionary."

"It has nothing to do with having an American bike. On the contrary, we took part in the May 1 parade invited by the government. We have joined the Battle of Ideas," says Lazaro Broton, from the western province of Matanzas.

Broton owns one of the over 120 Harleys in Cuba.

Lazaro William Gonzalez, president of the Havana Team of Classic English Motorbikes, a rolling museum which goes beyond Harleys, sees no contradiction either.

"I was an officer of the Armed Forces for 15 years," he says, dressed in a leather waistcoat and bandana boasting the Harley logo.

In fact, he insists, all riders in Cuba have a most revolutionary role model: Che Guevara himself, who travelled Latin America on a Norton motorcycle.

"I know Che's story almost by heart," Gonzalez says, sporting a pin with Guevara's effigy on his chest, surrounded by rider symbols.

The youngest son of the legendary revolutionary, Ernesto Guevara March, is also a member of the community.

"Ernestito hangs out with us. He owns a Harley Davidson and is a rider," Gonzalez notes.

However, taking care of a classic motorcycle in Cuba takes more than just revolutionary fervour.

The US-imposed embargo on the island hinders access to spare parts and the few dollars that bike owners can afford on an average monthly wage of less than 20 dollars make the upkeep of the bikes cumbersome.

"In order to keep the bike like this we get almost no leisure time, we do not sleep well - we are always thinking of the part, the problem, of how to improve the bike," Broton says, looking at his shiny 1947 Harley.

"It is hard to bring in parts, we have had not only to make them ourselves but also to restore original parts," he adds.

"We make it based on sacrifices," agrees Richard, a mechanic who owns an "original and complete" 1958 BSA and has devoted 24 years devoted to the bikes.

Paradoxically, the fact that it is so hard to get spare parts, not to mention new vehicles, has turned Cuba into a paradise for lovers of classic cars and motorcycles, many of which would have have become museum pieces elsewhere.

Cubans have had to hone their improvisation skills in order to get by. When it comes to the bikes, they have to come up with the necessary parts and rely on friends living abroad to bring them or they make the parts themselves.

"We keep this up for the love we have for it (the bike), it is like a toy for me. She sleeps inside my house," Richard says, stroking his BSA fondly.

"First motorbikes, and then women," he says, while his wife Yeni, also a motorcycling fan, laughs in agreement.

And he is not the only one who feels like this.

"She is my first wife," Jose Pipin says of his grey Harley. "She sleeps in the room next to mine."

In a country with few organizations apart from the state apparatus, motorbike fanatics have three associations that are frequently inter-related.

"We are a brotherhood," says Lazaro Gonzalez.

And despite the bad boy image often associated with motorbike riders with their leather, bandanas and boots, in Cuba things are not quite the same.

"We are respected. It is not like they think elsewhere, that the rider is a criminal, a bandit. Here there are anything from students to workers, officers, members of the
(Communist) Party, and we are all a family. We are part of the people and we are loved by the people," Gonzalez stressed. (dpa)