It sounds fake. Like a bumper sticker slogan or a drunk bet at a bar. A million miles. On one bike.
But Dave Zien didn’t just hit that number. He obliterated it. His 1991 Harley-Distribution Sport Glide clocked over a million miles between 1991 and 2009. Eighteen years. Zero days off, basically.
Most people trade bikes when they rattle. Zien treated rattling like white noise. He built this legend on sheer stubbornness, endless wrenching, and a refusal to admit a machine can actually die. Harley has been selling iron for over 120 years. They claim it’s built to last. Zien proved them right by doing something nobody else had the guts—or the sanity—to attempt.
The Politician With a Keychain
Zien wasn’t just some guy with a motorcycle. He was a man who navigated the world by both engine and election ballot. By the time he bought that ’91 Sport Glide, he was already entrenched in Wisconsin politics. Vice president of the Wisconsin Better Bikers. State Assembly member in 1988. Senator for Chippewa Falls by 1993.
He eventually became president pro tempore before leaving office in 2066. Politics demands presence. Motorcycles demand time. Zien managed both, championing rider rights while literally paving the miles.
Why bikes? Why not the horses he grew up with on his Eau Claire farm?
“I had a horse, and it couldn’t go fast enough. So I started on a motorcycle.”
Simple logic. The horses were too slow. The motorcycles weren’t. He graduated from a 49cc Moped to a Yamaha, then to a Honda during his Marine Corps days in Vietnam. It was out there, dodging danger with “Betty Sue”—his rifle, serial number 549990—that the connection formed.
He remembers the early rides vividly. Passing Harleys on cross-country trips. He waved. No one waved back. The silence stung. So when he finally owned the brand, he never stopped waving. Always acknowledging the brotherhood. He even named the ’91 Sport Glide “Suzanna ala Sha-Luck A Lay Ya,” keeping that same tender, almost irrational affection he’d held for his life-saving rifle in the bush.
Mechanical Masochism
Here’s the hard part. The maintenance log looks like a nightmare.
The bike wasn’t maintained. It was abused and then stitched back together.
Zien kept the original fenders, tank, triple tree, primary, transmission case, and main shaft. Original. From 1991. He just kept replacing everything that touched the air or the asphalt.
Think about the wear parts:
- 105 rear tires
- 65 front tires
- 17 stators
- 9 seats
- 13 pairs of boots
No kill switch. No horn. No kickstand—he just leaned it against trees, curbs, walls. Sometimes walls broke.
There was no neutral gear. The oil light? Dark. The tachometer? Broken. The speedometer needle snapped off. He rode by feel. He guessed his speed. Steve Phillips, a VP at Harley, watched him spin up the starter using a Phillips head screwdriver inserted into a drilled-out hole. Just to jump the starter motor in cold Wisconsin winters, he used a “roach clip” jumper system because conventional cables weren’t clever enough.
Did the engine die? Ten times. He rebuilt the engine ten separate times. Once in Yuma, Arizona at Bobby’s Territorial. Three days before hitting the million-mile mark in Florida, he overhauled the transmission. A week prior, he drilled and vented the primary to handle the pressure.
He did it all. Barely pausing to catch his breath.
“Can you imagine a million miles on one machine? When they gave me the Road Glide… I started crying. I turned away.”
Harley-Davidson tried to run from him earlier. They’d promised a free bike for 750,001 documented miles on a single machine. Zien documented it all. They ghosted him. No bike. No apology. It wasn’t until the million-mile milestone hit did the corporation show up, hat in hand, presenting a 209 Road Glide at a ceremony. The 91 Sport Glide retired immediately to the Sturgis Museum, keys handed to a curator.
A soul for a machine, and a plastic keychain for the owner.
Still Going
Dave Zien isn’t done.
At 74, he logs nearly everything on a trike. Two-and-a-half million total miles in his life now. He’s crossed the US more times than most pilots. Cars are cages to him. Glass boxes that isolate you from the wind, the smell of asphalt, the vibration of the planet.
He lost his left leg mid-thigh after a nasty wreck in Florida. An SUV driver panicked, the car ahead swerved without braking. Zien tumbled 342 feet. Six major surgeries. A prosthetic. He came back riding faster.
“Life isn’t about us. It’s teaching people to serve.”
He views patriotism and oil leaks with the same seriousness. The Harley isn’t transport; it’s an act of service to the idea of freedom.
Is that 191 Sport Glide gone for good? In the flesh? Yes. Sitting behind glass.
But the model lineage lives. The Sport Glide nameplate came back briefly as a cruiser, but its true heir today is the Low Rider ST—combining the sprint of the S-model with the comfort of the Road glide, a detachable sads and fairings. It’s fast, loud, and built to run away from your problems.
Will someone put a million miles on that next model? Maybe. Zien’s ghost might be there, in the tank, leaning on the new kid to keep riding. Keep waving. Even if they don’t wave back.
Who’s counting?
