Harley Davidson and The Disney Princess.

“We are losing the ability to recognise, let alone resist, the corporate control of time, space, bodies, and minds.” = Henry Giroux, author of The Mouse that Roared: Disney and the End of Innocence (1999)

Cult /kəlt/: 1) A system of religious veneration and devotion directed toward a particular figure or object. 2) Misplaced or excessive admiration for a particular person or thing.

In 1991, my new bride asked me to stop riding motorcycles, at least until our children were grown and independent. I sold my Suzuki, content to get my adrenaline fixes from my career as an Air Force helicopter pilot. Goodbye motorcycles, hello kids. In the years that followed, we took those kids to Disney World—a lot. During those trips, I learned about Disney, its devoted fans, and its corporate culture. Little did I realize that my family and I were slowly being drawn into the Disney universe.

Hold that thought, because I’m going to digress back to motorcycles. Fast forward to 2022. Our kids were mostly grown and gone, and I gently reminded my wife of her promise from 30 years earlier. As we say in the South, “Bless her heart,” she reluctantly agreed to my buying a motorcycle. I bought a Harley-Davidson, and off I went. Little did I realize that I was slowly being drawn into the Harley universe.

Now, in 2025, I’ve become deeply familiar with two corporate cultures: Disney and Harley-Davidson. Beneath the leather vests and Mickey Mouse ears, Harley-Davidson groupies and Disney Adults are essentially the same. Both are American icons with deeply loyal customers. Yet both institutions have seen better days and may even be in serious trouble.

Disney and Harley-Davidson are iconic American brands, so woven into the American experience that they’ve become synonymous with America itself. They represent significant aspects of American culture: our fascination with childhood innocence and youthful rebellion.

Disney and Harley-Davidson evoke youthful experiences. Disney is synonymous with childhood innocence, while Harley-Davidson embodies teenage and early-20s rebellion. These uniquely American archetypes were formed in the 1950s, when Baby Boomers were growing up and modern American culture coalesced after World War II. Perhaps no song better represents Boomer childhood than “When You Wish Upon a Star” from Disney’s 1940 Pinocchio. No image better captures Boomer rebellion than Marlon Brando in The Wild One. Innocence and rebellion—these are what they’re selling. But to whom?

Disney and Harley are selling to people with money, and those aren’t kids or teenagers. They’re not even parents with young children. They’re selling to childless adults and, increasingly, older people. Both brands peddle idealized images of childhood and youth, but their primary audience is adults. The “Disney Adult” is a grown-up zealot for all things Disney, often stereotyped as a childless millennial lacking self- or social awareness. The stereotypical Harley rider is a well-off Boomer or Gen-Xer who attends motorcycle rallies and owns a “bagger” motorcycle more expensive than most cars.

Both brands are expensive and increasingly resemble luxury brands. Harley-Davidson motorcycles are costly. A new entry-level bike in 2025 costs well over $10,000, making them nearly unaffordable for young people. A top-end bagger can exceed $50,000—the price of a new car. When you buy a Harley, you’re paying for a premium “badge,” putting the brand out of reach for teens and twenty-somethings. Reports place the average Harley rider in their late 40s or early 50s. The brand has shifted from “rebel without a cause” to “rebel with a fat checking account.” Similarly, the Disney theme park experience has become a luxury, out of reach for many young families. Tickets, parking, food, and countless “add-ons” and “upgrades” can make a Disney park trip cost over $10,000. Even seeing a Disney movie in theaters can cost hundreds for a family, not to mention streaming service fees. These brands no longer cater to families with children or rebellious young men wanting to “break away.” They cater to the illusions of successful adults and retirees trying to recapture their youth. And illusions love to play dress-up.

Both Disney and Harley rely heavily on costumes and merchandise. At a Disney park, it’s not just little girls dressing as princesses—30-year-olds are doing it too. From Mickey Mouse ears to princess gowns for cosplaying any Disney character, the brand’s reach is clear. Similarly, the leather jacket and vest, synonymous with outlaw motorcycle culture, are staples of Harley-Davidson. It’s often said that Harley is an apparel company that happens to sell motorcycles. In both cases, brand acolytes are identifiable by what they wear. Clothing and costumes are outward symbols of subordinating individuality to brand conformity.

Both Disney and Harley market extreme conformity branded as individuality: “Look at me, I’m a rebel just like you,” or “Look at me, I refuse to grow up just like you.” We all want to belong—that’s normal. But this fandom invokes an almost religious zeal for brand identity, not necessarily for a quality product or service. For example, I’ve owned two Harley-Davidson motorcycles. I recently traded my three-year-old Harley for a new Honda. Why? I grew tired of the mechanical and electrical malfunctions that plagued the bike. The quality didn’t match the premium price tag. Harley markets its heritage, but Honda markets quality and reliability. Give me quality any day. As for Disney, they seem to rely on poor-quality live-action remakes and cannibalizing intellectual properties they’ve purchased, like Marvel and Star Wars, rather than creating original content. They produce content now, not quality entertainment.

Extreme market conformity can backfire. When content creation trumps artistic creation, corporate cultures prioritize “fan service” over originality and innovation. Harley is tied to its “heritage” marketing, producing the same stale bikes for the same demographic year after year. Any deviation from this formula in bike design is often met with outrage from Harley’s core customers, encapsulated in the phrase, “That’s not a REAL Harley!” Disney has gone further, trapped in a cycle of making live-action remakes of its animated classics. The result: both brands suffer from stale product lines. Their customer base erodes, leaving only deep-core brand loyalists who demand adherence to tradition while simultaneously bemoaning the lack of originality.

I see this brand slavishness in other companies too, like Jeep and Yeti coolers. These are products from corporations concerned primarily with the bottom line and shareholder returns. Loyalty to customers is an illusion, in my opinion. I’m not talking about people who prefer a brand for quality or value—that’s rational behavior.

There are two notable exceptions to this discussion. First, traditional families with small children who rarely visit Disney. They go for their kids, to create cherished memories, and enjoy both classic Disney properties, like the movies, and newer ones, like Pixar. Second, the 1% biker gangs—the true outlaw bikers. Their loyalty is to the gang or the “brotherhood,” not the brand. In both cases, the brand is a means to an end. For example, a family with small children may vacation at a non-Disney park for economic reasons and still feel satisfied. Many (though not all) outlaw biker gangs allow members to ride non-Harley motorcycles.
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Beneath the leather vests and Mickey Mouse ears, the Harley-Davidson groupie and the Disney Adult are the same. Extreme brand loyalty is a form of insanity. Brand cults are real and are cults in every sense of the word. This is a story of pathological codependency between slavishly loyal customers and the corporations that prey on them. In the end, it hurts both the customer and the corporation.

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