30 July 2005

No one died!

People ask after the RatRun is over, "How'd it go?"
"Well I heard of one ticket, a minor wreck, no arrests, and nobody's dead. So I think it went well."

Granted there was confusion and chaos. There were lost souls and maps with far too little detail. We could have had more vendors and food, but considering the organizer's propensity for procrastination and sloth the fact there were porta-shitters and sound equipment was no small feat. "Smoother than last year with room for improvement." that's how I'm categorizing it.

When we started this poker run in order to raise funds for my brother's memorial scholarship fund I realistically expected 100 people and hoped to come within $1200 of covering my expenses. When 300 people rode that blistering hot inaugural run I about shit. The Hillbilly Sweatfest was hot. Africa hot. Tarzan couldn't have stood that heat. Never before have so many hoodlums drank so little beer and so much water. Heatstroke was a greater fear than DUI. I saw handgrips melting off of bars, it looked like a damned Dali painting.

So when people came back the next year I wasn't just surprised, I was overwhelmed. What kind of masochistic fools were willing to subject themselves such temperate tortures again? Cats with balls, that's who. We had almost 700 folks participate in '04. That was a shitload and a half. We ran out of run maps. We were overwhelmed on the back porch of my favorite little bar. We were caught off guard.

So this year's pre-run goonfest at Crappy's was a necessary and excellent idea. I'd like to take credit for it, but I'm sure someone suggested it over many beers sometime in the past 12 months. Probably Marty because he has all the good ideas. Crappy sold all the cold beer he had, then all of the sorta-cold beer he bought at the grocery store and most of the luke-warm swill he had to import from wally world. Next year there WILL be a beer solution. We have priorities here. There may not be a band and the maps may be a week late, and shirts will probably be permanent marker on crappy wife beaters but the will be beer. Count on that shit. Most likely roped off areas and trucks outdoors - we just weren't sure the crowd would justify it this year. Now we know. The fire capacity crowd in the warehouse was evidence enough of this fact. Had No Jake Brakes busted out the bargain basement pyro they picked up at Warrant's garage sale we'd have had another Great White incident. Not the sort of free publicity we're seeking.

Crappy's ain't so Crappy, and the Friday night debauchery really lessened the annoyance factor for riders Saturday morning. Folks grabbed their shirts and maps. Hoodlums held communion with yuppies. Elixirs and conversation flowed. Kansans fell in love. Dogs slept with cats. The planets aligned. All was right in the universe.

Hangovers cured the nirvana. But the back porch of The Frisco was far less crowded than previous years. An improvement we dug. I guess that means we've evolved into a post ipso facto two-day event. Legitimacy is just around the corner ...

Because we do a different route every year it's gonna be a bitch to top this year's path. We may well have found all the interesting roads within 200 miles of Enid. Next year could end up as the "Desolate Straight Shots Through The Wasteland Tour."

160 miles. Even the no-riding trailer trash punks admitted it wasn't that far. The roads were good (for Oklahoma) the bars were friendly. Ace's slung some kick-ass margaritas, Lucille's had some ass-kicking BBQ (while it lasted) and $1.50 tall boys. Had I not been somewhat busy with minor details I'd never have left Mulhall. What a groovy place.

The Rock in Guthrie, though hard to find, is just a damned cool bar. The jackass responsible for maps could have done a much better job with details on getting through Guthrie but his give-a-shitometer was pegged by then. And hey, Uncle Sam stole his good help this year anyway, so blame your congressman.

Even with an inebriated dealer mauling participants in Kingfisher the 33 Hitchin' Post turned out groovy. And Siesta Froggies (sp?) in Enid essentially put on their own rally during the run. I never made it that far but the pictures and reviews are all good. The Siesta was almost as popular as Cynthia's ass and the rat tail.

So yeah, we'll change things for next year. But I've participated in worse. Once people got sick of the big talk about a run after Kyle's death and told me to "Put up or shut up, bitch!" I thought of what I didn't like about the runs I'd been on. I hated that they always seemed to be on Sunday, and they were group rides. I have finished only one poker run in my life. And that was just because when 1%ers say, "Finish your beer, we're headed to the next bar!" I finish my fucking beer and get on the bike. Won a tattoo on that one ...

So we tried to let everyone be responsible for their own timetable and route. I hadn't seen a run put on like that and some folks told us it wouldn't work. But I think it pans out pretty well. If folks don't feel like finishing, or even ever leaving one of the stops then by all means they don't have to. We only passed 5 or 10 of the best restaurants in Oklahoma this time around, so there was ample opportunity for side trips and big meals. It was 160 miles and 7 or 8 hours to complete it. So a race it most definitely was not. Even with this time frame most Goons never made the final card. And some never saw the fairgrounds.

Hell, it's the 3rd year and The Prophet Paul has yet to see Mac and The Band strum a yahoo stick.

It ain't easy being a hoodlum.

A truism sure to once again be proven on the road to South Dakota next week.

All year I look forward to riding to Sturgis with my friends. The month of June sodomizes my best laid plans, so all the groovy runs in this cursed month are outside the realm of possibility for me. Sturgis is it. And I dig the shit out of the trail to South Dakota.

In fact, I think the ride there with friends is as much - if not more fun than - Sturgis itself. The three days of laughing and snorting it takes to finally arrive in that crowded cesspool of human grease and overpriced beer justify working all year for the vacation time. Much of it has to do with being lucky enough to find the best people in the world to ride with. If I were trapped in a motorhome with a bunch of Hamsters the fun quotient would most assuredly be lower.

So I'm done. I'm out of here. I'm down the road. Headed out to do battle with the trailer trash making pilgrimage to motorsickle mecca.

I can hardly wait to get out in the hills with some neophyte nitwit aboard a low mileage softail fresh off a trailer. Those cats are so much fun to ride with. Hauling the phallic trophies they've done nothing more than polish at home all the way to South Dakota provides endless entertainment. Thrilling moments like the tie-dye on the highway when they take out some unsuspecting rider. Like little Haley Joe, almost every year "I see dead people." Sadly it's almost always some inexperienced dipshit causing someone else's untimely demise. These no-riding flatlanders who's only previous experience in curves and twisties has been freeway on-ramps ... Hauling their bike to Sturgis, throwing down shots with their costumed friends, then blazing out to Spearfish Canyon to kill an innocent bystander. Those guys are great. Pricks.

Here's a little pointer: If you're afraid to ride the motherfucker there, leave the motherfucker here.

The only thing worse are these hair-gelled yuppies trailering their wife's Sportster up and turning her loose in the middle of 500,000 bikers. An excellent idea. If you're just trying to kill her.

I don't worry about me killing myself with a bonehead move. I fear the amateurs and idiots clogging up the scenic byways. Those dipshits are more dangerous than muslim extremists, they just dress and smell better.

Which reminds me: fuck the koran, I'll wipe my ass with it.
And fuck Turban Durbin. That chikenshit soldier-bashing coward.
And Schumer; gun hating assbag.
And Kennedy; murderer, drunken lout, anti-American scumbag.
And Michael Moore; fat lying fuck. I pick better stuff from my ass than he's made of.
And all the other leftist crybabies and appeasers.

I'm going to Sturgis. I need the mental health holiday.