Goon Blog

What the Hell?

2006-11-10T21:39:00.000-08:00

June? I haven't pounded out any garbage since June?

I must have been busy. Busy doing ... something. Maybe The RatRun, Sturgis, Fayetteville, etc ... Somewhere in there I've managed to dodge a bullet and avoid appointment as Den Leader for the MonkeyBoy's Cub Scout troop. Maybe it was my aesthetically repulsive visage, maybe it was the accidental F-Bomb I dropped at the meeting, maybe it was the way I looked at Lane's mom ... regardless - it was a horrible idea anyway. I don't really need to be an influence on my kids, much less anyone else's. A role model I am not. Instead two highly capable MILF-tastic souls have stepped up to the plate. We're never late to a meeting.

But now the weather is cooling off, the evenings are shorter, my liver and my innards have been taxed well-beyond their legitimate limits, and I have managed to pare down the list of people who think they want to ride with me to the point it's just right ...

So I was little surprised when Doug from 40 on 2 fired me an email to the effect of, "Hey, dispshit? Forget how to spell?" I had completely zoned out, I had no idea it had been this long since I'd graced the illiterati with my small-minded vitriol and one-sided rants. So, you lucky bastards, I'm back. One entry. Print the fucker out. I'll autograph it sometime. If you can find me. If you can keep up. If you buy a round.

Seeing as it's been like 5 freaking months where do I begin ... Well, I think the RatRun was a success, if a hot one. Once again we escaped the circus sans death or arrest - that deems it a winner in my book of little idiocies. 850 riders tracing a course of 150 some miles in heat which just damned near rivaled our inaugural year. Damned near - not quite. As our resident Metrosexual Major said, "I spent time in the asshole of the world wearing body armor and riding in an un-air-conditioned hummvee, but I was never as hot as the first RatRun between 6-Mile and Covington. That was fucking hot."

From the mouths of frenchmen ...

There were some unfortunate instances of what we suspect were dehydration and exhaustion. The Cleo bar managed to completely fuck up and ignore our repeated warnings of incoming hoodlums. Their loss: as all they managed to do was piss off potential future customers, ensure we'll never be back, and lose piles of potential sales. Wakita and Medford more than made up for Cleo's lack of sense and preparation. Can't beat the Wakita Bar. Chris and Co. know how to treat people. And the local school activities groups served up much-needed water and vittles. Damned good vittles. The kind that would have made Jethro bitch slap Ellie Mae and cornhole Drysdale's secretary.

Alma at the Medford bar had her shit so together there was ice in my beer, and I got there late. If she wasn't so damned picky I'd load her up and run off for a week or two. It seems a couple years' experience has allowed her to see right through assbags like me. Not to mention given her an uncanny and spooky ability to guess people's age and temprament.

Philosopher Stone, No Jake Brakes, and The Mike McClure Band took their respective turns pounding out music that did not suck once we were back at the fairgrounds. Surprisingly we had only one 'incident' and it was more humorous than injurous. Especially as narrated by the Mac The Balladeer. Here's a hint; stay off the damned sound equipment. Otherwise we'll send a big drunken prospect after you. Cracked me up ...

So we made money for the scholarship fund, got our friends good and drunk, welded up Matt's 54 Pan, and earned a sunburn. By Sunday when it was over all I could manage was good post-run drunk around the Nault pool with hoodlums. It just don't get any better than that.

Once the dust was settled it was time for Sturgis. Normally the road trip north is an opportunity for extended solace and introspective thought aboard the two-wheeled instrument of death. But not this year. No ... this year I took my wife. The Mrs. The voice of reason. My carnal target. The chick who talks all the way there. And back. Laffy Taffy jokes, musings on classroom ettiquette, random estrogen-generated thoughts, long solliloquies concerning scrapbooking semantics, concerns of the welfare of those we don't know and have never met, tangent-tumbling ramblings of any sort - regardless how mundane - fill my ears when the bride accompanies me. Which is great. If you're Oprah.

Oprah I am not. Neither do I fill the role of Dr. Phil, ask around. And while I dig my wife I knew the only thing which will stress a relationship more than a week shacked up in a tent is traveling there two-up and in constant conversation. Familiarity breeds contempt. We've been swapping goo for 17 years, we're plenty familiar and her contempt is becoming contagious.

So I made a relationship-saving investment. No, not a John Gray book. An iPod. And earbud speakers from Etymotic. Oh hell yes, kiddies! I even bought a splitter with seperate volume controls and some plugs for my chick.

Praise The Lord and pass the mp3s, this thing kicks dump truck loads of ass. Like those dump trucks in Colorado pit mines, with tires as big as bryant gumbel's ego. I have no idea why it took me this long to decide some monotony-busting music would be a nice thing while traversing the twilight zone that is I-70. I never wanted a big radio mounted on a fairing or windshield, and I had no idea anyone made speakers that fit so well in an earplug. I guess I need to get out more. Out of the bars ... Don't hold your collective breath.

I leave the iPod set to the same volume level while riding as when sitting on the back porch ignoring my famn damily. At 70 mph with no windshiled I have nearly the same clarity as porch drinking - at the same volume level. So I'm not pounding my ears with excessive volume levels. I like my hearing, thought I might try and keep what's left.

It's a lifesaving device; this little bitty wonder of technology. And the freaking battery lasts forever.

Unfortunately somewhere around the Nebraska line my bride realized she could control the player. Not to be sexist, but it's so much easier when they're unaware they have so much control - over everything. This is when the Roadtrip Playlist was replaced with random garbage nubian dance hits from her workout routine. The only thing worse than a babbling wife in the ear is Gwen Stefani's 'Hollaback Girl.' Like being forced to watch the Lifetime Network when the remote is lost. I seriously considered running us into a passing semi when The Black Eyed Peas assaulted my aural cavities. "Payback" is what she called it. Payback for 600 miles of my music.

Either way, Sturgis rocked our balls completely off. And I was even able to bring mine this year. Betsy packed them in her purse.

Some great weather came to a screeching halt in Keystone while we attacked "The Bar." 3 hours of rain delay later a night time assault on Iron Mountain Road seemed an excellent idea. Warm, dry, and pricey rooms awaited us in Keystone, at the base of the heads, and we needed to get there. Starting out the prophecy, "We're gonna lose someone on this gig." was born out in a surprising way. Neither the newbie prospect nor our patron saint, Miss Susie had a problem. Instead it was an old hoodlum on a Shovel who filled the role of requisite injury. It wasn't the 600 tons of Satan's Buffalo in the middle of the road that got him. Or the 400 pounds of shit said bos bison placed in our path. Not the winding curving bridges where we can see our own ass on the way up. It wasn't even the narrow, wet, slick roads and their precarious dropoffs that slipped him up. It was making the turn to get on Iron Mountain Road. Too quick a stop, too slick a road, maybe too smooth a tire? Dirt bike instincts might have dictated a foot to stop the fall.

Once to the top we found Wolf with what we thought was a gooned up knee. (14 days later a doctor would determine this was not a twisted knee, but a leg broken just below the knee. Wolf is tough.) So, bravely, four of us volunteered to stay behind guarding a shovelhead with minimal provisions as our wounded comrade was transported to the waiting rooms at the base of the mountain. All alone in the generally packed parking lot tops were popped, darkness was admired, quiet reigned supreme, and Mount Rushmore was lit impressively. Within just a few minutes we watched from our hilltop vantage point as Borglum's distant sculpture disappeared in the darkness. They turned off the lights.

We didn't just close a bar. We closed a National Freaking Monument.

Things progressed from there once we hit the Red Garter bar games and drunken debauchery continued another week as our innards turned to a gooey black muck and "schnoink" became the word of the week. Some high points and things to consider concerning Sturgis in general and our band of lunatics in particular:

Never leave your camera unattended on a bar.
Beer is breakfast.
Hydrate or die.
Red Bull rules.
"The Shakes" can be cured.
Park at the cop shop, they'll get you a cab.
That thumping noise may be the lock on your front wheel.
Try to remember Marty's Wife's name.
Check for photographers before dancing on the bar.
The girls at Gunner's love us.
Jeff will teabag you.
You can be busted back to prospect, mutherfucker!
Tents are expendable dependent on habitation habits.
There is a pecking order, and the top may not be who you think.
Food is overrated.
Never leave camp without your jacket.
You don't need all that shit.
Don't die.
Leave the patches be.
Excedrin is your friend.
It's not a "second wind" if you never sobered up to begin with.
Lost? We'll be in a bar.

I say it every year, but Sturgis is so much damned fun ... I think I'll go back.

Sure would suck without good friends, though. I'm damned lucky like that.

Fayetteville, while not yet as big as the melee in South Dakota, is quite a gig. I know they advertised Blues and BBQ as being involved somewhere but we never witnessed this firsthand. Progress has been made, however. We actually got out of the bars this year and toured the country a little - on the way to other bars. Eureka Springs is groovy like a free lap dance ... a motorsickle-hostile mayor but a damned nice town. The Pied Piper and the Wagon Wheel win my bar awards for "Coolest Owners In Town." Those girls at the Wagon Wheel had the patience of Job and patrons ala Dante. Quarter-throwing Okies on a full-blown bender. If you get there check out the ladies shitter. Coolest restroom ever.

Fayetteville has, without a doubt, the friendliest locals of any town we have ever invaded. It's not just anywhere you can be directed home by helpful constables while one of your assbag friends tries desperately to pick up the cute redheaded officer. In my defense, she was freaking adorable. With handcuffs. Great smile. Even my bride agreed.

Each time we've cursed this Northwest Arkansas town with our slovenly presence we've been met with the most hospitable and decent locals in existence. If they're not engaging you in conversation and genuinely interested in where you're from they're trying desperately to buy you another round, or ensure you'll be back next year. From the bar owners to the impossibly beautiful co-eds the town reigns supreme for friendly motorsickle destination.

Maybe it's just our winning personalities which win over the natives ... yeah.

As for now I'm trying deserately to convalesce. I need some downtime.

I took off for a weekend last month
Just to try and recall the whole year
So many places, and so many faces
Wonder where they all disappear

I didn't ponder the question too long
I was hungry and went out for a bite
Ran into a chum with a bottle of rum
And we wound up drinking all night ...
-Marvin Gardens, RIP

I see some dirrt bike Sundays in my near future. The past two weekends have been more fun than throwing a wet burning dog into a 55 gallon barrel of kerosene-soaked monkeys then kicking the whole thing off the top of a tall building into the middle of a Shriner's parade.

The Monkeyboy's XR50 saw a full day of pasture time last week. Two new friends, three dads. I think I may have been the only one battling a hangover. Three kids together tearing up 300 acres and a full day on $3 worth of gas. Reminded me of when I first got loose with a pack of ne'er do wells to raid pastures we weren't allowed to ride. Every kid should have such a chance.

Watching the curtain climbers cavort in the pasture, and the stunning progress even the newest of the riders made in a simple Sunday, makes one take stock of what a wonderful pastime this whole motorsickle gig can be. The real-world education and skills these kids get battling cow shit, cattle trails, and shale pits will pay off ten-fold if they ever manage to convince their mom to let them on the road with a street bike. I foresee a Monkeyboy lobbying succesfully for a 125 and a license when hits 14. I'd be a bigger hypocrite than a TV preacher if I denied him that. So extensive riding off road is an excellent investment in his future and my peace of mind.

It always amazes me how many people have joined the motorsickling craze with zero previous two-wheeled experience. Not even dirt bikes. Not even a borrowed dirt bike in a sand pit outside the protective gaze of parentage. That's just sad. And dangerous. Not only have they missed out on some great youthful activities, they've missed several years experience and instinctual behavior education. When that brain dead exec in the caddy spills coffee and pulls in your lane while screaming in a cell phone it just seems the guy who's dealt with creeks, driftwood, rocks, trails, and bovine fecal material will have an advantage in asshole avoidance ...

Or maybe I'm nuts.

Either way it's unseasonably warm here and I'm headed out for some two-wheeled recreation. If anyone knows of a 4-stroke dirt bike for sale which would fit someone like me, let me know. I'm think a CRF230F or something similar. I don't need anything taller or faster, I'm chasing a Monkeyboy not a trophy. And I'll be needing the use of my lower limbs in the future.

john kerry (amongst others) can suck my fat root,
Jeff

Paint Jobs & Ken Dolls

2006-06-04T18:59:00.000-07:00

So let's suppose you spend a year or so in the asshole of the world attempting to bring peace, civility, and democracy to savages. You're pretty much completely sick of sand, goat meat, rice, sobriety, desolation, masturbation, the chu, and all forms of conveyance comprised of more than two wheels.

So you come home all excited. You knock your old lady up as soon as you're off the plane. You stage a mini-coup in Germany. You envision an Easyriders centerspread as a welcome home. Ratty offensive t-shirt flapping in the breeze, WileyX glasses blocking rays, bar hopping with friends, full blown two-wheeled freedom and stress release in the vein of a classic David Mann poster.

Instead you blaze into your assbag friend's shop (the punk you entrusted with your sled while deployed) and find it on the lift in this sad condition:

So do you freak out? Kill the prick who was "taking care of" your motorsickle? Employ some of your newfound and well-practiced martial force principles? Or just stand there and think, "What has that asshole down to my bike?"

Well, I missed his initial reaction because I was gone (hiding) cutting firewood (drinking beer) with a friend (drunken jackass). But I hear it was something along the lines of "What the FUCK!"

Whether it was the intial shock of seeing his pristine cop bike stripped like a chop shop reject or the haunting visions of all the other projects I've never finished (cabinet doors, the WC, the Towny, the treehouse, etc ...) I think The Lizard was about to shit himself.

In my defense this was only sort of my idea. His new bride was the true instigator. So I had her to blame shit on. This could easily be pawned off as a domestic matter rather than civil judgement.

Now, however, all is well. Young Nault layed on a killer paint job, new cool-guy farkle (ode to Monsignor Klassen) thingies were installed, cop knobs were replaced, and a copious amount of beer engineering was employed. The entire project was even accomplished with minimal Lizard regression to junkyard methods and "bigger hammer" theories.

The finished project is groovy. Damned groovy. Jenna Jameson Groovy. Once my eyes stop bleeding and I get these shakes under control I'll figure out why it is I can't upload the picture. Too stupid, too hungover ... likely both. They won't load to Blogger, so here's a link: Lizard Glide.

In the meantime I want to thank all the kind souls who have encouraged me and reminded me the blog has been neglected over the past month or so. Really, thank you ... every one of you pricks. Your notes of encouragement: "Hey, asshole! Write a new blog!" "Get off your fat ass and type!" "You suck, I'm glad you aren't writing!" "I'm banging your mom!" are all very touching. They really get to me. Right there where my heart would be. If I still had one. Fortunately I have come to the realization every one sucks but me, so your petty whining means nothing. Blow me.

I've been busy you pathetic slime. I've been out there living life and giving the rest of the world someone to talk about. The Prophet Paul (not the one in the bible) once said, "If it weren't for people like us living like we do people like them would have nothing to talk about and no one to want to be." Or something along those lines. It sounded better at 4am digging a grave.

Yes, I was arrested in Waynoka. Serious offense. Big time mess. I honestly do not know if my reputation and social standing will recoup. In fact I'm a bit hesitant to write on the subject as my case is barely adjudicated and parole could possibly be revoked. Barring a gag order from the judge I suppose I can make limited comments. Sadly I've become a social outcast and am unable to walk dow the street without hushed whispers and barely concealed pointing.

Yes, friends, I am a trespasser. A known trespasser. And a smartass.

After being accosted and arrested by a life size ken doll (now with lifelike enuch action!) I spent a total of two hours being processed through Waynoka city and then Woods County jails. Where, I must admit, everyone with a badge was more than accomodating. This is the first time I've been arrested (no, not the end of the sentence) where every legitimate lawdog involved was basically decent and sensible. If / when I get arrested again I hope it's in Woods County. Those guys are all right. If you're looking to get an arrest I highly recommend NW Oklahoma ... Tell 'em Jeff sent ya.

Now the penile-challenged shitbag who instigated the mess - he's simply not a good person. A fact which was reiterated to me through various conversations over the evening. Once I'd received some background on the glorified security guard psuedo-cop bitch who "arrested" me I was glad I insulted his family, his marraige, his endowment, and his intelligence. I felt no guilt whatsoever for mentioning the questionable lineage of his children, his tenuous hold on heterosexuality, or the possibility his bride was likely in flagrante delicto with a nubian neighbor whilst he found perverse joy cuffing and holding a bearded tubby male.

As a side note; can you be considered an officer of the law if you have to wait for a real cop to "officially" show up and arrest whoever you have nabbed? Isn't that what they call a citizens arrest? But hey, what do I know? All my legal experience has been on the wrong side of the bench.

My only real regret is the fact I didn't know the cocksmoking coward's full name until it was too late to pull any of my Barbie jokes or employ "anatomically correct" humor in so many ways. man I got a million of them ... But hell, I'm betting the little Mattell Toy has heard it all. In fact that's likely why he is the bitter pissy little troll I encountered on the tracks. You see it all the time; the kid everyone harassed because he couldn't get along gets a badge, a gun, weak authority, and a lifetime of schadenfreude.

But the highlights of the incident:
Being poked with a broom by my hoodlum friends through jail bars.
Watching my co-conspirators attempt to mate against said bars.
The cops surprised to find a gaggle of drunken Goons harassing their inmates.
The former mayor of Manchester licking a cop's window.
Riding with idiots to Alva.
Hot jail clerk girl.
A Woods County Deputy's quote, "What the hell? Trespassing? That's just stupid."
Riding with good people home.
Returning to main street Waynoka to have Big Shoe Matt cast a disappointed eye and comment, "Hrmmph ... two hours ..." then shake his head like a coach who just chalked up a loss.

When you've recently finished 4 years in a fed pen 120 minutes with the locals on a bullshit rap fails to impress.

Once the dust settled it was actually funny. And the rumor mill in my small burg kicked ass. Suppoosedly I'd stopped a train with a gun and attempted to rob it. Amongst other tales ...

The incident made good fodder for an article with Thunder Press too. As implausible as it seems a very nice cat from their Southern Region asked if I'd be interested in pounding out some sort of garbage article about runs in the area. Well, lemme see ... a legitimate excuse to go ride, drink, act up, and take pictures? One more flimsy bullshit ploy to abandon my family and spend the weekend filthy and offensive with my hoodlum friends? The actual legitimization of my very favorite activity? Possibly even a stipend for the words? Hell yes! Fired the article off and they pretended it failed to suck. Supposedly in print this month. That almost makes me a writer. Almost.

For the next article, and pictures, their helpful advice ran along the lines of, "Resolution and composition was fine, but how about some pictures of people actually 'riding' their bikes, or at least sitting on them. All you gave us are drunks in various locales. And turn off the damned date stamp!" Blamed the date thing on Jr. the drunk thing ... well, what's the parable: You knew I was a snake when you picked me up.

Somehow I doubt this is how The Good Doctor got started. Although I would kill for a Steadman portrait ...

For now the calendar just stays full. Every freaking weekend there is another poker run for another cause. Poker Run overkill is fast approaching. Conveniently at about the same time I lamely try to promote The Running Of The Rats. Oh swell ... now I can rant, rave and bitch about the confluence of poker runs and their questionable merits, then turn to the cat next to me with, "Oh, and here's a flyer for a run we do in July." I have become that which I most despise.

In our small town alone this past weekend two different organizations were holding fundraising poker runs. The Elks and The Shriners. These were at least organizations which help the community at large. Of course that didn't stop me from hoping for a rumble ala West Side Story if their paths crossed. Old men in funny hats stroking it out over Robert's Rules Of Order. Tubby White guys in carefully choreorgaphed dance / fight scenes. A tattered fez crushed under the wheels of a souped up go-cart. Fraternal Org Smackdown! Switchblades and parlimentary procedure.

I crack me up. No, really, ask my wife. I could care less if the three people who read this shit find any humor at all in the crap I pound out, as long as I make ME laugh. And I'm laughing. So there.

Legitimate efforts to raise funds and benefit the community at large are always welcome. I never cuss these pursuits. And I generally try to help if I am at all able. Links on the website, spreading the word, the events calendar, flyers, yada yada yada ... Folks who ride and work with a genuine purpose and cause don't suck. But then there are the others ... corporate runs. Questionable cause runs. Big-money sponsored profit machines. Marketing schemes focused sharply on the motorsickle demographic. Usually put on by people who do not ride at all, or do so only in the trophy poser sense.

These people suck more ass than a Thai Hooker on dollar salad toss day. (I've used that one before, haven't I. Tough shit. My blog.)

In the past couple of years we've had a local media conglomerate and known shitbag profiteer look to the concept of 'The Poker Run' as a means to generate advertising revenue and sales. Not to support a worthy cause with the monies collected from participants, but to hide under the mode and guise of the poker run theme whilst fattening a Burns-size wallet.

I came home from college to work on farm machinery after everyone at home died. So no, I didn't finish the accounting degree. I'm a dropout (and a trespasser). Therefore my reasoning skills and math may be a little off here but follow me and check my work:

8 "sponsors" with their logo on your flyer and a brief mention in radio ads at $989 each.
An unknown number of "minor sponsors" at $350 each.
$1500 worth of free tickets to the concert you don't even stage at the end.

So far we're at, approximately / "at least", $10,000. Before you've even signed up a participant.
So you trade out some shitty flyer printing for some advertising. Whip up a cheesy t-shirt. Stage a run where people stop at your "sponsors" locations. And charge people $25 each to be involved ...

And your grand prize for Best Hand: $500.

I'm not a smart man, Jenny, but I know what forcible anal sodomy is.

To make it look better you put a bullshit line on the flyer reading, "A portion of proceeds go to The Ronald McDonald House." Yeah ... I'll bet it was a huge portion. If it was anything less than $8,000 the run was nothing more than a blatant and obscene fleecing of the riding community in general and a bastardization of the concept at large. Let's be realistic, if C. Montgomery Burns were to give $8,000 to the Ronald McDonald House it would be front page news. No, I'm betting it was somewhere in the neigborhood of $500. If that.

My point? I think the thing speaks for itself. Res ipsa loquitur. Eventually the riding public will have to grow tired of being treated as mindless money faunts. The backlash will be a healthy disrespect and distrust of all runs. And then legitimate causes suffer. All because the predatory and unprincipled saw an opportunity to capitalize on us.

Why does it matter to me? As a matter of principle it pisses me off, but in the long run it doesn't make a bit of difference. We give away all the money we make on the RatRun. We're not impersonating philanthropists and riding coat tails to profit. In fact, it generally costs around $300-$400 to stage the RatRun once the smoke clears. But it's worth it. Best hand gets well over $1,000, we're not screwing anyone at $20 for the whole gig, we have nice leisurely ride with friends, and this year we were able to award three scholarships. Three. That's pretty damned groovy.

Perhaps after folks realize they're being treated as sheep they'll revolt against the unscrupulous bastards treating them as rolling ATMs and refuse to be fiscally raped.

"Treat me good, I'll treat you better.
Treat me bad, I'll treat you worse."

Regardless these sorts of minor irritants the riding season is on. Wheat harvest will soon be complete and I'm getting my fat ass on the road for some poker run promotion. Pawhuska, as usual, kicked all manner of various ass. The ride over with Goons, the many stops on the many beers tour. Discovering a new bar in Ponca. Laughing until you think you're just gonna puke. The resolution of all pressing issues. Nothing in the world cures the hate and discontent like a ride with friends. Whether it's the inherent danger of a motorsickle road trip or just the common bond of a group geared towards two-wheeled pursuits the camraderie is hard to beat. Especially when your pack is thinned down to those who don't suck. Can't beat that shit with a sledge.

It had been a while since I'd been able to travel in minimalist fashion. A simple overnight sans passenger meant a jacket and someone else's folding chair constituted adequate camping equipment. Buddy has the ultimate sunshade. The OCIB cats have a hell of a good tent. Adolph Coors has laminated boxes to hold ice. And Bad Brad's serves up a fine turd maker. Life is good.

If this work load will subside I can head for points North on the weekend. Maybe a little Goat Roper, Otto, Bad News Jimmy action in ICT. Hell yes ...

FREE MATT!

lex talionis
alea iacta est

People Tend To Suck

2006-03-20T21:49:00.000-08:00

And not in that good way. More in the "Why is that assbag wasting my oxygen" kind of way ...

People like this mental midget Oklahoma State Senator Bernest Cain. A wizard of wimp politics, Sen. Cain decided the answer to young people's head injuries and accidents was not rider education or responsible behavior but a complete ban on anyone under the age of 12 on any sort of off-road ATV. Four wheelers, three wheelers, motorcycles. All of it. Brilliant!

In his infinite knowledge of the subject Sen. Cain has deemed The Nanny State and not the time-honored tradition of parenting all-knowing when it comes to what is best for our children. And of course with 12 being a magic number (it is the square root of 144 and the number which makes up a dozen, after all) any child reaching the magic age will automatically be safer and more experienced on a motorized off road device. Regardless their past experience and practice. Of course ... Yes ... This makes perfect sense. Why wouldn't it?

Those first rides, the cow trails and shale pits where we all learned to ride as our paternal figures, or the neighbor kid who had a mini bike, watched nervously. The all day trail rides and scrambles. The excitement of looking forward to every given Sunday's dirt pursuits. Sweaty heads in an old helmet, and the contented sleep on the way home. Basic principles of mechanical maintenance. The responsibility and self-esteem gained aboard the two wheeled fun machines. All of that - immediately illegal if this self-aggrandizing safety nazi had his way.

Idiot politicians.

Thankfully the AMA, amongst others, was quick to get on the bill and its language was amended, eliminating the provision criminalizing what is - for all intents and purposes - a rite of passage for lucky grade schoolers nationwide. My own little Kenievel offered this sage advice when the bill's contents were summarized for him, "Guess we'll just have to ride at the farm where they can't see us."

I can't decide if I'm raising a small anarchist, a student of civil disobedience, or a budding criminal. Likely a combination of all three; like his old man.

What personally offends my ever-so-delicate sensibilities is the fact there is a living being so completely bereft of practical knowledge or common sense a complete and total ban on the operation of ATVs and motorcycles for those under age 12 seems sensible. I'll bet the Grandkids can't wait for this prick to visit.

"Merry Christmas, Grandpa! What did you bring us?!!"
"ANSI-approved glasses, safety scissors, and the collected writings of Ralph Nader - on tape!"
What a jackass ...

This type of thinking is exactly the reason those dues paid to your motorcycle rights organization of choice are monies well spent. My 7-year-old protege is an AMA member following his turtle-like showing at the Arenacross Nationals in Guthrie. I maintain my ABATE membership with NW69 out of Woodward for more than the novelty of their chapter numeration.

Personally, I don't want a helmet. Okay, let me rephrase that: I do not wish to be TOLD to wear a helmet. There have been times the helmet wasn't so bad ... rain and hail come to mind.

But I've ranted and frothed at the mouth enough on the helmet gig. That horse has been beat to death, ravaged by the necrozoophiliacs, slaughtered for meat by roaming tribesmen, boiled for glue, and had its hide tanned and used as a floor rug. To revisit this argument would do nothing more than anger people I both respect and enjoy making uncomfortable during polite conversation.

The real problem is the nanny state. Clueless fatassed politicians who know what is best for us. Vigilance, like herpes, is forever. Thankfully MRO's keep watch on these pigs and let us know when they've overstepped their bounds. A full-time job.

There seems to be a watchdog organization for all varied interests. My dues to the NRA get me a magazine and a healthy fear of Hillary, Brady, et al. I suppose those interested in the culinary arts have watchdogs policing the legislative branch for ridiculous regs relating to toques.

Sadly there is no cure for stupidity. In fact, less-than-brilliant thinking is no longer demeaned and belittled in this country. It's celebrated. How else can you explain the popularity of rap music and Oprah's book club?

"The whole fucking world's against us, dude, I swear to God."
-Jay

On the opposite side of the spectrum, running counter to asshat politicos and combating the nanny state's stormtroopers, Spring is coming and good shit is on the way. For example; our friend Brice picked up a new motorsickle a couple Saturdays ago. Killer weather, despite the sprinkles, allowed many of us to accompany our favorite airport security nightmare to Tulsa so we could heckle and annoy him during an otherwise joyous moment. Street Bob, Denim Black. I want to wax it, but it seems they say no. Very groovy motorsickle. And the only thing better than a new motorsickle is seeing Brice up on two wheels again. The icing on the cake will be his adorable bride on the back. Mmmm ... Tara ...

To properly christen the new bike we (predictably) headed straight south of Route 66 HD to Hooters for wings and libations. Sunshine and passing storms made for the perfect recipe of "Let's sit this out and see where the storms go." By the time the coast was clear it became apparent we are never allowed back to the Tulsa Hooters. The yuppie chick with the great rack was unimpressed with my vernacular, wings give you gas, Werther is a pirate, and they should stock more bottled beer. Or perhaps it's best they didn't.

Route 66 HD is fast-becoming my new favorite big-ass Harley dealer. I developed a case of the ass at these mega-dealer boutiques with their clueless hair-gelled salesgeeks and parts people who've never turned a wrench. If I want that shit I'll go to AutoZone where the pockmarked punk behind the counter says, "A 3/8 bolt ... What's it go on? I need a year model for my menu-driven parts lookup." AutoZone is the best illustration for why kids need to pull their fucking pants up, turn their hats around, and develop a callous or two before attempting to sell me anything.

But Route 66 in Tulsa ... nice place. Even beyond the fact they donated a leather jacket for the Brice Benefit gig, I've yet to have a shitty experience there. And I can have a shitty experience in a strip club. Myers-Duren, for example; they pretty much punked out on the Brice Benefit. Nada, nothing, not even a shitty t-shirt from their shitty sale rack. So guess who DOESN'T get any of our parts, bauble, or new wholegoods dollars ... The free market economy is so freaking cool.

First time I stumbled into 66 I was with the MonkeyBoy. Seeing the huge showroom and complete stock of chrome goodies, motorclothes crap, and official licensed whoreabilia I fully expected to be treated like shit ala Harley World in OKC. Needing back room parts I was stuck behind some no-riding poser and his apparent life-partner while they annoyed the hell out of the counter help. "Well ... what's this one look like?" At which point the beleaguered counter rat would tread back to the shelves, bring out the chrome accessory clearly illustrated in the catalog, and have the coiffed and shod pole-smoker say, "No ... let's look at this one ..."

I think he was a politician.

Anyway, three or four times of this had me ready to scream and Jake ready to stab people. About this time the counter guy shoves their boxes and catalog out of the way, looks at us and says very politely, "Can I help you guys?"

The poser bitches might have been offended, but they hadn't spent a dime and were about to cost the place sales, present and future. The parts man was astute and helpful. Got us our goodies with no mistakes, knew exactly what we needed, and had us out the door while the thorns in his side were still trying to decide whether to Ride To Live or Live To Ride. My bet is they live to pack fudge in a trailer.

For those reasons it was good to see Brice get a nice not-so-shiny brand new motorsickle in a dealership that doesn't suck.

I just hope we haven't ruined his chances at hot wings in T-Town. Man, that manager was really ready for us to leave. We've only seen that look a couple thousand times.

Rest of the day was severely perfect. Afternoon ride down scenic 51. Rest stop and fellowship at George's in Stillsville. Then rolling into Enid for Vinny Big Noggan at Crappy's. Education professionals all assed up. Hot girl-on-girl action. JMFB. More cute chicks than you can shake wood at. It don't get much better than that.

Sunday's convalescence was interrupted by the visitation of Kansas-Based Goons on a Panhead retrieval mission. As soon as familiar faces hit the living room it was readily apparent I would be accomplishing nothing on Sunday either.

That wasn't completely true, however. We did manage to scout a new stop for the RatRun, a prospect was severely hazed, and I was able to secure my position as 'Most Annoying Dick Ever' in the Grand Saloon. We'll see if I'm ever allowed back.

Regardless there's just all kinds of good shit to look forward to:

Motorsickle Shows in OKC.

Kelsey's Run, which is not only for a good purpose but one thing a person can do to lessen the urge to find the people responsible for her death and beat them viciously. To death. These kinds of things always remind me of Big Rick, our hoodlum friend who was first described to me as, "A guy whose killed more people than cancer." Once when up for another stint in the big house he said, "Ahh, it ain't that bad. I'll get hang out and beat the shit out of some pedophiles."

Even amongst the hardest of criminals doing harm to a child is a special and evil offense worthy of severe punishment. Power to the vigilantes.

Waynoka Snake Hunt, for which Miss MereBear has shed 200 pounds of useless husband to attend. And for which we will arrange kid care for a prospect ...

Warm weather, time change, extra daylight, and the "Promoting The RatRun" bulletproof excuse to ride.

Damn I love motorsickles ...

With local weather being unseasonably beautiful as of late the streets of my brain-dead hometown have been flat-out packed with motorsickles. Bikes which have not seen the light of day in years are being dusted off, kicked to life, and tagged. Hopefully they're also being insured ...

Love to see that. More motorcycles means less cars. Less pollution (because I'm so into the environment). Less gas consumption for those robber baron bastards. Less traffic. Less behemoth-piloting soccer moms reading a Pottery Barn catalog, sipping latte, steering with a skirted knee, and discussing dinner plans on a cell phone between slapping brats and applying eyeliner.

Did I miss any estrogen-based stereotypes? No? Good. Misogyny rules. As much as I hate to admit it, some of the best motorsickle riders I know are female. You know who you are. I'd rather ride with them than several of the squids I've witnessed endangering all our lives on the open road.

Along those lines we've already seen far too much death not only in Oklahoma but just here in Enid.

Recently a cat I knew only in passing but knew to be one hell of a good guy was killed on his Duc. Tony Trammell.

Before that, an entire mess of tragic motorsickle carnage with a sportbike debacle.

There'll be more before snow flies again. Let's try and keep it at an absolute minimum.

And remember, kiddies, we're all gonna die. If you're riding a motorsickle you're living in the meantime but might die sooner, it's all a matter of odds and timing. Act right. Think. Watch out for the assbags. Make sure people know you appreciate them. Tuck your kids in at night. And check the box to be an organ donor.

Dying doesn't scare me. Dying at age 95 in a hospital bed hooked to a respirator and shitting in a bag scares the holy hell out of me ... Hopefully I go before my organs are junk, and someone can actually make good use of them when I'm done.

On that cheery note,
FUQUE THE FRENCH!

06 / 35

2006-01-20T16:25:00.000-08:00

Guess who'd had a few beers Christmas Eve ...

Another couple months and I'll actually be writing the correct year on my checks ... one more good argument for plastic. I've become so damned dependent on that cursed check card the only time I carry cash is when I'm headed to The Frisco.

Mmmmm ... beer.

Speaking of ...

Winding down the holidays with unseasonable warmth and unprecedented ride time New Year's Eve found us holed up in a friend's house avoiding the amateur antics of a Saturday night holiday bar crowd. Worse yet; the thick-as-thieves prowling law dogs lurking in the shadows, pissed at the NYE duty and stalking revelers ripped on grog.

It's just not safe on the streets with conditions like that. Last thing we need is to be involved in a fender bender with some Not Quite Ready For Prime Time Players. The same folks hitting dives that night hit the lake on Labor and Memorial Day. And take up all the seats in church (I hear) for Easter and Thanksgiving.

So the kids cavorted and we pretended we were more financially, emotionally, and intellectually secure than we actually are. A nice night. Which ended sometime around 4am. Because, in typical rationalization fashion, "All the drunks should be off the road, and the cops are booking their prey ... should be safe to go home now."

New Year's Day found my greasy sluggish ass balled up in a ragged denim comforter ignoring the phone and in strong denial of the fact I was turning 35 within hours.

35. That seems old to me. Honestly, I thought I'd be much more successful - or dead - by 35. People who are 35 have their shit together. They have a paid-for house, an impressive retirement fund, a job they dig, solid bowel movements, at least two exotic rare motorsickles, legitimate resumes and some semblance of a life. Right? I mean, shouldn't I be looking towards an early retirement spent touring this grand land aboard the motorsickle? Supplementing the interest income from my stockpiled and wisely invested fortune by emailing photos and articles to Jann Wenner, et al, once a month ala HST circa '69 ...

Apparently not.

My outlook for the day was clouded less by the month-long bender hangover I was nursing than the crushing realization I was not who I thought I'd be - even in the rare instances I'd envisioned living this long.

The phone calls urging me to get on the bike for yet one more afternoon of beer and camaraderie were vaguely appealing yet apt to be ignored in favor of sulking on a couch in the company of screaming beasts (the kids). Honestly, I'd been aboard the two-wheeled instrument of death all month - God Bless this perfect weather - and had damned near exceeded even my RDA of fun and frivolity. Repeatedly. At high rates of speed. Hey, even jackass wannabe hoodlums need a day off to heal every now and then.

Thanksgiving rides. 'Tween holiday rides. Christmas Eve for an extended ride. Every day we were off work we rode. After work we rode. I'd ridden more during the Christmas Holidays than some of these trailer queen bitches ride all summer. So the prospect of convalescence and healing of my scarred and swollen liver sounded good.

Of course I rode instead. Chili's for cold beer and skillet queso with cats who don't suck. Vague references to my increasing age and oncoming geriatric status. Another warm day; which had me silently vowing to end the debauchery early and avoid the beer monsters. You know: the little gremlins who beat your conscience to oblivion and make it seem perfectly sensible to stay out all night pounding libations and tossing pick up lines like a rock star on a coke binge. Those guys. I have a couple of them. Perhaps a rotating crew, I'm not sure, but they long ago whacked the little angel and devil who are supposed to sit on my shoulders arguing right and wrong. Stuffed them in a chipper shredder somewhere outside Liberal, KS - at least that's what I hear.

But my plan to feign responsible behavior was working like a champ and I almost had a ticket home planned when one of our gonzo compadres suggested, "Let's roll the dice at The Frisco."
"No, let's go to the Scrounge Lounge. I'm sick of people I know."
"Come on, pussy."
Fine ...

I was outvoted and shamed into it. So we went to my very favorite bar for 'just one beer' and a roll of the dice.

Making the routine curve on the backroad approach I saw cars I knew. Cars which were not normally at my bar. Cars which belonged to my family and friends - even some of the sober ones. A conspiracy theory started to form in my mind. The South side of the bar revealed more conspicuously familiar vehicles. The approach up the sidewalk full of motorsickles confirmed my suspicions: they were setting me up. It was a fucking intervention.

I knew it. I'd seen it coming. I should have known. Like a heart attack, cirrhosis, and serious time: I was overdue. The evil bastards had even used one of my favorite bars in the trap. That shit is sneaky.

I considered bolting. Just hauling ass and ignoring the self-righteous pukes. I mean, who the hell do they think they are? Huh?! Rat-packing me in my favorite hideout. On my freaking birthday no less! Oh. Yeah ... My birthday.

Turns out I was all worked over nothing. My two sober cousins hiking up the sidewalk had cards in their hands. "Hey, no one brings cards to an intervention. What the fuck?" It was a surprise birthday party. For Me. In The Frisco. How cool is that ...

My first surprise party. Judging by the hungover sots trying desperately to suppress the gag reflex and choke down a little hair of the dog, likely my last. It's not easy having a New Year's birthday. It's even less easy getting all gooned up New Year's Eve and attending a party for some asshole who has a New Year's Day birthday.

An alarming number of hearty souls came out to wish me well. As well as these people wish a person, anyway. I was adequately mother-fucked to the point even I was sick of myself. Far more cold beer and acting up than my abused body needed or wanted, but it's damned hard to refuse such company and good will. I am fortunate in that I have the best friends in the world.

So my Caribbean island hideaway hasn't panned out, I'm still doing manual labor on junk equipment, my balance sheet is terrifying, and a generous assessment of my future reveals I will never - ever - retire. But my wife staged a birthday party for me and let me be an obnoxious ass with a group of goons. I have a motorsickle, two kids who rock, and old lady that tolerates my shit, and the best friends in the world. So things could be much worse. I could live in Guymon. I could tivo the orange county assbags. I could know no better than to trailer my bike, drink french wine, and worship all things arlen. I could have ended up a punk. Or worse; a hamster. Thank God for the company of motorsickle hoodlums who insist on character building miles rather than discovery channel reruns.

Now it's just a matter of counting down the days to Spring and the glory of another season on two wheels. The cabin fever has set in and I've found myself, like everyone else I know, making ride plans.
"When are you leaving for Sturgis?"
"Which weekend are you hitting Sparks?"
"Let's go back to Colorado this year!"
"Wanna do an Iron Butt ride?"
"Need a place to stay in Red River?"
"We have friends in Austin."

"I haven't been to San An in a while."

"The Lord lives in TX ..."
"There are rooms reserved in Fayetteville."
"When's Pawhuska?"
"Are you allowed back in Ft. Worth yet?"
"Let's go see Spot!"
"Think Jonah will ride this year?"
"Holy shit you need new tires!"
"Brice ordered a bike!"
"It's supposed to be 75 tomorrow ..."

I can't wait. In the meantime my New Year's resolution is to plan less and ride more. The planned rides are never as much fun as the spur of the moment gigs, and random travelings with no specific destination or timetable are the reasons I got a motorsickle to begin with. If I wanted to get there fast I'd take an airplane.

Except Sturgis, of course, for which I will have to make preparations as the self-anointed school board deities have graced my wife with a late start date. Thus ensuring I have to take her back to teh Black Hills. Her first return trip in ... I forget how long. That's how much fun it's been without her. Although she did throw me a birthday party. And it'd be nice to have something other than a sock to carnally punish in the tent. And she does travel well. And she gave me two perfect kids ... Fine. I'll take her. It might even keep me half-assed sober.

Yeah ... we'll see about that shit.

In closing, fuck che, and any pseudo-intellectual, chickenshit hipster, anarchist wannabe assbag sporting his visage. Murderous communist puke.

Random Garbage

2005-12-12T17:38:00.000-08:00

My friend and intellectual superior Mickey McKee once said, "Yeah, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving: start of the traditional Holiday Drinking Season!"

This year our seasonal bacchanalia started way early with the arrival of The Twisted Lizard. On leave from the sandbox we spent his two weeks drinking to excess and sneaking up behind the SF psycho screaming "Incoming!" I think he was ready to get back to urban patrol and dodging IEDs, you know; to get a little rest. Insurgent Haji and the Mullahs (that sounds like a band - a really shitty band. I'll bet they play Toby Keith's place soon) can't be as irritating as we were. We got him drunk, we kept him up all night, we made jokes at his expense, we mocked his fashion sense and grooming habits, we chastised him for being bundled up in 70-degree weather, and we did nothing to recognize his contributions to our national defense. Basically we re-acclimated him to civil society - at least our version of it - then we sent him back to the Sandbox. Probably not the best idea we've ever had.

Good to see the skinny little bitch while he was here. Seems the only thing to eat on the FOB is the same thing you eat every freaking day. And the only thing to see is the same sandy shit you see every day. And the only people to talk to ... You get the idea. Repetitive monotonous cycles of boredom. You know, like marriage.

Hey, I like to start a blog with some straight-from-the-heart evil bitterness. Get it out of the way right off the bat. Hate and discontent. The kids love it.

Honestly, though, having our own Metrosexual Soldier back in town for a couple weeks put things into perspective. Like how fat I'm getting. And how I take for granted the fact I can roll over on a Sunday morning, harass the bride for some action, shower, beat the children, go for a motorsickle ride, meet my friends in some dive for a cold beer, and return home to grilled steaks and The Simpsons before crashing in a comfy bed and negotiating for the carnal treats I was denied earlier in the day. All this because brave men with automatic weapons are willing to travel any distance to kill any assbag who threatens my way of life.

Kicks a bunch of ass, huh?

Also makes my everyday decisions seem small and petty as compared to those made by the folks who operate in harm's way. By the time I'm getting my hungover bitter ass out of a nice warm shower and trying to decide which pair of ratty levi's would go best with my stained work shirt half a world away my friends have spent the day taking fire and doing the grass roots work of instilling freedom's core values in what could be a budding democracy. Makes my choice of Cheerio's or a fat-laden greasy box of shit from McDonald's look pretty petty.

So if I may offer a suggestion. Instead of a yellow ribbon printed in God Knows Where to show your support do something for a soldier, or their family, this Christmas. There are plenty of opportunities:
Blue Star Mothers send much-appreciated care packages and have no overhead.
The USO still does good work out there, it's not just a Bob Hope footnote.
Adopt A Platoon was started to ensure everyone saw mail call.

Ask around. Look around. Someone somewhere near you is most definitely offering a chance to show your support in some way much more satisfying and tangible than magnetic cutouts.

Besides, it's almost Christmas. And their families are still here. There are kids who'd like barbies and bikes, and moms who'd appreciate some babysitting and a hand. Their dads/husbands/children do the work today to keep the evil bastards out of our country. They deserve our support.

Speaking of, while I know it's still waaaayyy too early for most men to shop I wanted to make sure all three of the drunken jackasses who read this garbage know there is absolutely NO reason to go the malls and do battle with those Feliz Navinazis prowling about. The same glowing screen that brings you porn and stupid jokes can provide presents as well. Legitimate presents that will make you look like something other than a slobbering beer-soaked selfish prick.

Aerostich / Rider Warehouse has by far the coolest selection of motorsickle goodies ever. Nothing here for the bike night posers who never leave town on their over-polished barely-warmed up phallic trophies, but folks who actually ride can always find something they need in their pages. On top of quality motogoods they have the best editorial staff anywhere, and the catalog fits nicely on the back of the shitter. A gift certificate is a sure bet from the cats out of Duluth.

If you can't find something for your dad, brother, friend, or whatever at Cabela's, Cheaper Than Dirt, Cycle Gadgets.com, Dennis Kirk, or Crutchfield you are hopeless and so are they. Period.

Women ... well, that's a pain in the ass. Lingerie too small, you never get to see it used but are considered sweetly ignorant. Too big, you're pounding your fist for a while. Besides, lingerie is an obvious self-serving gift. Overstock.com has chick stuff. Or books. What am I, Dr. Phil? I don't know what women want, neither do you.

Get her a damned gift certificate. Do not buy her soap. Even that stinky shit from Bath & Body Works. It'll be the wrong shit, and she'll infer all sorts of awful nonsense from it. "Do I stink? Is he trying to tell me something? Is that why he never goes down on me?" Steer clear. Soap = bad idea. Gift certificate for day spa = good idea. Go figure. They both seem equally useless to me.

Buying your chick a gift says a lot more than you intended it to. The book on sexual techniques you thought would be fun to thumb through together hits the twisted, estrogen-poisoned mind as, "I'm not good enough! I don't do that thing his last girlfriend did! He's comparing me to other women! That bastard!"

Play it safe with your date. Gift certificates, cards a female friend approved, promises to do some menial chore. Basically just look at whatever you're buying her, imagine the most ridiculous leap of reasoning which would lead from that gift to you being an inconsiderate bastard, and decide if you can adequately defend your decision against such reasoning.

Me? I'm giving my ol' lady a dose of the tickle pickle. Sure she'll be disappointed. But she's too polite to say so. My fragile ego and all ...

I bought most of the plastic crap and shiny noisy consumer baubles necessary to properly illustrate the deep spiritual significance of the birth of Jesus Christ to small children on either Amazon.com or eBay. (Except for this.) Everyone knows all about the two megabastards of the online world, so there's really no reason to sing their praises. Like anything that gets too big there are reasons to desire everyone involved with their operation dies a horrible painful death. But I always seem to go back and buy again. Because I hate wal-mart.

Which brings up an excellent point; before heading off to Sam Walton's frankenstore run amuck to buy the same mass produced shit everyone else is giving this year look around. If you live in a town of more than 5,000 people there is sure to be a locally-owned shop itching to serve you a better product than those catatonic shmucks in the blue smocks. The same folks wal-mart has damned near ruined via predatory pricing and tactics for the sheeple are still in many small towns. Mom and Pop stores, like independent motorsickle shops, are still the best place to buy.

I stumbled into one locally completely by accident. C.M. Miller gift store here in Enid is one of those high-end very nice bridal registry places with Waterford crystal and place setting no mom ever lets a child use. I did the basic testosterone gig and blazed by there a few years ago on my lunch hour, on Christmas Eve, to get the wife a present. Not only were they actually pleased to see a customer and friendly as hell - they pretended not to notice I was more out of place than if I'd stumbled into a United Negro College Fund awards banquet. Additionally, they have a toy selection in the back with those kick-ass educational and just plain different toys you don't find in the big-ass retail monstrosities. I left with a saddlebag full of gift-wrapped packages containing goodies I wouldn't have found in the superstore. But the real bonus; I didn't have to scream obscenities at some inconsiderate fatassed mom of 12 when her barefoot urchins wouldn't make way for me to push a cart around them and her huge posterior. Again.

Ditto for The Bike Shop across the street. A person could go to wal-hell and buy a piece of shit bike from a barely literate salesgeek then assemble the piece of shit Christmas Eve, drunk, when it's too late to head to the store and get that left-handed metric half-sized black powder coated acorn nut they shorted you. Or you could stumble into Micah's bike shop, spend maybe 10% more, and walk away with a higher quality item professionally assembled and warranted by a guy who remembers what you bought. Think it over, Steinmetz.

All right ... I'm preaching to the choir here I know. The point is: buy locally, fuck the french. No idea what those rifle-dropping surrender monkey cowards have to do with it, but I haven't been on their ass in a while and it felt right.

If, by chance, you're wondering what to get me for Christmas - here's my list:

A Ducati Monster. I don't care which one.
CRF250R Not so much for me, but to follow the MonkeyBoy ...
A Piper J3-Cub. Or an Aviat Husky. Either, I'm not picky ...
A motorsickle tour of Europe - excepting france, of course.
Lunch with Mr. James Buffett
Some new boots
Paul Sr.'s head on a stick
A Colt Commander Gold Cup
Bryant Gumbel's head on a platter
Head.
Ruger M77 MkII in .300 win mag
accommodations for Baja or Sturgis, preferably both.
Dinner and Drinks with the Pussycat Dolls
Dr. Phil to shut the hell up.
Some wings.
Sunshine, blue skies, safe rides, and all my friends collected from their far-flung locales for cold beer and two-wheeled tales in a familiar pub ... Soon.

My Christmas shopping is done. Easy ... I got married so I wouldn't have to shop for my own maternal unit. That's simply not my job anymore. The daughter: a little tougher. Girls toys are really boring. Pastel frilly fragile shit ... So she's getting a bike. Jake ... He's almost too easy.

"So, Jake, what do you want for Christmas?"
"A surprise."
"Really? Okay."
... pause as he thinks it over and envisions getting clothes for Christmas ...
"How about an airplane?"
"That'd be cool."
"A TOY plane, not a real one."
"Oh ... no problem, MonkeyMan."

Apparently when you're 6 and all your grandfather's friends have airplanes you have to make these distinctions. I assured him there was little risk of a new RV8 showing up under the tree.

Later he drops this on me;

"I think I might need a tool box, too. Now that I have a motorsickle ..."
Sometimes I think he says things just to see my head swell with pride.

Merry Christmas, Kids.
Happy Hanukkah, Hyman.
Seasons Greetings, Sinners.

*kwanzaa is not a legitimate holiday, and I could give a shit less what the muslims worship/celebrate/shit on yada yada yada ...

Old Men and Roast Beef

2005-11-09T17:59:00.000-08:00

Back when I still had an extra $15 a week (pre dual kids and mortgage) I would ride to lunch as far across town as possible - to maximize riding time in a limited window. At the time Arby's was as far as I could get without exceeding my allotted one hour of freedom or eating some garbage from a purveyor of stewed cat and viral death.

Recently I was reminded of a sunny fall afternoon I'd ridden my ragged little 883 4-speed chain drive Sportster to the far reaches of Enid to settle in for a big roast beef and the Daily Oklahoman. Across from me, all alone at a table for two, was an older gentleman. While I'll never make a carnival barker and can't guess age this guy had to be 85 if he was a day. Weathered face and a knowing eye, we'd exchanged non-verbal pleasantries when I sat down and had passing eye contact.

As I was finished with the meal he broke the awkward silence and asked me, "Is that your motorcycle?"
"Yes," I replied, "it's an 88 Sportster. Lot of fun when the weather is nice like this."
He smiled and said, "Looks nice. Reminds me of my old Indian."
Having heard this and similar lines before from so many others I followed with, "Really ..."

This is the part where most folks foul their lie with nonexistent models or skewed timelines. Anything from, "Yeah, I bought a brand new Sportster in '51." Or "Used to ride my dad's old 76 Panhead - he bought it new when he got of 'nam." all the way to "I have an all original basket case Knuckle at home, all I need is the electric starter and I'm back on the road."

But the elderly gentleman at the fast food place floored me with, "Yep. Bought a used Indian Four when I returned from overseas. Reminded me of my dad's Henderson so I wanted it. I loved that bike."

This had me sit down with a "No shit ..."

He related to me a timeline of road trips and friends on the old Indian. How his friend bought a used '36 model upside down four and it 'roasted his balls.' How even then the HD guys were a bunch of pricks and refused to acknowledge the Indian's positive attributes. How he had increased compression to hop-up the 12 hp motor, rode it to California from his home in Omaha several times, slept in ditches and under overpasses, and landed any number of girls with the bike. Eventually one landed him, as he confessed; "Finally I got married. And she made me sell the bike to buy a Hudson. Said we couldn't haul groceries on a motorcycle."

There was a weighted pause as I nodded respectfully and he finished with a half-assed pissed off: "She's dead now, and I still wish I had that bike."

Not knowing whether to laugh or console him I sat there as he smiled and added, "Don't ever get rid of your bike." And we both laughed. Me respectfully, him regretfully ...

So I haven't. At least not 'a bike.' Regretfully I did sell that particular Sportster in order to trade up to a used Heritage. The little 4-speed found a new home with an in-law I knew would take care of it. Like most men I consider anything once mine to be always be mine. Similar to dogs pissing on trees. Hell, I still think my high school girlfriend is screwing around on me with her husband of 11 years. The whore.

So when I sold my beloved Sportster (I couldn't afford the Heritage otherwise) I sent it to live with someone who would follow the same maniacal maintenance schedule it had experienced with me. Hell, I even volunteered to maintain it pro bono.

He in turn traded-up and sold it to some fatassed mechanically inept malcontent. Last time I saw my Sporty the asshat had a lunch box strapped on the fender, it was covered in filth, the base gaskets were leaking, gas stains riddled the tank, and the chain was slapping the guard. I shudder to think how long the oil had been percolating in the bag, or when - if ever - the tranny / primary oil had been changed. Had it been ten years later he undoubtedly would have been sporting an occ shirt and a west coast beanie to complement his brand new sleeve of tattoos - "just like the guys on TV!". I couldn't stand to see my first ride to Sturgis treated like a fucking moped by some brain dead lummox. In retrospect I should have shot them both and ended the misery. But I walked away muttering curses which, if they come true, should now have that punk hooked to a colostomy bag in a fetid mental ward due to the untreated syphilis and rotting spine.

Similarly the Heritage I put countless miles and two new cylinder kits on was bought by this weasel-dicked clerk a Lowe's who brought it to Forman's for service. 6,500 miles later. Over three time the miles I put on oil changes. Idiots ... The lot of them. Thankfully I've never seen that beast again. I suspect it was laid down on gravel by the drunken punk and sent him to the emergency room before behing totaled and scrapped by some heartless uninformed insurance lady. The bitch.

So maybe the old man did mean to never sell my bike. Maybe he'd been tortured by 60 years of nightmares wherein his beloved Indian sat neglected in a Kansas tree row while rats gnawed the plug wires, sparrows shit all over the speedo, and rust consumed the tank. Maybe his deceased wife had failed to see why this was a bad thing so he beat her to death with a shovel one night and buried the body under the house. Maybe keeping a motorsickle in the house is the only way to keep my old lady alive. Maybe I need more motorsickles as insurance ...

Or maybe The Prophet Paul was right when he said, "The only thing worse than a wannabe is a used-to-be."

All I know is: seeing the forlorn looks of those poor bastards who sold their Shovelhead to make a down payment on the house when we pass by on a June afternoon is more than I can bear. Were that lottery to pay off I'd be the motorsickle fairy (or sprite - that sounds better than 'fairy') and distribute Low Rider Standards to the family men who sacrificed wind and loud pipes for hearth and home. Having the motorsickle really makes the overtime and asshole customers worth the ulcers and hate.

So I'm never selling the Road King. At this point in my life I just don't care enough to repress the urge to slaughter who ever would abuse it next. When I auger in, and I will, if it's not aboard the two-wheeled instrument of death then Jake gets it. He knows maintenance. I've taught him. That's my job.

Lou Lou the Zulu still has his first bike, and he's almost always well-adjusted and happy. Although some of that could be attributed to Miss Kathey ...

Admittedly, I got lucky and made money on both my Sportster and my Heritage. I sold when motorsickles were hot property and supply was low. I had the motorsickle before I got married. I married a chick who told me, "If the motorsickle goes, I go." I got into the Road King for dealer list rather than the $6,200 surcharge those reprehensible shiteyed cocksuckers at Barnett's wanted. And I've been fortunate to have found the best group of Goons in the world to ride with. Pretty much, except for my aesthetically repulsive visage, I've just been damned lucky.

If there is any justice the people who have abused my old motorsickles are miserable wretches bent and haggard searching the earth for happiness. Gollum in a punk-ass chopper tee. Fuck 'em. They deserve it.

Don't ever sell your bike.

Jake Rides

2005-10-19T09:41:00.000-07:00

Strolling the fabled streets of Fort Worth's tourist-geared Historic Stockyards I was made graphically aware of what a fashion accessory motorcycles have become for the uppwardly mobile and penile disadvantaged.

I've long ago written off my unmasked hostility to the costumed and coiffed psuedo-bikers as simply being the manifestations of my own hate and discontent sewn and grown by the grace of God via my associations with people who do not suck. (Run-on sentences RULE!) Others may claim jealousy and fractured id, but those people are oedipal asshats clouding obvious reality with imagined underlying forces.

But back to why everyone sucks but us: there I was, sans motorsickle, on a beautiful 85 degree severe clear kind of day. Cold Shiner in one hand and a wide-eyed 1st grader at the other. Yes, the literal model of domesticity gone horribly awry. I even had a camera in my pocket and plans to buy the boy a balloon hat from the clown on the corner. All was well, and I was doing a very good job supressing the urge to bitch about my lack of two-wheeled conveyance. I had nothing, really, to bitch about. I'd flown to Ft. Worthless in a high performance aerobatic aircraft, and would be headed back in the relative comfort and status stigma of a minivan. But as those who ride know; if it's not raining like a bastard with occasional piston sized hail we'd rather have the motorsickle. Sometimes even if it is. I did not. Both kids, the wife, and the assorted baby support gear won't fit - even if I had a sidecar. Damnit.

Somewhere between Riscky's BBQ and the Cattlepen maze we heard him coming: the badass. That irritating sound we've all grown to know - and some to hate. Straight pipes lacking any sort of proper back pressure attached to a high-compression engine wed to a Baker six speed, and mounted in a frame of questionable lineage. The Chopper BadAss rode our way.

As I turned to catch the formulaic profile of the late-in-life assbag aboard a horribly overpriced 'chopper' parading his fat ass down the brick streets my 1st grade protege, unprompted, turned to me and said, "I wonder where the no-riding punk parked his trailer."

YES! He is my kid! Cancel the paternity test.

Much like when he knows the next line on The Simpsons our maternal unit fails to be impressed with these moments of pure clarity from Young Jacob. She is female, however, and we know their sense of humor tends to be deficient.

Watching this punk idle through the stockyards a few things came to mind. Some pointers you boomers on cookie-cutter psuedo choppers should keep in mind:

When pretending to be a hoodlum leave the dockers at home.
Ditto on the loafers, dipshit.
Neither go with the chaps, especially when it's 90 degrees.
We know you're hiding Rogaine's progress with the do-rag.
Ratling windows with shitty exhaust is no substitute for actually riding.
Real bikers are not scared of u-turns.
We're laughing AT you, not 'with' you.

I think there's some confusion with the last one. When you step off the sparkling clean IronHorse in front of Gunner's on Thursday of Sturgis when it's been rainng for the past two days we're not admiring you're housekeeping skills. We're laughing at the costume.

When those stickers show up on trailers with the help number 1-800-NO-COJONES it's not a bonding experience or invitation to haul with us. We're laughing at your lack of balls.

And when you hear from the back of the bar, "Choppers 'til Prom!" and "Choppers 'til It Ain't Cool Anymore!" we're not forming alliances. We're laughing at your wardrobe.

When the graffiti on the pisser wall says 'Fuck The Toweds,' 'U-Haul U-Suck,' and 'Trailered Harleys Suck' this is not friendly chiding and hazing. We're endorsing a thinning of the herd through wholesale slaughter of the costumed and cowardly. Oh, and we're laughing at you.

I'm not really all that old but I actually remember when choppers were bikes that had been chopped and tv shows had white people in them. Damn ... I'm turning into one of those guys.

Global warming is disappointing me. Sparks Halloween gig may be a bag-shriveling hypothermic mess. But we're going anyway.

And The Lizard is coming home to visit next week. Bet that wrecks my liver ...

You Get What You Pay For

2005-10-10T08:47:00.000-07:00

"Get off your ass and write something!"
"You haven't posted in forever, get on it!"
"I need something to read!"

Yeah yeah yeah ... if you're not satisfied with the quantity, much less quality, of this blog cancel your subscription and eat a bag of dicks. I've been busy (drunk) and haven't had the time (desire) to pound anything out for a while. Here, I'll give you double your money back. Jackass ...

Wouldn't it be great to make one's living as a writer, say as a columnist of some sort - pick a topic, any topic - and depend on the fawning minions for your bread and butter? Then, just as you're establishing yourself as a known quantity and a voice to be reckoned with, BAM! Blogs. Free editorials and prosletyzing right there on everyone's computer screen. (Blogs are nearly as ubiquitous as porn, they're just harder to rub one out to.) New media. Everyone is a pundit. No one needs a publisher. And legitimate writers are drowned out by stoned pool boys and poli sci majors moonlighting at Kinko's.

Good thing I've got a job. Because if I was depending on the three people who read this piece of shit for my per diem I'd be dead broke, drunk, and bitter. Wait a minute ...

A recap ... Well. To say I was 'sort of a drunken asshole' in Sturgis would be like labeling New Orleans a city where 'it rained a little and the natives got testy.'

I was a drunken asshole Monday night in Sturgis. Suffice to say the longstanding rule "No Whiskey For Jeff" is a tattoo we will soon commission for my partner Spot. The tat wouldn't be necessary if he'd remained cognizant enough to have nightmares over our collective behavior on the dreaded evening. But it seems the partnership of evil has erased much of the night festive debauchery via the magic of mass quantities. Thankfully I have excellent friends who (somehow) kept me out of jail and have been so kind as to recall the missing pieces. Reality tv remains a far cry from the reality we live. Survivor ... p'shaw! I piss on your tribes. And main street. And a vendor tent. And probably myself.

Hey, it's not like we set out on a regular basis with the intention of drinking ourselves to a stupor. Sometimes it just happens. To some more often than others. Regardless, Spot is more fun than throwing a wet, burning dog into a 55 gallon barrel of kerosene-soaked monkeys then kicking the entire mess off the top of a tall building into the middle of a Shriner parade. And Killer, that's some fun.

Just great weather the entire week we were in Sturgis. Much better than 04's chilly evenings and ball-shriveling morns. Sunshine and lollipops. Even the rain on Wednesday night just drove us in a bar to wait it out. Imagine that. (Sorry, Elvis. I honestly didn't mean to splash you in the Broken Spoke. Hey, did I mention I'm an asshole?)

The Road King performed like a champ and I honestly believe I like it more now than I did when it was new. That rumbling Thunderheader increased power as well as gas mileage. Plus, it just sounds so damned cool ...

Made it to Fayetteville a couple weekends ago as well. The Propeht Paul's annual birthday party was moved this year from the traditional Manchester Mecca to scenic NWA. (That's Northwest Arkansas, not the nubian rap group.)

It's been probably three years or so since we made Bikes, Blues, and BBQ. When last I cursed the college town with my coed lust and multiple sins of wont and deprivation BBBB (how many fucking B's are there?) BBQ was a relatively small gig. This year it was nuts. A good kind of nuts: like when your date turns out to be just a little bit kinkier than you. Not the bad kind of nuts: like when your date turns out to have a pair.

300,000 wasw the total we read through bloodshot eyes Sunday morning. That's definitely possible, as 4-lane highways were basically parking lots for large blocks of time. Regardless the crowds, a good time was had by all. Minimal drama, just a few lost souls. Good cold beer. Excellent food. Damned nice bars. Beautiful women. And without a doubt the most decent and reasonable law enforcement I've ever seen associated with a run. Rather than throwing their weight around with the typical 'badge and a gun' asshole mentality the constables of Fayetteville, at least as far as we observed, protected and served with a great deal of common sense. Cops who aren't pricks, friendly locals, college girls, and damned fine scenery will help this run grow.

Some great riding in the area, or so I heard. The trip took a predictable Iron Liver bend and had us swilling beer and swapping laughs in the copious pubs of dickson street. George's Majestic Lounge is still the bar I would build if I could build a bar. And Jose's never fails to supply a healthy crop of beauty queens. Cassidy, you make me want to take Kindergarten art. Mmmm ...

Despite the fact half of Enid, OK seemed to be in Fayetteville for the weekend a good time was had by all. Most all the town knows it was Paul's birthday, Marty saved a marraige, we found an outstandng new band; The Groove Hogs, long lost hoodlums were found, and Bad News Jimmy let us all ogle some Bad Candy. She's so damned cool.

Indian Summer, global warming, whatever it is I want more of it. Let all your freon loose. More volcanoes! Open up that damend hole in the ozone. I want an 80 degree average through December.

In the meantime I will waste this weekend in Fort Worth watching a lifelong friend make the ultimate mistake: marraige. Poor kid. Idealistic fool. It looks so easy. You'd think she'd have learned a lesson from the hell I've put my wife through. Hey, we're men. We're pricks. Stay away from us ...

Vaya Con Dos Equis

No one died!

2005-07-30T07:36:00.000-07:00

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.

It's Alive!

2005-06-25T07:00:00.000-07:00

Lightning struck, Igor recoiled in terror, I hit the starter, and the Road King came to life. Right away. No sputtering, no timing issues, no fuel injection nightmares. Everything was beautiful (thank you, Mr. Stevens - now play Misty for me).

And man do I feel better now that the two wheeled instrument of death is back on the road ... I'm sleeping again at night, I've cut down on the beatings I dole out to the wife, and the kids no longer hide under their beds when I come home at night. Open heart surgery on the chrome phallic symbol is bad enough, stripping the threads on the cam support plate simply pushed me over the edge.

120 inch pounds my bitter stinking ass.

Just a hint: the cam support plate allen screws, mainly the two located in the aligning dowels, will NOT support a torque of 120 inch lbs as specified in the damned HD manual. Furthermore, if I thought disemboweling the twin cam was unsettling drilling and tapping my cases pushed me right past clear thought and sanity. Not that I needed any help ...

When the allen head screw spun free and the aluminum threads on the first bolt of the torque sequence gave up something snapped. Something synaptical. Nothing mechanical. From that point on it was all downhill. I went through the basic stages of Apocalyptic Motorcycle Trauma. Much cussing, a great deal of cold beer, more cussing, analysis and advice from armchair mechanics, more beer, a late night of debauchery with an Original Goon, reassurance and tales of woe from old-school hoodlums, beer, harassment of locals, forcible expulsion from area establishments, a 4:30 am feline funeral, a hangover, a yuppie house party, skinny dipping, weirdness, violence, latent lesbianism, another hangover, and finally: acceptance.

Heli-Coil. Loc-Tite. Less torque. A vow to kick Willie G right where his nuts used to be. All is well.

The good news is I have little or no top end noise. No idea exactly why but I like it. Since I rode the bastard home new the twin cam motor has had more top end noise than a detroit diesel. Rattling, tapping, clinking death throes. 50K miles of that had me acclimated to the clatter. The only time I really noticed it anymore was when I'd pull the earplugs to exit I-70 for gas. That's when it seemed the valve train was about to come through the tank and emasculate me right on the Interstate To Nowhere. Other than that I was accustomed to my noisy motor.

Whether it's the new cam chain tensioners or the ThunderHeader's improved breathing capabilities my motor sounds like it should have when new. I pull up next to opposed Beemers and tell them, "Jesus, is that thing about to come undone?" I scoff at Goldwings. I consider the VTX a rattling death trap. Road Stars sound like open-primary Knuckles. The hum of a gixxer seems unsettling to me ... wait, it always did. But pride goeth before a fall. And as a friend mentioned the other day, "Yeah, they always sound best right before they take a big ol' shit." Thanks. That helps.

So the Japanese engineering will likely outlast my new cam chain tensioners. But it's nice to pull up to the light next to cat on the ACE and not read his thoughts through terrified stares: "Holy hell! Listen to that fucking thing! My salesman was right, those things are junk! I'm glad I got the Honda!"

Gimme another 20K miles. It'll be back to chattering death.

The cam chain tensioner replacement was over due. Witness the above picture. That's the old inboard tensioner on the right. New one on the left. I'm thinking that's what it looks like when they're about to come undone and have babies all over the cam compartment. Wouldn't that be fun? And it wouldn't have come undone on the way to the Frisco. No, it would have taken a shit in Assbag, NE. In a rainstorm. When I was gooned.

Preventive maintenance is so cool ...

Loc-Tite, used in moderation, is your friend.

Never-Sieze is as great a gift to mankind as penicillin.

Never sleep with a woman whose problems are worse than your own.

Whoops! Slipped into a philosophical soliloqouy. That won't happen again.

Road test today for the heli-coiled and thundered-up masterpiece. A lazy roundabout route to Sparks America for the weridness and nudity one can expect at Tony's place. Rumors abound concerning the death last Saturday. But all the witnesses and folks who were there (the only views that matter) I've talked to say the same thing, "Unfortunate, but the cat brought it on himself." Hey, people die. That's what happens. It's the logical conclusion to this whole "life" thing. We're all gonna die. The trick is to live in the meantime. If your version of 'living' includes better living through chemistry, mass quantities of tequila, and tempting fate by thugging up hoodlums then the clock runs faster for you.

Hopefully today we'll gather up some of that Bad News Jimmy action out of KS and head off for some beer-soaked hoodlumery in the expanses of central OK. With highs in the upper 90s hurrying to get to the campsite so we can stand around and sweat with the unwashed masses appeals to me very little. Six hours to cover 150 miles, that sounds about right for the way I like to relax. If I wanted to get there faster I'd have bought an airplane. Besides, we don't call it 'Iron Liver' because we get lots of rest and exercise ...

As a side note, now that the Road King from hell is off the lift the Lizard Glide cop bike has a spot. If you reading this from The Sandbox, Major Del Lagarto, rest assured your two-wheeled conveyance is currently on my lift. Bleeding nasty black fluid. Waiting breathlessly for the new synthetic oil. Loving the attention. Anticipating its new salmon and canary paint job ...

I wouldn't do that. Would I? I could ...

Vaya Con Dos Equis.

Torture

2005-06-07T05:56:00.000-07:00

Having the Road King torn down on the lift makes for a bittersweet form of mental anguish and self-induced torture.

June, as the devil's month, affords me little if any riding time. My vocation's dependence on local agriculture's annual harvest of grain means the sixth month is filled with excited and demanding phone calls from the salt of the earth rather than extended trips aboard the 2-wheeled instrument of death. Granted it's only been like this my entire life, but that does nothing to lessen the sting as untold thousands (it seems) of motorsickles blaze by my site of indentured servitude. The only thing worse than wrenching on a 3500 diesel motor at 8 pm on a June Sunday is having your friends rattle pipes and honk as they pass by on a beer run. Bastards ... I hope the bugs were thick and the air was thin.

In the interest of sanity preservation and probably some sort of zen-like preventive maintenance practice (thanks, Bob Pirsig) this harvest I decided to tear the blue and silver beauty down for some minor surgery. My reasoning; I'm over 50K miles so there are things that need done, and if the bike is disabled I won't be daydreaming of ditching work and burning up the asphalt with my Iron Livered friends. The theory was I'd be less apt to get shitty and bitter about being unable to ride if my favorite bike was disabled and unridable. Plus, I've heard all sorts of horror stories about the cam chain idlers on twin cams and wanted to assure myself all was well.

The maintenance thing has panned out like a champ. In fact, the rear chain idler is cut pretty deep and a piece was resting in the bottom of the case behing the cam plate. Justification of prarnoid disassembly!

But you just can't resist the urge to ride. So I cheated. While my mount waits for a Thunderheader and I toil on cam chain idlers in my 'spare time' The Lizard's Cop Bike was just too tempting. Entrusted with his prized possession while he serves Uncle Sam in The Sandbox my legendary rationalization skills took over and dictated the motorsickle truism: "They're made to be ridden." That was all I needed. Plus you should have seen it sitting there. All alone. Forsaken and sad. Calling to me like a UNLV coed, "Ride me, You Jackass! Ride ME!"

200 or so miles later this past Saturday I'd mapped a route for the Running Of The Rats, defamed countless no-riding posers, made some new friends, spread the good word of Runs That Don't Suck, suffered wind rain and hail, backtracked to find the local Air Guitar Master hiding under an awning, and taken beauty queen and local hero Miss Meredith for a ride. In a skirt! Yes!

I can think of only a few better ways to end a short Saturday ride than toting one of your wife's adorable friends through local dives (the better ways all end with me sans wife - and friends). On the motorsickle. And did I mention the skirt? Mmmmm ... skirrrrttt ...

First time I've ridden the cop bike, with its bat-wing fairing, farther than a simple 'trade me bikes' hop. Whether it's my limited stature or just the nature of the fairing that damned thing directs a great deal of wind into places it should simply pass by. The staccato drumbeat my Oakleys tattooed on my nose left a nice red raw spot for a day or so, and the top end of the turbulence accentuated the lower annoyance by directing bugs straight into my scarred forehead. The hail, thankfully, caught me on the side of the noggan. Direct hits form hard rain suck like finding a root on your Thai hooker. The next morning. In your ass.

I know I'm not the only jackass out there who laughs out loud at the weather deities when that ray of sunlight appears at the end of a dark nasty patch. Tempting Thor's hammer cracks me up, it feels like winning. Like you've outsmarted mother nature, mugged on her sister, goosed her cousin, and had her hot mom flash you some tit. Then glided into the clearing scot-free and blameless for some sun-soaked scrogging.

Decidedly dirty analogies today. Must be some pent-up frustration.

Which reminds me, I trust everyone does so already but you have to check out Doug at 40 On 2's 'Inside The Helmet' post. I've contemplated an IPod or satellite radio for the mind-numbing monotony of I-70, et al. but wonder, "Would this lessen the time I spend in deep introspection, meditation, and the quest for a higher plane of enlightenment?"

Upon further contemplation I realized it would just get my mind off the carnal conquest roll call my mind plays ad nauseum. And I'd hate for anything to interrupt the flow of perversion. So XM and the kick-ass earbuds from Aerostich will have to wait. Besides, I spent all my money on new exhaust.

So last weekend was great. Despite working entirely too late Saturday, being cussed by area agriculturists because I do not feel a lack of planning on their part constitutes a crisis on mine, sustaining a hail welt or too (yeah, I know, "wear a helmet"), and dragging ass to work on Sunday only to be cussed again. On a Sunday. By the same folks. After they'd hit church and had a big meal. All it takes is a little ride to nice places with people who don't suck. That evens things out. At least for me.

Oh, and I thought this was funny; had a friend email me a link he found on James' site: Why Bike. Love the disclaimer next to my link. Guess I could try and tone it down a little.

No. Fuck that. DEATH TO THE TOWEDS!

Ride it or give it to your sister, punk.

Mental Health

2005-05-03T09:14:00.000-07:00

One of the Detroit Weasels posted on the Iron Liver guestbook a while back, "There's nothin better after a hard ride than a beer and blow job."

While I wholeheartedly agree, I'd have to add dry clothes and a hot shower following a Sunday's return to Oklahoma. I am the world's biggest pussy when it comes to being cold. Throw wet in on top of that and I become the short, bearded version of Al Franken: a whining, bitching, intolerable malcontent desperately in need of an ass-kicking.

All that kept me from assuming this nightmare alter-ego during the wind-swept and rain-soaked chilly ride home was the mental health weekend I'd just been fortunate to pull off.

A couple days in the Hill Country with Goons will cure what ails ya'. Or just kill ya'.

Kinda cool leather weather on the way down gave way to severe clear and soul-cleansing sunshine in Fredericksburg, TX. Cold beer and the arrival of the Midland contingent only served to further lower my blood pressure and raise my life expectancy.

The folks in Texas' Hill Country remind me somewhat of the folks in Florida's Keys. No excitement, very laid back, no hurry, a settled contentment that allows them to look at fast paced lifestyles and those who live them with an almost sympathetic eye. While we weren't able to ocean gaze over the seven mile bridges or hit the Southernmost Point I think a trip to Luckenbach [insert lame-ass Willie and Waylon joke here] satisfied our requisite cliche tourist stop. Oh yeah, I got a picture on the porch ... why wouldn't I? I was, by definition, a damned tourist.

Luckenbach is one of those tourist destinations that really isn't. Until now. There's really not much to attract anyone uninterested in music and cold beer. Since being purchased by a corporation the cold beer is $3 but the music, at least in the old store, remains free. Just purchase one of those $3 beers for the pickers.

Live oaks and the famous front porch where Hondo cut witticisms made up for the admission price to the weekend's event. Live bands. Cold beer. A plethora of people who didn't seem to suck. Hell, our resident Pole Cat even lent a had to a law-dog and his flat-tired softail. I'm sure that get-out-of-jail-free card will arrive in the mail any day now ... Because the law is all about returning favors like that.

Hung a shitload of RatRun flyers throughout South Texas, and even handed some out to people who seemed worthy. If you're reading this now because you followed the links after a short obnoxious drunk guy gave you a flyer - it must mean we thought you weren't a jackass. The rest of you ... well, you know who you are. In fact, you're probably the same kids who noticed Louie's shirt and were offended. Because the truth hurts. Trailer trash.

Which reminds me. Trailers are an ever-present menace in this thing they call 'motorsickle enthusiasm' nowadays. We bitch about it, call them cowards, and use the presence of a trailer as a means to separate the riders from the posers. But sometimes an incident is so glaringly stupid it bears a rant. Frederiscksburg is 71 miles from Austin. 71 really nice smooth miles. And there were people who had trailered. From Austin. 71 miles. What the fuck is the fucking point in even owning a fucking motorcycle if you can't ride the son-of-a-bitch 71 miles? What the fuck are you going to do with the motherfucker when you get to your destination? I'll tell you what they did; they polished it. Twice. Then rode it, very little. 71 miles. Trailered. Jesus ...

The thing these assbags don't realize is; there's nothing like a road trip, incident free, to replenish the soul and cure all the hate and discontent. Event the ride home failed to suck, until the Oklahoma line. Not just because the roads turned to shit, but the weather followed. What I thought might have been a bad omen, the exploding truck tire and it's flying debris, turned out to be just a wake up call. Not that we had any problem staying awake at 11:00 pm in the rain and cold ...

Cold and wet on the way home is much better than cold and wet on the way there. Knowing a hot shower and cold shoulder await you at the end of the ride provides nice motivation. Visions of draining the hot water tank and sleeping in your own bed can carry a person through. The possibility of a some carnal treats, as our Weasel friend mentioned, is icing on the cake. I had uniced cake. But it was still cake.

Roadtrips with people who know how to ride are the treats that make all this other bullshit tolerable. It is impossible to express how comforting it is to know the cats riding with you know not to get in your blind spot, cage you in a bad spot, crowd you off the road, or drag-ass and screw up the pace. Traffic, interstates, cities, and 6-lanes are so much easier when your riding compadres are not beatoffs and knobs. Change lanes, anticipate your friend's actions, get around the cars, get down the road. Yeah ... I dig the shit out of motorsickles.

This weekend; a road trip with The MonkeyMan . Bedlam baseball and, of course, spreading of the flyers. I am the flyer whore. So on our way to witness another vicious beating of the hated land thieves at the hands of the heroic Cowboys we will spread the good word of poker runs that do not suck.

If the weather holds my 6 year old passenger may head home with his mother as I make my way to May Daze and check out the local talent. Hit that gig last year and thought I may give it another chance.

Next weekend is Pawhuska, my favorite of local runs, so there'll be no rest and relaxation for the wicked.

Yeah ... I dig the shit out of motorsickles.

I'm Leaving

2005-04-28T16:38:00.000-07:00

Holy shit I'm sick and fucking tired of people. People in general, I think. The constant yapping and nipping. The whining bullshit. The lack of sense. The basic human condition.

And they're everywhere. They're at work. They're in my bars. They're in my home. They're all over my motherfucking cell phone. Shit, they're even up my ass via email. They are by-God everywhere.

Everywhere but the motorsickle.

Aboard the two-wheeled instrument of death the rest of the world is little more than a hazard to be avoided. Granted, the same assbags bothering me in person are now trying desperately to run me down while leaving me a voice mail. But the ringing demon is stored in a saddlebag and those four-wheeled shiteyed monsters are easily placed in a rear-view mirror.

All I ever seem to do is bitch on this blog, but in all honesty I have got to be the luckiest jackass on the face of the earth. I have stumbled across, and am still allowed to hang out with, some of the greatest people in the world. Sometimes it takes being cornholed by nitwits and wannabes to remember this truism.

So that's why I am headed south. Today. To points undivulged, so that I may commune with Those Who Do Not Suck. A well-deserved Iron Liver bacchanalia. One good road trip before the ulcer-inducing madness of the summer rush returns to my place of indentured servitude. Much needed barley therapy and in-person healing amongst the few individuals I know would never blow smoke in my ass while fiscally sodomizing me.

Like I said; People Who do Not Suck.

The past few weeks have pretty much pegged my give-a-shitometer. I was fortunate to see a friend soon to be deployed, and managed to sneak in a pile of beer with members of an underground cult. But the Monday midday fallout totaled my reserves of assbag tolerance. So fuck it. I've got a long weekend due to me.

Absolutely amazing the way all the irritating personality cysts melt away as benign bumps when you're on the motorsickle. Two hours into a roadtrip I could care less if I ever make the destination or not.

There was a time traveling on two made me more of a wreck than the work I was avoiding. Pre-travel nerves. The pesky gremlins who ruin so many plans. Jitters. That uneasy feeling in the gut. The litany of things that can go wrong. What if I break down? What if I have a wreck? What if the weather is awful? What if I get there and there's no place to stay? What if I forgot something? What if I get in a fight? What if I have to turn around and come back home? What if I'm gang raped by psychopaths and left for dead in a filthy gas station pisser while itinerant gypsies raid my bags, steal my credit cards, grab my keys, go to my home, and wipe their ass on my wife's curtains?

One or more of those things will eventually happen to all of us. I've had most of them. I'll leave you to guess which.

Anymore I've come to the realization; It doesn't matter.

I used to obsess over the weather channel pre-Sturgis each year. Watching the forecast, checking national trends, spotting lows and predicting the jet stream. And every year, regardless what the the doomsayers said, I went. I loaded the same shit I always did: leathers, sunscreen, and excedrin then launched for another killer time on the road. Because it doesn't matter ...

If Jim Cantore had called for a 60% chance of volcanoes and sulfur rain I'd have gone. And I'd have dug it.

Travel enjoyment has as much to do with who you travel with as it does where you go and what the weather is like. I've spent entire afternoons under bridges and in seedy bars watching torrential rains drown my waterproof bags. Surrounded by People Who Don't Suck it didn't matter. I've frozen my balls off in wet and wind when I'd have rather been doing pedicures for the homeless - until it was over. Then it was fun. A new story. A new bonding experience with Those Who Do Not Suck. Hell, even being cut from the group due to bad visibility and blown off I-90 in a small tornado was kinda groovy when we all caught up at Gunner's and told where we'd been. The rest of the group in a truck stop service bay; my wife and I under an overpass with potheads from Iowa. Kick ass ...

So I'm leaving. All precautions taken. All my good shit packed. All worries stowed under a tool box and left here behind next to the 'To Do' list.

Like every trip, I could care less if I ever make the destination. The ride is the best part. One more reason I'll never understand the trailers ...

Vaya Con Dos Equis.

Badasses and Candyasses

2005-03-22T15:18:00.000-08:00

I've known some pretty tough cats in my life. Grizzled farmers and sun-baked laborers. Mentally indestructible men of God and determined thinkers who just know what they want. Physical specimens who've never touched a weight machine with vise-grip hands at the end of barbed-wire arms.

I was fourteen when I watched my old man chainsaw his left hand, drop the saw, turn to me and simply say, "Can you drive to the emergency room?" I thought that was physically tough. Then I watched him bury his favorite son - and I knew that was one tough motherfucker.

I know guys who've lost finger, hands, legs, and feet to maladies running the gamut from PTO shafts to foreign combatants. I've even severed a couple of my own short digits, and luckily saved the stubby appendages.

So I thought I'd seen tough.

Then my friend Brice hit a truck. At 65 mph. With his face. Aboard his motorsickle. And rolled the truck. And lived.

Yeah, you read that right. Our quiet and relatively calm friend Brice, who just happens to be married to the world champion ‘Cutest Wife Ever,' was blazing into work at 0530 on 3 March. As in ‘Oh my God it's early.' .

In a low spot on the highway east of Enid, OK Brice crested a rise, started into the low, hit dense fog, and smashed the driver side door of a truck driven by the only cat on the road more surprised than Brice. Neither of them ever saw each other. Both, incredibly, lived. The truck pilot with a broken pelvis and some internal injuries. Brice with two broken arms, broken collar bones, broken ribs, broken back, and every bone in his face: broke. Every freaking bone on his face. That's a lot of smashing. That's a lot of blood. That's a lot of shit that should kill you.

First report I heard; "He broke both his arms," and all I could think of was, "Man, you can't even wipe your own ass with two broken arms ..." Well, turns out the snapped limbs were the least of the poor guy's worries. And shitter sanitation took a backseat to use of lower extremities.

Now he's hanging out in an hospital room, off the ventilator, breathing of his own accord, moving his legs, bitching about having to be in the hospital, and cracking jokes. Two rods in his back. Multiple broken bones. Something like ten plates in his face. More screws than a spring break beach. And alive. Wanting to go home. Sitting up and talking.

How cool is that?

How tough is that?

It should have killed him. Thrice. At least.

The impact with the truck should have killed him immediately. But it didn't.

Laying in the road with your face smashed should kill you. But it didn't.

Laying in the road choking on your own blood and waiting for a car to run over you in the fog should kill you. But it didn't.

Extensive surgery, a trip to the ER, and messing with your innards can easily kill you. But it didn't kill Brice.

I bitch about hangovers and my sore back. I'll bet Brice would kill for something so minor. Excedrin and stretching is a far cry from the extensive surgeries and future physical therapy Brice is currently staring down. But I'll bet money he does it. And does it well. Hell, if you can flip a truck with your face I think you can whip whatever the sawbones throws your way.

So his friends are on the right track staging a benefit poker run. Not a wake. Not a memorial service. A benefit. To show support and throw some cash in a pile for the economic uncertainties extensive medical attention and lost wages bring about. Two kids, an adorable wife, and a house payment are the only reasons most of us work at all. Insurance only covers so much. So shit like this is the reason we have friends.

Adversity reveals the true nature of men. All things become relative and the minor discomforts of every work day pale in comparison to the major inconvenience of having your body pretzled by impact and repaired by skilled hands.

So when people tell me, "A run this Saturday? It's supposed to be 55 degrees with a chance of rain," I think I'm justified in telling them, "Then just stay home, you spineless piece of shit! Sit on your fat worthless ass and dial up some pay per view! Fire up that laptop and post on a message board about what a true biker you are! Order up some more badass chopper gear and plan some rides your wife won't let you take! But by all means shut the fuck up and abandon this attempt to justify your cowardice!"

Granted, it's not the friendliest or most compassionate thing to say. But I absolutely can not stomach the weak-willed nattering nabobs of negativity and their nasal excuses for non-participation. Weakness and cowardice are just two items in the pandoric box plaguing this nation. We're a nation of remote control pussies, and we'll eventually pay dearly for it.

And then I stop to think about it. If it rains fire and brimstone this Saturday as the earth opens up to swallow us all I'm still going to try and help raise a little cash for Brice. Because that's what you do. And I won't be alone. If there is a sheet of ice on the road and crazed aboriginal snipers in Mad Max Paraphernalia roaming the highways aboard chop-topped mack trucks sporting mounted machine guns you couldn't stop people from participating in this event. Not people who don't suck, anyway. The rest; we don't need them.

Who are these invertebrate poser bitches afraid to ride if their chrome will get spotted-up or the wind may whip them around a little? They're human debris. And rides are better off without them. They're the annoying shitstains prancing around every HOG event and big city bike night so proud of the labels on their clothes they fail to notice their balls nestled safely in the wife's purse. Junk. The flotsam and jetsam of motorcycling's ever-growing stream.

So piss on ‘em. They'll never have bragging rights or true character. And they know they're not welcome at the tables where actual hoodlums drink. Motorsickle caste systems develop based more on the rider's behavior than on his socioeconomic status. Those who will not ride to help a friend are our untouchables. And despite Ghandi's protestations, Harijans of the motorsickle set can scavenge the corn from my shit.

Wanna come along? Wanna save your mortal soul? Click here for information:

http://www.ironlivergoons.com/BRICE.htm

Wanna bitch about my unfair characterization of your unfounded fears? Suck it. No one cares. Least of all me. Get your own blog, pussy.

They're Doing It Again

2004-12-16T10:45:00.000-08:00

The safety nazis. They're out there trying desperately to nanny you and me.

You remember them; the people convinced you're not smart enough to look after yourself. The ones who have given you more warning labels than instructions on everything from toasters to canned peas. They're the folks who think Ralph Nader is the second coming and you'll refrain from using that top step if there's a black and yellow sticker on it.

Emboldened by their decisive and ongoing emasculation of the tobacco industry disparate groups of hand wringing worriers have searched long and high for the next cause du jour. In doing so they've splintered. The skinny pale vegans attacking fast food. Secular humanists and earth-worshipping environmentalists have launched against the dreaded SUV and suburban sprawl. Carrie Nation's long lost kin are opposed to my drunken antics. And malcontent psuedo-hippies want the US out of everywhere.

But the ones most threatening to me, personally, are the helmet law fanatics. The mad mothers of a different stripe. The pointy-headed sycophants who've never boarded a two wheeled instrument of death. The ER physicians and EMTs with a book of gruesome second-hand stories and ‘donorcycle' quips. The legislators and politicos driven by polls rather than individual freedom.

They all have two things in common. They don't ride and they make a more aesthetically pleasing spokesperson than the rest of us.

I have yet to meet a fellow rider of any brand loyalty who will lecture me on the merits of a mandatory helmet law. Even my friends who prefer their helmet, I have a few, agree it is a matter of choice. In my experience people who ride are either reluctant to tell someone to wear a lid or honestly feel it is a matter of personal preference. I've never held a grudge against anyone in a helmet and can mount as many arguments against as those who argue for. Anecdotal tidbits, physics and physiology, warped statistics from DOT, vision and hearing, fatigue and perception ... Regardless one's bent on the issue of helmets one thing holds: we feel strongly but refuse to legislate what is a matter of choice. I would never suggest a law preventing helmet use and don't expect my fellow two-wheeled compadres to impose their theories on me.

The people who will actively work to impose what they feel is best for you by and large do not ride. They've never been in your engineer boots and will probably never throw a leg over but they honestly feel they're doing us a favor by legislating away what we consider our freedoms.

Physicians, EMTs, ER docs. These guys see only the worst of motorcycling. Thank God they're there, but too few of them get to ride with friends and NOT witness the carnage resulting from excessive speed, bad choices, and poor judgment. None of us are immune to the gore-filled "It Could Happen To You" tales of every rider impacting every obstacle from here to there. It's always a story about a promising young man who had the world by the ear and lost it all in a split second. Most are likely true, but they're also tailored to make a point rather than provide a cautionary tale. None of the stories ends with, "I think he should have counter-steered going into the corner." Or, "Maybe some rider education courses could have prevented this..." Not even, "You know, if he'd been going slower on a machine tailored more to his ability ..." Much like the evil SUV the death, paralyzation, or gruesome scarification and amputation are attributed to a personified villain: the motorcycle. As a corollary morality tale they all end with "And he wasn't wearing a helmet." When he was, they end with "Motorcycles are dangerous."

The helmet ending particularly galls me when it follows the newspaper "He impaled himself on a fence post and had a car bumper sticking out his ass" story. Because head cover would have compensated for the internal decimation? Prevented it how? Shit people, my brother died in a Jeep Cherokee from massive internal injuries. Know what; he wasn't wearing a helmet either.

And as pointed out by my father at the time, "Had he died in the airplane everyone would have said, ‘Oh, those airplanes are dangerous' and had he died on his motorcycle they'd have all said, ‘Oh, those motorcycles are dangerous' but he died in a car - and we'll all drive to the funeral."

Mothers, in an irrepressible and natural maternal nurture mode, steadfastly endorse any law which appears, even slightly, to prevent injury to any child. Be it theirs or not. I applaud these natural actions when they apply to keeping kids off drugs, keeping pedophiles dead, or ensuring daughters don't date until they're 30. When they infringe on the legal exercise of a personal preference, however, then I have to be the asshole son. My own mother still, on occasion, will drop an offhanded remark regarding my lack of lid. All I ever reply with is, "Helmets Kill."

Hey, if the pro-helmet clan can claim they save lives I can claim they kill. Neat thing is - we're both right. There are a million different scenarios where helmets save, or contribute to the end of, a life.

Moms are a terrific tool of the helmet nazis. Politicians have known the power of a weeping mother for years. One watery-eyed mom pleading into a television camera about how a helmet may have saved her promising son negates any facts about him powering a sportbike into the back of an F-150 at speeds jet aircraft consider takeoff velocity. No argument about proper bike power and size relative to experience can trump a mother's sorrow. Even if that mother bought, or helped to buy, an incredibly powerful motorcycle for an inexperienced young rider. And regardless if that son was videotaped doing 120 mph wheelies on broad thoroughfares in the wee hours of a school night, her appearance will always look better than the leather-clad hoodlum with 30 years in a saddle and 10 years growth on his face. AARP voters and loafer-wearing white collars will not be swayed by a guy named Bear, regardless how much sense he makes, when he is placed counter to a distraught parent. It's not right, and it's discriminatory - but it is our reality.

I discount no mother's grief. I've seen it. And everyone seeks a cause in the face of tragedy. The easiest target in the case of motorcycle accidents is a helmet. No one demands better riding training or sensible purchasing decisions. Helmets are easy. Helmets sound good. Helmets are a panacea. Helmets make perfect sense to the non-riding masses.

To those holding, seeking, and seeking to hold on to political office what the masses want the masses get. Tracking surveys and an unquenchable thirst for power have changed what was intended as a representative democracy into a circus of legislation via judicial fiat and election though whims of the poll. No one is elected based on what the honestly believe. They are elected on what the majority of the respondents tell them to believe for that particular election cycle. If the propaganda machine repeatedly tells the public helmetless riders are a danger to the social structure and a burden on our country's strained health system those same voters who willingly raise your gas taxes with the proven bullshit promise it's ‘for the children' will take away all our rights to ride free. People are issue voters. And motorcycles are not seen as the benefit they truly can be.

We lessen traffic, gas consumption, parking congestion, and pollution. We add to the tax base and common good with punitive fees on a mode of transportation which burdens our nation's infrastructure less than anything out there, save bicycles. We pay the same fee per axle on Oklahoma's archaic turnpike system as 8,000 pound SUV's ferrying the cell-phone addicted soccer moms. The same distracted and overstressed individual who will run us over from behind when we get to an exit and hit the stop sign. We tag, insure, and fuel our motorcycles despite the fact most of us are also supporting at least one car at home as well. We are an economic good for the state and the nation. We patronize dealerships and ride these chrome phallic trophies in countless drives for charity, awareness, hunger, and remembrance. Our disposable income hits the public coffers faster than any other demographic known. Chrome goodies, cool exhaust, kick-ass paint, and various sundry clothing purchases assist the economic cycle's momentum.

However, when the politicians mention your existence it will not be the extra tag you buy every year or the untold thousands you've pumped into the economy in general and the purses of the needy in particular. They won't discuss the Downed Bikers rides, scholarship drives, or copious toy runs. It will be the possibility you may end up a vegetating near-corpse leeching off the taxpayers for your long-term care they'll use to label you and yours. Never mind the fact most of these potential wards of the state have better insurance than the worried masses. Forget the fact we are well aware the busy exec who will vote against our freedoms will likely be the jackass on the cell phone who puts us in ICU. All the public will see is what the polls have told the politico to portray: deadbeat leather-clad ne'er do wells and speed-crazed sportbike tricksters endangering grandma's medicare and social security benefits.

Sure it's a bullshit argument, but it's one they'll use. The quote often attributed to nazi propagandist Josef Goebbels, "If you repeat a lie often enough it becomes the truth," applies well in the world of politics.

DUI laws are now so punitive anyone with two beers after work is, effectively, committing a felony. That didn't happen because pub patrons were portrayed as a responsible group of tax paying working stiffs. MADD showed them as crazed murderous thugs, preying on innocent children and families. And it worked.

We're next. The fact most of us actually look like crazed murderous thugs will only make their job easier.

Here in Oklahoma it's already begun. Our State Capitol's newspaper of record, The Daily Oklahoman, has taken a decidedly pro-helmet stance from the beginning. Why? No good reason. This is a paper steeped in conservative politics and supposedly supportive of individual freedoms. Quite simply, the paper appears to be written, edited, and owned by those who do not ride.

ABATE's slogan, "Let Those Who Ride Decide" rings as true now as it ever has.

If you live in a state with no helmet law you have ABATE to thank.

Complacency in recent years has seemed to dwindle the membership numbers and active involvement in ABATE and it's many constructive actions. I personally am as guilty as anyone. When my local ABATE chapter effectively vaporized due to lack of involvement I neglected to maintain state dues. I have rectified that, and encourage my friends to do the same.

ABATE chapters were insisting on rider education, organizing beneficial works and illustrating for the public the societal good motorcyclists do when Harley was still cranking out AMF shit, yuppies were in Beemers - not on them, and "HOG" was an unregistered trademark slang. We've seen an influx of other groups now capitalizing on the popularity of motorcycling in general. They would all be well-served to join with ABATE in this fight.

Motorcycling's popularity has been both the boon and downfall of our pastime. We have grudgingly gained some sort of newfound awe and respect through the fawning praise of The Discovery Channel, et al. We've brought a great deal more people into the most fun and rewarding pastime many will ever experience. And we've made for an economic force people have, for good or ill, begun to cater towards.

Poker Runs and benefits have sprung up like herpes sores in an alley. Everyone who's ever had a cause wants a piece of the motorcycle fiscal pie. Folks who wouldn't have let us use their shitter ten years ago now hang "Welcome Bikers" banners for one, maybe two weeks at a time. And bars where we were told "No scooter trash" host poker runs and ‘Bike Night.' This is all fine and good, but it's the reason we're seeing the reemergence of helmet laws.

Louisiana abolished their lid law only to see it reinstated. Incredibly sad, and they still fight that good fight.

The culprit; skewed statistics. Motorcycling's aforementioned popularity has seen an unprecedented rise in ownership. With any rise in ownership we will have to see a rise in mortality. Unfortunately these numbers are regularly quoted to the benefit of those who wish to twist them. Of course we're seeing more people dead on motorsickles. There are more people out there on motorsickles than ever before. Take those numbers and compare them with Deaths Per Thousand Registered Motorcycles as compared to previous years and you'll see different story.

Additionally for the year 2002 (latest statistics available) the NHTSA (a militantly pro-helmet government entity) says, "Motorcycle fatalities increased in only 40 and over age groups ..." They continue, "But ... the largest increase was in the over 49 age group."

Odds are the majority of these fatalities are not old hoodlums who have finally succumbed to their lifestyle. More reasonably these are baby boomers experiencing a second childhood, buying the big shiny chrome phallic symbol they've always wanted, and failing to do any sort of rider training. The result; their kids get the inheritance and a twisted up Softail.

In fact, between 01 and 02 the death rates for everyone under 40 decreased. The mortality for those 40-49 increased 4.8% and for those over 50; 26%. Mid-life boomers and retiring yuppies are a dangerous group after all ...

Following the helmet lobby's line of reasoning we should mandate helmet use for anyone over age 40, rather than all riders - or those under 18 - as they are the one dying in droves. Of course this would be punitive and discriminatory, so they'll push to helmet us all instead.

Basically, if you decide to research helmet law statistics do so sensibly. Stats are a field notoriously twisted to serve the purpose of the propagandist, when researched and quoted correctly they invariably divulge a truth.

Unfortunately the keys are hard to find where your government is concerned. A recent hunt for numbers of registered motorcycles in differing states proved exceedingly difficult to complete. The NHTSA (our friends in government who hate us) are suspiciously stingy with comparative results between helmeted and non-helmeted states. Yet incredibly liberal with favorable statistics on how many live helmets have saved. A dubious assumption.

One of the few places to actually have comparative stats is, not surprisingly, ABATE. The following website is most helpful:

http://www.abate-of-maryland.org/xhmt_pa.htm

While the statistics are older, they tell the tale. Helmet states don't secure a markedly lower death rate per thousand registered motorcycles. In fact, they are slightly higher. If helmets really do save lives shouldn't their rates be a great deal lower than free states?

Who benefits? Safety Nazis. Helmet salesmen. Politicos and the rest of the feel-good culture who will sleep better knowing they've eliminated one more freedom of ours even though it posed no risk to their own.

Who loses? The dead guys in the helmet states. Don't let it be us.

Wear one if you want. Just don't tell your friends what to do.

"Let Those Who Ride Decide"

http://www.abateofoklahoma.org/

They Suck

2004-10-15T13:50:00.000-07:00

Hey, not everyone digs the Teutuls.

"American Chopper" may well be the biggest thing The Discovery Channel ever spoon fed the unintelligentsia, but it represents what most pisses myself, and several others I know, completely off about the current state of motorcycling. Wanna be know-nothings and the dipshits who idiolize them.

I've ranted, raved, and threatened violent insurrection over this bullshit prime time soap opera and it's thespian cast of mental midgets. But now I've had it. When their mechanical ineptitude and familial drama spill over into my shop; that's it. I'll say my piece and let the rest of the world decide.

Don't go into someone else's shop and ask them, "Should that axle go in so easy? I saw them drive them in on American Chopper. I think you've got something wrong there ..."

Oh, motherfucker. Get away from the tool box lest ye be smitten with the ball pein.

These assbags are not bike builders. In fact they're not bikers. They are, at best, bike decorators. At worst they are a pox on the nation and destined for history's dustbin as a footnote no more impressive or nostalgic than mulletts and moon pies.

Okay, I'm done. For now. All I really want is an awareness of the fact not everyone who rides a motorsickle, much less a harley, finds inspiration and comraderie with the drama queens of Orange County.

Personally, I'd know better than to perch my puckered ass on one of their trailer worthy contraptions. Just a heads up: axle shafts should never - repeat NEVER - be hammered into place. From there the mechanical and aesthetic faux pas run amuck. Like the ulcers in my lacerated innards these fucktards do nothing but piss me off. This medical annoyance, and the copious profanities I've screamed at the tube while these asshats fumble through their toolbox, has led my wife to make yet another of her great suggestions; "Hey, dumbass, why don't you change the channel."

Well fuck. Why didn't I think of that.

In the meantime, through the sheer good will of friends and riding compadres, my beleagured Road King is back amongst the living. I am well aware the bike is, at least in a literal sense, simply an inatimate object. However, the unsettled feeling of my injured two wheeled instrument of death strapped sadly on the lift was more than I could bare over the past few weeks. The gooned up shoulder and crippling foot/ankle dilemna has been less of an issue than my bike's predicament.

The FLH's resurrection was an excellent illustration of karmic retribution and the motorcycle community's network of friends. Two days following my spark-throwing display of balance gone awry local hero and master painter Scott was laughing at my hobbling gait and assuring me, "I have a fender, we can match that paint ..." And he did. Perfectly. It looks better than August of 98 when I left the Heritage at Forman's and rode off on this blue and silver beast. New paint is the perky nipple on the perfect tit of life. You can't help but touch and rub it. Stare at it. Contemplate indecent acts with it ... The paint is beyond perfect. I dig the shit out of it. Had people not been staring I may have consumated a new relationship with the fender there on the steel bench. Hell, I still might ...

Tool man and local nappy-headed legend of the strip club circuit Mac Danny had the exact cast wheels I'd wanted so long to replace the spokes and tubes consumed by a carnivorous curb. They run smoother and track straighter than did my 46,000 mile spokes. And I am now tube free. Despite the fact I'd have been on flat tires had I been running tubeless tires the night I mangled the chrome spoked rims, I prefer the tubeless qualities where conventional flats are concerned. Come on, Badlands, I've got a plug kit and a can of fix-a-flat for your teacherous miles.

Ebay provided a great deal. A big thank you to everyone with cash to spend on chrome add-ons and the will to auction stock goodies. I'd buy you a beer, but I spent the money of freight. And hey, leave me some fucking feedback, shiteyes!

Forman HD had most of what wasn't available cheaper.

Prairie Cycles tolerated my vitriolic stream of hate speech during the demounting and remounting of infamous rubber. Motorsickle tires ... 30 minutes of hell at the hands of Devil Dunlop. I'd rather jiz mop in a nudie booth than make a living mounting tires. Shit ...

So today I'll load the old lady and make East with friends for the October Hootenanny in Sparks America. While it is too late to promote the run this year, their June run is well worth a road trip. Tony and his crew know how to put on a party. http://sparksamerica.com

Paulnanza

2004-10-08T11:42:00.000-07:00

Woo Hoo!!

Paul's 50. Already.

That was fun.

No post, click the link. Pictures are worth thousands of words. And the statute of limitations has run out on most of these ...

Crash

2004-09-29T08:40:00.000-07:00

My alter-ego "Dumbass Boy" came out to play last Saturday. The net result; road rash and a scraped up motorsickle.

Crashing is an almost-inevitable part of this motorsickling gig. We've all done it, seen it, or have friends still scarred by it. People will tell you, "There are two types of riders; those who have crashed and those who will." Maybe. I think it depends on how much you ride.

An accepted risk, the threat of a crash simply adds to the allure of motorcycling in general. The reason not everyone rides a motorcycle is because many of them are, rightly so, scared of the mythical inevitable crash. As a result those who do ride are looked upon by the no-riding public as either unaware of the inherent dangers or unafraid.

Unaware would cover a great deal of the amateurs out there. Even with Indian Larry's unfortunate accident the Discovery Channel crowd still assume wrecks happen to everyone else. If they never leave town or ride more than a few miles a year they may be right.

Unafraid could cover the 19 year olds insulated from the environment by a full face helmet aboard a machine far beyond their capabilities. (Why do we allow first-time riders to hop on the fastest thing out there? Are we trying to pad the statistics for the worried moms of America?)

Personally, I've always been aware of the possibility of a crash. How can you not been when surrounded by the old timers? Limping and bitching their way through the evening, lecturing the younger kids about the time they were cut off in traffic, or had an inattentive jackass fail to yield. Road snakes. Potholes. Dropoffs. Grooved pavement. Foreign objects in the roadway. Cattle. Soccer moms on cell phones driving Mack Truck-sized wagons. There is no shortage of opportunities to get killed.

ER staff don't call them "Donorcycles" for nothing. And, as a side note, only the most selfish and stupid among us would refuse to be an organ donor. Check the box, they won't take them until you're done with them.

My first wreck, ten years ago or so, was a drunken old bastard in a borrowed 77 Mercury Grand Marquis. Very nice, lots of give in that pre-80 sheetmetal. He turned left into me and ruined my weekend. Drove away from the scene and claimed later, after being tracked down by the tag I'd memorized, he left because he was threatened. "That guy on the bike was yelling at me and coming after me when he got up."

Well of course I was, jackass, you were accelerating over a curb to get away from the scene of the crime.

This time I have no one to blame but myself for the damage to my self and, more importantly, my motorsickle.

Like all these stories start out, 'It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon ...' And it was. 7 or 8 friends, headed out to pick up a couple others and enjoy the weather. Couple hundred miles. Sunshine and lollipops. People you like to ride with. The entire day kicked ass. "And then ... And then ... KABOOM!"

The thing that pisses me off, besides the damage to my motorsickle, is the ridiculousness of it. 11 years, three motorsickles, well over 100,000 miles, 10 trips to Sturgis (rode not towed), and I finally crash and burn in my fucking hometown. On the main street. With an audience. Son of a bitch. Even worse than that, I hadn't even had enough cold beer to blame it on bumbling inebriation.

Changing lanes to the right, glanced back to my left, then ahead and realize "I drifted too far right when I looked back, and this road is narrowing. Shit!" Front wheel hit the curb, and 800 pounds of Road King tried to pitch hard to the right. Dirt bike instincts said, 'kick a foot out there and catch it!' My ankle said, "Hey, dipshit, you took physics. What's the potential energy in a 35 mph 800 pound object?"

Caught it, almost had it(?), then the back wheel hit. Pitched my dumb ass off the front, and I rolled out in the road. Hopped up, grabbed my bike, pushed it in a parking lot. Luckily I have competent friends who stopped traffic, grrr'd the civilians, gathered pieces, and loaned me rags to mop blood.

Smashed chrome, blood, pain, etc. Lots of wide eyes who'd assumed I was dead when I went over the front. Gathered my senses, checked bones, turned the key and the fuel injection pressured up. Brake light worked. Headlight was scarred but working, LH spotlight smashed, clutch worked, brakes worked, "Let's get the hell out of here."

Is that leaving the scene? I have no idea. I don't care. I was bleeding, my ankle was swelling, and my bike was hurt. I wanted to get to my shop. The front end wobble I felt on the way home was the bent-all-to-shit front wheel. Those spots all over the tank are blood. I'm still not sure why the tip-over whatever switch thingy allowed the damned thing to start. Divine intervention I suppose.

In the end I've got some interesting scab patterns on my face and a wounded bike on a lift. eBay hosts a great deal of take-off parts the kind souls who have to have cool guy chrome are more than happy to sell for much less than retail. Thank goodness.

In the meantime my misfortune has made for great fodder with the smartasses and critics who seem to surround me. All in good fun, there's little a person can or should do but laugh along. I'm not dead, and it's all my fault. Nothing to do but learn from it.

Less than half a second of inattention and I'm flopping around on my head in the middle of a main thoroughfare. That's all it took. Yeah, I'm a dumbass. But when haven't we all been a little dumb at some point or time.

I continue to profess my invincibility, much to wife's dismay. Personally, I think this was a karmic wake up call. "Hey, dumbass, pay attention - you're getting too complacent." I'm wide awake now. Wide awake and shopping ebay.

Anyone got any crash bars for a 99 FLHRCI?

Click Here for pictures and humor at my expense: http://www.ironlivergoons.com/wreck.htm

Sturgis 04

2004-09-24T14:13:00.000-07:00

They keep asking me in the bars I frequent, "How was Sturgis?"

Now how do you sum up ten or more days of beer soaked motorsickle debauchery and fun in a short conversation with some beatoff you likely don't want to talk to anyway?

"It was cold this year."

It's a much more appeasing line than the ones I want to use:

"It kicked ass and you'll never see it because you're scared of the city limits sign."
"I don't know, I was too fucked up to notice."
"Just like last year, only different."
"Would have been great if the trailers would stay in the right hand lane and off the 2-lanes."
"Full of assbags like you."
"Packed with posers and yuppies sans sunburn or character hauling chrome phallic symbols."
"Sorta like here, except crowded enough to avoid stupid questions."
"It was like heaven, if God were me."
"Well, I never answered my phone or got an email - so it rocked!"
"A week of beer and motorsickles with my hoodlum friends? Oh, it was just awful ..."

Like everybody else I make nice and tell them how cool it was. Yes, it was crowded. Yes, we sleep on the ground. Yes, beer is expensive. Yes, there are badass motorcycle gangs there.

No, I didn't see any celebrities (Except Larry and Billy). No, our favorite Texans didn't make it - damnit. No, I didn't get a lot of tit pictures. And No, I did not seek out the Tuteuls for an autograph. In fact I was glad they closed Southside campground, as the occ jackasses had that road all plugged full of sheep seeking the same overpriced t-shirts their no-riding friends wear.

Which reminds me, why do people ask if we'll bring them a shirt. If you have a motorsickle, and want me to bring you a shirt, you are shit out of luck. Get your ass on your bike and get your own damned shirt. Why the hell should I ride there, earn the shirt, and bring a few home for the no-riding trophy geeks who won't hit the next town for a beer - much less traverse four measly states for the mother of all runs. Bringing shirts home to the cats who do not ride does a disservice to the Iron Butt minions pounding out the miles. What good is a Sturgis shirt if you can get one at the swap meet in OKC?

Which is why I haven't bought a shirt since '98. Not an official "Licensed Rally" shirt anyway.

Although, I think I could make some money setting up a table to sell shirts that read,

My Friends Went To Sturgis

I Was Too Much Of A Pussy

So All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt

Sturgis 2005

They wouldn't even have to be good shirts, because what masochistic bitch would wear them? Cheap 50/50 shirts at $7.50 each. The change from the 20's their friends gave them can be spent on beer. Or lap dances at Shotgun Willie's.

Furthermore; trailers.

Here's a good list of excuses to trailer your bike:

-"I'm a pussy"

-Back injury

-Cowardice

-Fear

-Combat Wounds

-Wife refuses to relinquish control of balls

-Medical incapacitation

-Too stupid to know better

That's it. Those are the only legitimate excuses. A few illegitimate excuses include:

"I want to make better time."

Bullshit. I ride, and the only thing holding me up between home and Sturgis are the trailers clogging up the two-lanes. If you're gonna puss out and haul that piece of shit get a fucking truck that will tow it up a hill. Better time my ass. Get the hell out of my way, you're screwing up my ETA.

"What about the weather?"

What about it? It's gonna rain on you while you're in Sturgis. Why not get accustomed to it? Are you made of sugar? Shit. When it rains, stop and have a beer with your friends. You have friends, don't you? No? Oh, well just trailer then ...

"I have too much stuff to carry."

Then you're carrying too much stuff. Ship some of it. Or quit carrying that much shit. Motorsickles are supposed to be an exercise in minimalism. Get a motorsickle trailer. Some of them fold out into kick-ass tents. Or tell your ol' lady to leave the fucking hair dryer at home.

"It's more comfortable ..."

Pussy. Sell that bike. Or stay home. You make me fucking sick.

"It's a custom bike, not meant for the road."

Here, hold this large piece of paper. Try to center the concentric circles on a vital organ. Now hold still for the impact.

"We have too far to ride and I want to be refreshed when I get there."

Unless you have a legitimate medical reason you're not "refreshed" this falls under the 'Pussy' clause above. Or, you're being completely irrational on the number of miles you want to cover in a day. Slow the fuck down. Enjoy being away from work. Enjoy your RIDING compadres. Enjoy the ride. No one sells shirts reading "Live to Haul, Haul to Live." They should ...

"I don't have enough vacation time."

Bullshit. See above first illegitimate excuse re: time and traveling.

Enough bitching for one day. I'm going for a ride.

Notice no one ever says, "I'm going for a haul."

"Wanna trailer somewhere and have a beer Saturday?"

how about,

"Hey, we could load up the Wells Cargo and go get a burger tomorrow night ..."

Trailers are for boats, and it's not just my opinion. Got a different one? Get your own damned blog.

Vaya con Dos Equis

Post-Pawhuska

2004-09-22T11:31:00.000-07:00

Riding season is winding down. And by "riding season" I mean that time of year when a person can reasonably expect to ride all weekend, sleep whereever, and not experience hypothermia while slumbering. When you can leave the house in a t-shirt and likely return in it as well. When afternoon rides don't have to begin in leather and end in frostbite. So don't give me that "I ride all year" shit. So do I, badass ... I just prefer to ride when it's nice. It's why I live in Oklahoma rather than North Dakota.

OCIB (Osage County Independent Bikers) throws a hell of a good party ... Enough so other runs have a tendency to develop an inferiority complex.

September's "Biker Days In The Great Osage" was another success.

When my drunken friends first dragged my Sportster riding ass East of I-35 over ten years ago to mingle with hoodlums in the dirt the park was smaller, the crowd was filthier, and the bikes were more ragged. Pawhuska's crowd was less flash and more substance. True thugs and hoodlums. Honest to goodness 'bikers.' And it was cool. Drunk amongst the people my parents warned me about I couldn't help but dig the scene into which I'd stumbled. Knives and guns, tattoos and bravado. Hell, that was the stuff they make cheesey movies about.

Then motorsickles gained social status and universal appeal. Everybody wanted one. When they got them they all wanted to go somewhere. Unaware of what bike runs were supposed to be like the crisp leather crowd of weekend badasses started infiltrating all our favorite digs. Pawhuska, of course, was not immune to this invasion of the loafer-clad yuppies. Admittedly, they did trade the loafers for MotorClothes branded boots, but it was still obvious who knew how to change their own oil and who didn't own a set of tools. The cats who've slept in ditches and wrenched in car washes stand out from the enthusiasts well bred and read yet clueless on two-wheeled protocol.

The Californication of another established run had begun. But it wasn't all bad. They brought their trophy bitches. Strapped on the back of low-mileage evos were the died and coiffed silicone enhanced bimbos of a thousand men's fantasies. Granted, genuine biker sluts can be pretty damned hot. But there's something fun about taking a pampered princess from the suburbs and watching her get all liquored up with hoodlums.

Prancing fancy pants aside, the yuppies were a pain in the ass and they clogged up the road. Accustomed to being served by the people they now wished to hang around these elites had a difficult, at best, time fitting in. There were threats scowls at first. Followed by slight shoving and occasional fisticuffs. Eventually there were fights. There have always been fights, now however they occassionally involved people who settled things with pens and lawyers rather than fists and grit.

But hey, fuck 'em, they wanted to play with the scary guys and they got what they wanted. This ain't reality tv. This is reality.

Then the patches came to play. And they play for keeps.

It didn't take long, perhaps one or two events, before the word was out amongst the casual minded pseudo-bikers; "Pawhuska is a good place to get your ass kicked."

Well, yeah. But so is Hooter's if you fuck up.

Here's the deal: the people who get beat up at motorsickle gigs are usually the ones who get beat up in a hometown bar as well. Sometimes there'll be unjustified harassment and pointless violence. But 95% of the time the cat who gets socked had it coming. Hell, I've had it coming for years and have, for the mostpart, escaped unscathed.

The net effect of Pawhuska's reputation as a "Rough Crowd" has been to lower the hair gel geeks' participation and up the ratio of true motorsickle enthusiasts to phallic trophy posers. This, kiddies, is a good thing. And Pawhuska is an excellent run again.

In May the crowd was smaller than past years because of the competing event in OKC, and that was just fine with those in attendance. "Biker Daze" or whatever they called it drew the silly yuppies from OKC metro who ride little and drink less to an event where they were able to commune with the same guys they'd been trying to impress at Scooters And Hooters. Meanwhile, the OCIB Biker Park in the Osage was a bit more open and less clouded with amateurs.

Scaring a few off is a good thing sometimes. Like Uncle Louie says, 'Time to thin the herd.'

Tried the OKC Biker Park out for their Labor Daze gig. Nice place, groovy facilities. Shade trees and grass. Great layout. Lots of potential there for a really good gig. However, $25 gate and $1.75 beer ... Well, that's no Sparks. We were told the $25 was because there were several poker runs and four days of party. Yeah, that's great. We were there on Saturday evening with no intention of participating in the poker runs - they should be charged ala carte.

Other than that the only thing clouding an otherwise nice gig was their obvious inferiority complex with Pawhuska.

Standing with a group of friends and maybe 200 others listening to the band Saturday night the repeated claims of "We'll show Pawhuska what a party is all about!" and "We've got a tit show coming up here that'll put Pawhuska to shame!" were excessive, pointless, whining, and false. Not to mention the fact they revealed a great deal about the mindset of those in charge.

At one point while listening to the MC deride Pawhuska for the hundredth-some-odd time the chick next to me turned and said, "That motherfucker with the microphone has obviously never been to Pawhuska ..."

I don't recall the venerable Tony Ward of Sparks ever running down other events while promoting his own. And tony puts on a run no one can touch. His $30 gate is justified in the killer facilities, copious activities, ass-kicking bands, and DOLLAR BEER. Yeah. $1 beer ... Shit, man. What more do you want? Cheap ice for your beer? Got it. Naked sluts? Yeah, they got that too ...

All in all the near end of another outstanding riding season finds me thrilled to have lived thus far and ridden with the coolest folks in the world.

More later as events warrant.