I have been trying to put together a post on the Outlaw Dave Ride and The Lone Star Rally for almost three months now. I seem to be suffering from some sort of Blogger's Block and I just haven't been able to get into writing about those events. I had a great time at both events and took some good pics but getting it out onto the proverbial paper just hasn't fired up the creative juices. It feels forced and just isn't flowing.
Some of it could be because I was trying to write at the desk in my office here at the house. That could be why every time I start on it I feel like I am writing a report for work...
Some of it could be the holidays and having the family at home. Even My Baby Girl is home from college. So it is harder than usual to pull myself away.
Some of it could be that my current workload at my real job is leaving me drained.
Maybe I just need a different subject to break through all that and get the old juices flowing.
Leave it to Jack "Lord of the Motobloggers" Riepe to help with that last one. His last post on Twisted Roads and the ensuing banter in the comments section triggered a thought and a memory that did just that.
It was proposed (I am paraphrasing here) that riding, partying, women, cigars and deep, philosophical thoughts were the ultimate ideals of the BMW rider. I replied that these were similar to the ideals for Harley riders as well but that we didn't work so hard to hide those ideals behind the camouflage of quiet motors and Aerostitch outerwear. In fact, with enough Harley riders around there was bound to be at least one stripper pole in evidence...
...and that's what got me thinking about something that happened way back in another century when I was a new rider...
|Teenage dreams: Ninja and Kelly McGillis|
There were occasions in my youth when I lived a little less conservatively than I do now. One of the first ways that this rebellious streak manifested itself was in the purchase of a motorcycle, a Kawasaki Ninja. At the time Harley's, and cruisers in general, held no attraction for me but the movie Top Gun and Kelly McGillis, in particular, sure did. At this point in my life, my riding goals were to ride the most technically advanced repliracer I could afford and to push that machinery as hard and fast as possible. Death or injury was a concept that only applied to others. I was nineteen and bulletproof afterall.
Instead of the nice, suburban girls I had always dated, I was living with a chick who danced topless for money. Truth be told, we shared the apartment with two other strippers and whatever/whoever they dragged in for the night or the week. For a horny teenager it was the stuff of dreams.
Stripper chick claimed she didn't care about the bike, disliked riding on it and really did seem to hate it when went street racing on it. Nevertheless, she always mentioned it in conversations about me to her friends. It was probably the only cred a little geek like me had in her friend's eyes and it gave me just enough of a dangerous edge to justify keeping me around.
One night, I was sitting on the bike waiting for her to get off work when I noticed a big burly fella, we'll call him biker dude, walking out of the club and over to his Harley. I don't know what kind it was but it was a big twin and it was old enough to have a kick start. With nothing else of interest happening I watched as he walked over to his bike and tried to kick it to life...
...until he could try no more. The bike refused to start. He was tired enough and frustrated enough the he even let his girl try and kick it over.
Now this fella was big; six one or two with a good two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle. He looked mean and tough enough to chew up the non-ferrous metal and plastic of my Kawasaki as a digestive aid. His girl was all of five foot nothing and weighed maybe ninety pounds most of which was to be found on her chest. Needless to say, that didn't work out very well either. The bike was still as dead as a squashed toad. His mood went from pissed to post apocalyptic when she not only suggested that the bouncer should come out and give it a try and then proceeded to bounce, in the most enjoyable manner, back into the club to retrieve said bouncer.
It was at this point that the evil bitch I thought was so awesome came out to let me know that she would be working late and would get a ride home from one of the girls we shared the apartment with.
Now, I need to interrupt the flow of this story for a minute.
I was a rather sheltered youth and this woman was the first "adult physical relationship" I had ever had. It was "that one thing" that had turned me into her little pet and at that age it was just about the only thing I thought about. Also being that age I thought about it a lot. I mean a lot...and if she was working late that night "that one thing" wouldn't be happening.
So, my own mood turned rather dark at that point as well. After, she walked away I thumbed my high-tech rocket to life and started to pull out of the parking lot...when out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of the bouncer working up a sweat trying to start biker dude's old Harley and having a similar level of success, or lack thereof.
In terms of big, the bouncer was a mountain. In fact, that was his nickname. He was at least six foot six or seven and he was three hundred and fifty pounds if he was an ounce. He could toss grown men, not skinny little guys (at that time) like me, around one handed. He was big. He was also mean as a rabid weasel and apparently friends with biker dude. Would anyone but a friend work up a sweat in the Houston heat and humidity trying to kickstart your bike for you?
Well, you can probably see where this is going...me in a foul mood and someone to take it out on, at least verbally.
Yep, I was an idiot and I idled over to where biker dude was getting ready for another turn at the kickstart relay. I watched long enough to catch their attention and then said, none too quietly, "should have bought Japanese," revved the motor and dropped the clutch...
My little burnout took me halfway across the parking lot before (yes, you did guess it) poor throttle and clutch coordination resulted in a bike that was as quiet as a mouse with a cat on his trail. In fact, everything on the planet seemed to go silent except the sound of Mountain's boots pounding across the parking lot with a small pair of stilettos behind him. To paraphrase Ron White, I didn't know how many of 'em it would take to kick my ass but I knew they had more than enough. Truth be told, the little stripper could probably have kicked my ass on her own.
At that point, my entire world narrowed down to the sound of those two pairs of footsteps and the sight of the starter button of that Ninja. Even though I flooded it on my first attempt to restart the bike it only took a few seconds to restart the bike but I swear I aged about fifteen years in those moments, proving Einstein's Theory of Terrified Relativity. (They didn't teach you that one in school either, huh?)
Once the bike was started knew I was I was free and clear. There was no way Mountain could never cover the last few yards in time to catch my scrawny little butt...which is when the other sound registered...a seventies era Harley-Davidson big twin roaring to life...
A single word escaped my lips as I popped the clutch. (It rhymes with Jack by the way...)
The back tire started to spin and the fron end began to climb for the sky and it was on a single wheel and a curse, leaving a screen of smoke and rubber behind, that I shot out of the parking lot and into traffic. Threading through cars like an Roman pizza delivery guy I headed for home ground. Not home. Home ground, the roads I normally raced, which were located just a few blocks away and I had no idea how fast that old Harley was but felt a lot more confident about outrunning him if turns were involved.
I don't know how long, or even if, biker dude chased me. I do know that I ran balls out and throttle wide open for a good twenty minutes before I took the time to even check my mirrors and when I did he was no where to be found.
The apartment we shared was only a few blocks from the club so I took a really, really long way home keeping my eyes peeled for white Harley's the whole way...
A few months after that incident I came home from work to find a white Harley parked out front. It seems one of the other roommates met a new guy and brought him home, yep you guessed it, it was biker dude. There was glaring and posturing but not so much that the females would notice. I guess neither want to risk cancellation of the "that one thing..."
Hang in there