Motorcycles in a Big Country . . .
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MAGGIE & JAKE, A SAGA, Episode 1.
About the men -and women- who ride them.
About the women with and behind the men.
Indians. Big Twins. Choppers.
Norton, Triumph, Moto Guzzi, Big Dogs, Victory,
others of ilk, [ your motorcycle name here ].
Motorcycles, scoots, putts, bikes, trikes, motorsickles.
is America. You can say whatever the hell you want.
You can read whatever you want. You can write any damn thing you want.
Use whatever words you want.
Ride anywhere you want any time you want with whoever you want on any motorcycle you want.
Read someone else's story. Live your own story. Write it. Fantasize it. Write any story.
Send your stories and lies and pictures here. (oh, the green "Here" button doesn't work)
Truth and fiction. Truth pretending to be fiction, and fiction pretending to be truth.
Truth so true that many may think it fiction. Straight-up accounts and outright lies.
When you mix it up, who knows which is real and which illusion?
Countless highways and miles - ridden, riding today and to ride ahead.
Highway rides, downtown cruisin', winding country roads.
Pavement that flies by inches below your boots a hundred feet every second.
Rides in the sun, rides in the rain and wind-chill cold. Rides alone and in twos and threes and in packs on roads to somewhere and anywhere.
Roads and towns and bars. Loud
parties, beer and babes, tequila and ta-ta's.
Ta-ta's in skimpy tops and titties flashed and bare and real women up close and personal.
Pure solitude on lone rides, the personal rush and reflection and freedom.
Quiet back yards and turnoffs into a track in a woods. Giving your mom a short ride and how she looked at you afterward with a new understanding of the man she had birthed and raised.
Picking up your son or daughter after school on your big rumbling machine -if they did their homework with true effort and achieved to their ability- and seeing their thrill in the ride and their pride in their father, and seeing the envy of their mates.
having a beer on a brother's porch, a good destination. Running into The
Loner in a roadhouse, having a beer and pool with him and losing and that was ok because the man's gotta make an honest living on the road. Offering a sofa for him and a garage for his bike.
Riding twenty miles past the Corporate Chain Restaurant to find breakfast at an independent diner. Meals out of a saddlebag. Living in by-the-month rentals and sleeping at girlfriends' digs and brothers' couches and park campgrounds and out-of-sight pastures. The job you love or endure for the bucks to support the ones you love and pay for the bike and gas.
that are, women that were. The first lady who lasted more than one summer, the first one you loved as much as your motorcycle, fluttering album pages of ephemeral loves, pages you entrusted for decades with a brother, safe from exes. The Perfect Woman who wasn't attached when you were and then was attached when you weren't and you still think of her wistfully now and again. The married firecracker who loved riding your bike and riding you, just lust she said no strings no risk. You lit her fires a thousand times then she begged you to believe the child she bore wasn't yours. Still you asked dozens of times and now even two decades later you wonder. . .
Women who twist their own throttle, women who ride with their man, ex's who hated what their men loved, women who found out too late you can take the man off the bike but you can't take the bike out of the man. Women who loved the ride or the life, women who didn't that you wished well and left behind. Brothers torn from the road by nagging bitches. Men whose women left for caged men.
Women loved, women known, women left, women lost, and one who stayed. A woman that you know damn well is out there and the only way to find her is to keep riding.
Scoots loved, vibrating scoots your ass was welded to but that was ok because it vibrated the nethers of the ladies. Scoots lost to time, lost to banks, lost to ex's, lost to . . . . a dozen reasons, mostly none good enough to end riding. The sheet-covered bike in the garage that you ride sometimes on Saturdays despite your wife's frowns, and you do truly praise the Lord but you skip church Sunday mornings for the communing you have with Him riding alone in His sixty mile-an-hour wind.
loved and lost, lost to time and geography and marriages and the grim
Late-night dreams, worlds and images and ghosts and waking-day wishes.
Live. Ride. Kiss. Read. Write. Kiss. Ride.
Fly low. Pay cash. Stay under the radar. Be prepared.
on the bike or mount up again.
Live. Ride. Read. Write. Ride. Live. Ride.
by Kahuna 2013, Feb 9, 2014
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The Biker Chronicles, July
2011 by Kahuna
Moe motored his stripped and striped Electra Glide up Larry & Nina’s driveway and parked next to Kicks' Purple Dragon. His Electra Glide was stripped in that he kept only the fairing and two bags and striped like a zebra, vivid black and fluorescent white stripes. Kicks' Super Glide breathed red and yellow fire from a dragon’s jaws on the left. A leash led from the dragon’s steel pointed collar to the right side of the tank, to the hands of a naked mermaid with major mammarage who held the dragon’s leash in one hand and beckoned you to her with her other hand. Dangerous chick.
Nina and Kicks came outside. Larry slapped Moe on the back and Kicks
bumped fists. “Hi, Moe” smiled Nina, and raised on tiptoe to
kiss his cheek as he gave her a friendly one-armed hug. “We were
burning the bacon waiting for you.”
“Damn glad of that. Burned crispy is the way for bacon.”
They had Larry's classic breakfast, three eggs over easy and lots of crisp bacon and well-browned home fries with onions, tall glasses of orange juice to rinse down the grease and coffee four ways. Finished, Moe started clearing the table and Kicks belched his compliments. Larry headed off to the bathroom. Nina drifted away, following Larry. She cornered him in the bathroom just as he was hauling it out at the porcelain throne.
“Let me, ohh, let me.” Nina took his limp tool and aimed it at the toilet. “Ok” she said, “start peeing”.
“Shh” whispered Larry.
“Pooh! Go ahead, I'm ready.” Indeed she was, loudly hitting the center of the bowl. “Watch. I can do a figure 8.”
She circled his stream in a wiggling 8. “No, wait, I can do better” she said quickly, and steered the stream smoothly in another 8. “Hey, I’m good” she squealed. “I got the whole thing in the water, none of it hit the sides of the bowl. Ha!” she laughed and looked up at him. Of course, as soon as she looked away from where her hand was aiming his still-streaming penis, her hand moved, too, pointing his hose off to one side. Larry stopped the stream immediately, but still, it takes a second, so the stream of urine splashed against the wall and floor.
squealed loudly and giggled, forgetting Larry’s admonition to keep
her voice down. “Oh, God, I aimed it away from the toilet! I peed
you on the wall! Here. Take your thing back. Damn, and I made such
a good figure 8,” she said proudly. She looked at it again. Larry
put his finger to his lips, which Nina didn’t notice. Nina was one of
those people whose voice projected, carried. Great on stage, but
‘keep your voice down’ was not a concept she grasped.
“They can hear…” but Nina was on her own roll and kept talking, oblivious to Larry’s attempts to quiet her.
“Good thing we’re done, though, ‘cause pretty soon I couldn’t have bent it down far enough. That's ok, I’ll clean up after you go. Come on, you’re keeping Moe and Kicks waiting.”
Larry was half laughing, half serious. "Jesus, Nina . . ."
But Nina talked over him. “When you get home tomorrow Ill give you lots of beers to drink and we’ll go outside and I get to aim Mr. Happy again. I want to practice hitting things.” Larry gently put his hand over Nina’s mouth. “Whisper, Honey. Moe and Kicks can hear you out in the kitchen.”
Nina put her knuckles to her mouth and her eyes opened wide. “Oh! Ohhhh, no.” Finally she dropped her voice to a whisper “Shit! Your friends are going to think I’m…” Larry grinned broadly and finished her sentence. “…the best wife around. They’ll envy me.” He finished pissing, shook it twice and stuffed it back into his pants.
“Envy you?” she whispered.
“Of course. They wish their wives were as fun and outrageous and spontaneous as you are. You don’t know how rare you are. God, I love you.”
“Sure. Well, I don’t want to go out there. I’m too embarrassed.”
He bent down and kissed her forehead. “I’ll call you tonight.”
Nina was never very far from a giggle, and she put her hand over her mouth to stop another one. “I think after you leave and I stop feeling embarrassed I’ll think it’s funny. Now go.” She pushed him out of the bathroom and closed the door, staying inside.
Sure enough, in the kitchen Moe and Kicks were silently laughing, their hands over their mouths to stifle the sound. Moe’s forearm was against his belly. Kicks’ free arm was stretched straight out, against Moe’s shoulder.
“C’mon, you audio voyeurs” Larry said in obviously false offense. “You think you can stop laughing enough to keep your bikes upright?” He grabbed a handful of their shirts at the shoulder, one in each hand, and pushed them out the door.
“You are a dog, man!” said Moe. He had meant to say it in a strong whisper but it came out loud enough that Nina heard, too. Kicks, too, thought he was speaking in a low voice, but Nina heard him laugh “Shit, Larry, can I bring Lola over here? Maybe she’ll learn to live life from Nina!”
Nina was relieved she hadn’t caused Larry any disrespect from his mates. To the contrary it seemed she had earned Larry some points. “Men” she thought. “No figuring them out.”
Outside, Larry unhurriedly put on his half-helmet, goggles and gloves, and mounted a couple seconds after Kicks and Moe fired up. Kicks and Moe waited, neither making a move to head out first. On any of their other many rides any random one of the three men might lead. But the lead today was obvious to Moe and Kicks. They waited as Larry lit the fires of his big twin and accelerated briskly onto the street. They followed, giving the lead to Larry today, all day. Today he was Top Dog.
"Far better is it to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure... than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much, because they live in a gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat."
Life is not a dress rehearsal. It’s live and it’s now. You don't get a second chance.
Like loosening the reins of a horse, “giving a horse his head”, my Road King finds its own way to lots of places I would never have gone to. I like going anywhere, or even to nowhere. Now I know where Nowhere is. It’s in Caddo County, Oklahoma. I know how to get there. Some people going nowhere don’t know where they’re going, so they never get to Nowhere. I know how far it is, how long it’ll take me to get there, and what it’ll cost for gas ($70 at $4 a gallon). You can get to Nowhere fast, or on the Scenic Route you’ll still get to Nowhere. If I went to Nowhere fast, its 18 hours riding at 65, 1,200 miles. But me, whether I go fast or slow, I still get to Nowhere, so I putt along the Scenic Route, stop at Scenic Views and Mom & Pop diners and Tastee Freeze soft ice cream and kids’ lemonade stands. One day a nosey told me if I keep on the way I’m going, one day I’ll realize I’ve gotten Nowhere. Yes. I’d rather get to Nowhere on my Harley than Somewhere in a Merdes. After seeing Nothing in Nowhere, Oklahoma, I just may check my paper map, see if I can find the town of Somewhere...