Not every detail makes it into print, particularly in my stories. There are a number of good reasons for this. Some explanations are too complicated for the purpose of the piece. Others lead to tangents which can breed distracting opinions on the part of the reader. And finally, a certain percentage are either too boring or too unbelievable to be incorporated into the text.
The previous posting dealt with an unusual situation in which my girlfriend of the day, and pillion rider at that moment, helped me resolve a mechanical problem in the dark, by using an illuminated adult lovemaking toy, as I had no reliable flashlight. That was absolutely true... But not quite accurate. There was one detail that I left out of the story because it fit each of the reasons I have just outlined. As such,this fact normally would have been lost to posterity as it is unlikely either the lady, myself, nor the police would have cause to revisit the tale on national television.
But I had lunch last Friday with the self-appointed Mac-Pac* Editorial Review Board, and one subject under discussion was the credibility of motorcycle blogs. As far as the truth goes, several of my stories were thrown under the bus of suspicion. The chief prosecutor was “Big Jim” Ellenberg, who is on crutches after falling off his motorcycle (which was traveling at a low rate of speed, in a straight line, on a clear day, with no perceived obstacles in sight).
Not only did I insist that I wrote the truth, but I decided to reveal the missing detail of the last story. “Big Jim” thought it should have been included, so I have decided to present it here, as a kind of addendum.
Presuming you have read the previous post...
Thirty seconds before the engine quit on my 1975 Kawasaki 750 triple, my thoughts were of arriving at my destination, having a couple of drinks, and getting laid. Quite frankly, this was my weekend agenda for 6 or 7 years; and looking back, it would be hard to improve upon it, even today.
The night in question was warm and sticky. Most folks don’t realize how humid it can get in New York’s Catskills and Adirondacks in the summer. But this was of no concern to me as the breeze was cool enough at 50 mph on a naked bike. In a split second, the lights went out and the engine died on the only straight stretch of road I’d been on in an hour. This was so unexpected that I had no idea what to think. While the power was off, the engine continued to rumble but started slowing the bike down dramatically. It got quiet fast when I pulled in the clutch. Dismounted and considering the situation, I started to sweat. I popped up the seat and poured droplets of perspiration on the electrical component of the bike. And then the mosquitoes and the “No-See-Ums” got the range.
I had a temper like a rattle snake caught in car door in those days. My first reaction was to say “Fuck,” at least 240 times. Those of you familiar with my writing will understand that my mechanical abilities are a standing joke among three motorcycle clubs. A screwdriver in my hands becomes a deadly weapon.
The cheap flashlight failed (as described previously) early in the game. My girlfriend was a smoker (and a saint), who offered to light matches. As I recall, I responded to this offer in a rather unkindly way, probably with my “fuck” mantra. This was long before the cell phone was invented and we were way out in the boonies. I don’t think I had seen a light or another vehicle in almost an hour.
The fact that the bike’s lights had failed at the same time the engine quit was a dead giveaway the problem was electrical. That much I could figure out. I didn’t think it was a battery nor alternator failure as the lights went from brilliant to off. I had no idea if the machine had fuses, where they were, or if there was a spare. My first thought was that a cable had come off the battery.
It was at this point that this beautiful and patient girl unveiled the lovemaking toy with the light in it. Now some men would be a bit concerned that their partner had brought along a huge rubber, pulsating, self-illuminated dick on a weekend date. Not me. I was intrigued. In fact, I was trying to imagine how she looked buying it. I found the whole proposition rather stimulating.
I remember saying, “Aside from the fact it lights up, it’s just like mine.”
This device was a forerunner of the now famous vibrator known as “The Rabbit,” of Sex in the City fame. Not nearly as sophisticated as they are today, this unit had one function and it was necessary to switch it on to get the light to work. So there I was, bent over the bike, sweating like hell, trying to read a manual, by the faint light of a penis that made a noise like a coffee grinder, while describing slow circles above my head.
And that is how the police found me when they pulled up.
This was the missing detail. Please let me know if it was worth telling.
* The Mac-Pac Eating and Wrenching Society is the Euro-Tech motorcycle club based in south east Pennsylvania that I ride with. Members ride many different and exotic marques but the predominant badge is BMW.
©Copyright Jack Riepe2008
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac-Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With A Shrug)