Flying Along An Amish Road... As Viewed From Two Wheels

The first warm days of spring touched everything in the field with a bit of magic. The brown grass slowly yielded to a bright green and dandelions sprouted up with random abandon. Song birds returned to the few trees and a fox or two could be seen patrolling the fence lines. Even the cows, normally indifferent to things like the the change of seasons, executive decrees, and sophisticated humor, seemed more attentive to their surroundings. Yet nowhere in God’s great earth was the sun’s warmth felt with greater effect than the pile of manure 5 feet from the road.

Uncollected like thousands of other meadow muffins that were moistened and lovingly spread around the corn field by Amos Zook and his three Amish sons, this pile sat all by itself, unnoticed in the gray shadows of winter: a solitary monument in mute testimony to the quality of silage liberally bestowed upon the milk cows, who were the principal residents of “Hard Penance Farm,” one of the pristine and picturesque agricultural concerns that constitute the core of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.

To the untrained eye, this solitary manure mound might not rank prominently among the miracles of nature. It was barely eight inches high, though it had towered among its peers when freshly dropped by “Flossy,” a good-natured Jersey cow that had once had aspirations of stardom at the county fair... Aspirations that came to naught with a sale to the Amish dairy farmer, who had taught her humility with each tug on the bovine's multiple flabbrous teats. Yet Flossy never quite adopted a life of total servitude and quiet contemplation. In the sort of gesture that could only be appreciated by other cows, she contented herself with dropping the largest loads in the field.

Non-typical Amish Pole Dancer

(Photo courtesy of the Internet -- Click to enlarge)

The average person goes through life never realizing that the corn stalks left standing in fields are gathered and stored as feed for cows. They are cut and piled in silos, hence the name silage. One of the active ingredients of silage is methane gas, which is released in pulses through the churning action of a cow’s seven stomachs, and which partially serves as a propellant for firing the meadow muffin several yards at the point of it’s inception.

And so it came to be, that in the middle of the short season known as “Indian Summer,” Flossy launched a “steamer” of exceptional size, in the far corner of the south field of “Hard Penance Farm.” And launched was the word. It sailed straight through the split rail fence, never losing its characteristic shape during the course of flight.

Freshly baked meadow muffins continue to generate methane in varying degrees as they are gradually dissolved by the elements, primarily rain and wind. With methane comes heat. Enough heat to keep the core of the manure pile at 50 to 120 degrees, despite a coating of ice, snow, or months of freezing temperatures. (There had once been some discussion as to which kind of manure was the most potent with regard to methane content. Some thought cow manure was all pretty standard, though others felt bullshit was superior for methane generation. Had this been the case, the Capitol Building in Washington, D.C. would have been renamed as the “National Gas Factory.”)

Vulcan Al -- Tony Luna -- sampling "Road Apples" on a recent ride to Lancaster, County, Pa.

They are ripe if firm to the touch, but not as cool as the ambient air, according to Tony.

(Photo courtesy of the author -- Click to enlarge)

Because of this heat factor, manure piles are sought after as more desirable residences by a variety of discerning flies. Now the average housefly, bott fly, or horse-fly might not be regarded as a suitable subject for a Disney movie, considering they have few good qualities and a propensity for squirming in cow shit has limited visual appeal. But a comprehensive study of fly lifestyles will reveal many hold jobs, look forward to jury duty, and attend monthly dances. Such was the life of one such specimen, who found herself in a family way and quietly fulfilled her maternal duties by squirting her preformed children into the recesses of the steamer, launched by Flossy, during an Indian Summer day, in the south field of “Hard Penance” farm, in the heart of Lancaster County, Pa. Police reports indicate she then came to a bad end on a sticky strip, overhanging a chow mein pot in a strip-mall Chinese restaurant.

Typical manure pile resident

(Illustration courtesy of Wikipedia -- Click to enlarge)

Our concern is with her children, particularly one named “Skip.” He was a titan among larvae, though good-natured and unaware of his size. While the other adolescent larvae would be content to get into shit all day, Skip wondered about things. He had questions about his mother, the place where he lived, the options that were open to him, and how the hell General Motors, the largest automobile manufacturing company in the world, has worse prospects than a Third World lemonade stand. But above all, he had questions about the world. He would tunnel to the edge of the manure pile and carve himself a window, to watch the things that happened outside the shit pile he called home.

Like a miniature atomic pile, the manure heap grew warmer and warmer. It began to percolate when the sun hit it, and “Skip” felt himself consumed by hormonal changes and strange feelings. The sausage-like maggot casing that had been his physique dropped off and yielded soft wet wings. At one point, he felt like he should become a used car dealer or a lawyer, as he had an overpowering urge to fuck somebody.

In that instant, the manure pile that had been his home, his birthplace, and his birthright, became a noose around his thorax. He struggled to the top of the pile and felt his wings stiffen in the clear spring air. Flight came naturally and Skip found himself lost in bursts of speed, banked curves, and maneuvering at a slow drone. But he was driven by an instinct that overpowered everything else. The buzzing of his wings, the wind in has face, and the power of defying gravity and centrifugal force intensified his desire to find a piece of over-ripened fruit (well into fermentation) and to get laid.

It was then his forty-six eyes caught a glimpse of the sun glinting off a fast moving object -- just like it was glinting off his wings. It occurred again and again. Overcome with lust and desire, Skip aimed for the glint and vibrated his wings like they had never been vibrated before. Unmuffled by anything, their buzzing thundered through the air as the huge horse-fly reached the incredible speed of 18 feet per second. His sperm tube extended like arresting gear as he focused on the glint.

The last thing to go through Skip’s mind as he slammed into the face shield of the Nolan helmet was his asshole.

“Dammit,” said the rider of the gorgeous red 1995 BMW K75. “That friggin’ bug hit me like a shot from a .38. I just cleaned that damn face shield too.”

The rider brought the bike to a halt near the corner of the south field of “Hard Penance” farm, in the heart of Lancaster, Pa. Drawing to a stop, he put his foot down in the largest pile of cow manure he had ever seen.

“Shit,” said the rider.

“Yah... Dat’s vot it izz,” said the Amish farmer, Amos Zook, leaning on the fence. “You English ist nein scheist-kopf.”

Author's note: 

"Flabbrous" is a word I coined to describe the teats on a cow, when they are both flabby and floppy. There are times when only a made-up word will do. And sometimes, you need to bend a definition like it is a coat hanger. Once, while under the influence of  week's worth of rum and Cokes in a bar that was famous for attracting a biker crowd, I found myself in the company of a hulking bar floozey who wouldn't let go.

"Tell me I'm beautiful and I'll blow you," she said.

I remember thinking that being on the receiving end of that attention and walking across Niagara Falls on a tight rope would have one thing in common: that it would be fatal to look down. 

I felt the color draining out of me as the tide of alcohol receded faster than it could ever be replaced. "You transcend beautiful," I said. "You are a combination of beautiful and divine. Bovine is the word that comes to mind."

She looked at me like I was Aristotle reborn. And then I yielded to inspiration: "But I wasn't the first to to see you and think that. I stole that sentiment from my friend Bob (Pearson). He can't take his eyes from you."  In truth, Bob's eyes were focused straight ahead, but not seeing anything as he was in a Jameson's Irish Whisky trance. She waddled over to Bob, grabbed him by the jacket collar, and dragged him into a back room. Three minutes later, his screams shocked the bar into two seconds of silence, then a score of hardened bikers started laughing hysterically. Bob had apparently regained consciousness and looked down.  He would never again regard the view of Niagara Falls the same way again. 

It sad what people go through for a few minutes of romance... Sometimes we are no better than flies. I am going to burn in hell for whole chapters of my life, most of which were written before I was 20 years old. I was a real prick then. 

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2009
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With A Shrug)