A Lost Holiday Weekend...

There are few things in life that create the aura of wild anticipation like a mild weather forecast for a long holiday weekend — especially when an individual (of such shallow emotions such as myself) is only required to put in a single day’s attendance during this period to satisfy family obligations. The evening before this past Thanksgiving found me sitting bolt upright in my comfy chair as the weather stooge on NBC began chanting a litany of near impossible temperatures for the 72 hours following the holiday. Except for Thanksgiving Day (which was rainy and murky here in southeastern Pennsylvania), we were looking at partly sunny, or absolutely sunny days with highs in the 60’s (f). Perfect riding weather! Granted the mornings would start off cool enough, like in the low 40’s (f), but a passing chill of this nature is nothing to a BMW rider.

Getting a string of pleasant riding days like this, so late in November, is rare in these parts and I began to make my plans accordingly. On Friday, I would straddle “Fireballs,” my 1995 K75 BMW, and head out through Amish country. This would be a solo run as my usual partner in crime, Dick Bregstein, had his kids in town for the holiday and he was busy pretending to have a good time without riding his motorcycle. On Saturday, I would join the elite company of family and friends over at Jim Ellenberg’s, where it was rumored that the world’s fastest man on two wheels -- again -- would be making a special presentation to me. It would be fun to ride “Fireballs” right up to the grill where the host would be baking homemade pizzas.

Sunday would be special too. It was the date of the world’s slowest motorcycle race, the Turkey Pro National, held at a semi–secret location up by Macungie, Pa. This event routinely attracts some of the finest classic and vintage motorcycles (many restored), and riders from all over, who compete for the slowest time on a hillside of wet grass, where instant disqualification occurs if a rider drops his feet. The event is highlighted by the aroma of burgers, dogs, hot chili and the engine oil of Beesas, Triumphs, and Nortons. The day’s festivities would begin with donuts and coffee at the lair of Chris Jaccarino, a close friend and a Mac Pac member.

So it was with a gleam in my eye and a song in my heart that I danced through the Thanksgiving festivities, knowing that I’d have three days of motorcycle enlightenment to burn off the feast. And what a feast it was! Stiffie (Leslie) roasted a “brine” turkey that was as moist as a mountain mist, yet which sent the heady aroma of exotic spices wafting through the house. The table was straight from the set of a Martha Stewart holiday special, and a tribute to Leslie’s artistic eye, and that of our close friend Monica McDowell, whose family joined us for the occasion.

Dawn knocked politely on the bedroom window, then again more insistently when I ignored it. The same fate that dealt me two former wives instead of winning lottery tickets had struck again. In the brief span of a few nocturnal hours, I had acquired the symptoms of bubonic plague. These included a headache, a grayish cast to my flesh, and a tendency to break out in pustules while rotting on the street. There would be no taunting the Amish for me on Black Friday. My bike sat patiently feeding on the battery charger in the garage.

Leslie (Stiffie) is a practitioner of ancient healing methods advocated by the Navajo Indians of the deep west. She dragged me out to the yard, where a weak fire smoldered sadly on two or three sticks of damp wood. The idea is that the night spirit of the wolf would either take me in the dark, or that I’d recover. I’d been out there about ten hours when I poked my head in through the doggie door to sip some beef broth from the German Shepherd’s saucer. The love of my life determined I was recovered enough to return to the house.

(Above) A picture taken of Robert McGee in 1890. He had been scalped by Indians as a child. Similar holistic "healing" approaches are often suggested to me. Photo from internet archives.

All that remained of my illness on Saturday was a headache of epic proportions. Had my head been x-rayed that day, the films would have revealed two massive fronts—like the most perfect storm— coming together in my cranium. Imagine thoughts and intentions, clinging to a small raft in my head, waiting to be saved. I tried hot compresses, powerful pain-relieving medicine, and coffee strong enough to get tattooed. The pain subsided to the kind of dull throbbing associated with a kick in the balls, and I felt well enough to attend Jim Ellenberg’s event, but in the truck not on the bike.

Ellenberg holds these little gatherings two or three times a year, and I am very lucky to get invited to them, as they have a reputation for attracting the who’s who of motorcycling. The first person I ran into was Chris Carr, who once again raised the bar for being the world’s fastest man on two wheels (367.382 miles per hour on the Bonneville Salt Flats) this past September. The last time Chris and I crossed paths it was in the pits at Hagerstown, where I tried to pawn myself off as a moto-journalist. It was on this last occasion that I left a folding chair next to Carr’s motorhome, telling him I’d get it some other time.

The author, Jack Riepe (Left), receives a highly modified and decorated folding chair from Chris Carr, celebrated seven-time AMA Grand National Champion and the currently the world's fastest man on two wheels -- again -- following a record-breaking run on the Salt Flats at Bonneville this year (367.382 miles per hour). Carr decorated Riepe's chair with track and sponsor stickers from throughout the 2009 racing season. Riepe presented Carr with his Cigar Book... Which he intends to read aloud on Christmas Eve. The attractive woman in the background is Mac Pac rider Kimi Bush, who cannot take her eyes off Riepe. Photo by Jim Ellenberg.

Well that time was the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Chris Carr carried that chair to every racing event in which he’d competed, covering it with stickers relating to tracks, sponsors, and racing products. His final contribution was the installation of two plastic bags complete with shipping material. “These are the equivalent of air bags, in the event your ass collapses the chair, they will save you from hitting the pavement,” said Carr.

I had intended to stay until Ellenberg’s rum puddled in the bottom of the bottle, yet my gutter instincts were beginning to kick in and I bid adieu suspecting the advent of diarrhea. This was my incentive for piloting the Suburban like it was in a James Bond chase scene. I barely got the garage door up before I ran through the house screaming for the right of way.

Stiffie (Leslie) was working in her studio, when I passed like a locomotive named The Spirit of Kaopectate. “You could have taken a dump in your truck,” she said. “No one would be able to tell the new shit from the tons of other shit in there.” (This remark would come under the heading of accurate analysis intended to call one's attention to a certain situation. I would thank her later.)

Chris Jaccarino (left) and Doug Raymond unloading 750 donuts off the back of Doug's BMW RT prior to departing to the Turkey Pro National. Photo by Gary Christman.

And so it came to be that on the last day of the best weekend of Fall 2009, I was once again laying out in the yard by a sputtering fire — and a spackle bucket — with cramps at one end and a block-buster headache at the other. My friends were all up at the Turkey Pro National, either riding or jeering the others on.

Doug Raymond pits his mighty BMW RT against the 125cc street bikes in the Turkey Pro National, the world's slowest motorcycle race. Photo by Gary Christman.

According to a published report from Doug Raymond, who both competed and took notes on the Turkey Pro event, there were approximately 150 bikes on the property, including one Vincent Black Shadow. Twenty-one riders competed on the 150-yard, sloping course. The best time (the slowest) was 2:41 seconds. It should be noted that Doug Raymond attempted this course on a mighty BMW RT, but put his feet down after 20 seconds. (Doug Raymond is the rider who guided this same bike from south eastern Pennsylvania to Prudhoe Bay on the Arctic Circle in Alaska, and back in 14 days. He also rode throughout Argentina, while taking Tango lessons, and swims regularly in a quarry on New Years Day.)

This is only known photo of the great moment titled, "Jaccarino Craps Out." The photo was taken by David Hardgrove, who then entered the Witness Protection Program.

According to Raymond, Chris Jaccarino made a valiant effort at winning, first on a 125cc bike that got him one third of the way around the course, before the chain broke. They gave him a second try on a KTM and he made it three-quarters of the way around before he was forced to put his foot down again.

(Above) The Turkey Pro National always draws an eclectic collection of bikes. Photo by Gary Christman

(Above) Many of the bikes are as flawless as they are rare. Photo by Gary Christman.

(Above) This tiny, folding scooter jumped in combat with members of the British Airborne, who used it as club after many broke their legs trying to kick start it. Photo by Gary Christman.

It should be noted that my friends held a "finger of silence" vigil for me, each one taking a moment out of their fun, to pose for a picture taken by Mac Pac rider David Hardgrove, and to send these to me so I would know exactly what I meant to them. You’d have to look far and wide to find folks like these... And when you do find them, don't ever turn your back on them...

(Above) Matt Piechota (left) and Dick Bregstein usher in the "finger of silence" vigil in my honor. Behind Dick is his new summer cottage. Photo by David Hardgrove.

(Above) DucDude (bald and humorless) and Dick Bregstein flip the "Finger Heard Round The World" to commemorate my absence. Photo by Dutch Hardgrove.

(Above) Chris Jaccarino gives way to a rare expression of emotion, triggered by my absence, which he cited as the main reason why he blew a 120 yard race — one of the most important in his career. Jaccarino is a humble man and a conservative one. He would later eat dinner on the #17 plate. Photo by Dutch Hardgrove.

(Above) Jessie (left) and Melinda can't stop thinking about me and resort to a kind of primative subliminal sign language that is still used to score votes in Congress today. Photo by Dutch Hardgrove.

Epilogue --

I would like to thank Linda Sorensen and her husband Rick who also sent a "feel better picture," but who had the good sense to tell Dutch Hardgrove that they'd kill him and me if it made it into print.

All that was last week. We got the first snow of the season over this past weekend. Thankfully, the municipalities only spread salt, and not sand. Strong rains and temperatures for 38º (f) are predicted for Wednesday. Hopefully, the salt will wash away, and we may still get a few nice days in December. I have been feeling sick for the past two weeks, plus I have been working a major career change with mixed success. As a result, I have been somewhat peculiar — even more so than usual.

The Highlight Of The Week...

The highlight of the week was a communication I received from my Pal Electra Glide in Blue, who is seen posing, in the "Best Get Laid Shirt" ever made available. His testimony to the legendary Twisted Roads shirt can be read here... The comments to his blog, many of which seem to doubt the autenticity of his claims, make good reading too.

(Above) Electra Glide In Blue... A Classic Bike... A Classic rider... A Classic Shirt... A Classic Look... Plus I understand he got laid wearing this shirt home from the post office. I had a similar experience yesterday, but the post office is surrounded by senior citizen housing and I was terrified of all that support hose and those walkers.

I am thrilled to report that many of my readers are Harley riders, and I expect to spend a whole weekend riding with a Harley group early next year. I may bring my violin to play for them. The headline might read, "Piece Of Violin Removed From BMW Rider's Ass At Local Hospital."

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2009
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac Pac)
AKA The Mighty Vindak8R (Motorcycle Views)
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With A Shrug)