Sunday, August 22, 2010

When A Motorcycle Breeds Raw Sex And New Attraction...

I had mixed emotions about selling the motorcycle, especially as it meant I’d be giving up the riding lifestyle indefinitely. But I’d had my fun... I was getting older... My interests were changing... And none of my friends were riding much any more. Plus the bloom was off the vine for the 1975 Kawasaki. Known as the “Widow Maker,” it had been the fastest street bike in its day, but that day barely lasted 24 hours. The two-stroke H2 had all the grace and finesse of an early 19th century steam engine. It belched smoke, it made a peculiar noise, and it was the final flare of a style that was being by-passed by motorcycle technology from the second it had been introduced to the showroom floor. Kawasaki already had the Z-900 in the wings and Honda was quickly rewriting motorcycle history with its CB750.

My machine had been kept outside 9 months of the year (for nearly 5 years) and it looked it. A poorly routed battery vent hose had flicked acid onto one of the chrome exhaust pipes, leaving a trail of brass dots for about six inches across the pressed can, which already looked odd owing to a flattened seam that ran top and bottom. Though there wasn’t a dent on it, the machine had been dropped three times (twice in some pretty good crashes). It was a pre-historic street-screamer that never developed a following and had zip for moto-mystique. I originally bought it as a key prop to getting laid. And now, it was actually working against me.

Women have an innate sense of cool, and can tell at a glance — even if they are unfamiliar with a thing — whether it is a cool thing or not. Jet black motorcycles that growled like distant thunder were cool. Motorcycles painted in colors that matched fruit-flavors, and which sounded like lawnmowers that had gotten kicked in the balls, did not. None of them gave a shit how fast it went either. New women I met would look at the bike, shrug, and keep walking. (I think I was riding around on the last H2 sold in North America. I never came across another one.) And the girl I had, a real Mediterranean beauty with skin the color of honey at dusk, was beginning to withhold the one thing I desired above all else as pressure to get ride of the bike.

I was walking around in a near comatose state one Friday night, suffering from DSB (Deadly Sperm Build-up), when I decided to throw in the towel as a prelude to getting my horn honked. I wondered what I could possibly say that would serve as a nipple-hardening accelerant. And then it came to me.

“I’ve decided to sell the Kawasaki,” I said, “while it is still worth a few bucks.”

She looked at me through pools of liquid sienna that were her eyes and asked, “Is this an incredibly cheap ploy to get a little, while building up my hopes?”

I feigned indignity, which was difficult for me to do even then, when my eyes were the natural color of sincerity. “How could you even think such a thing,” I stammered.

“Because you would tell the Pope that ‘shit was blue’ if you thought that would get an instant blow job from me,” she replied.

“Would it,” I asked. “Let’s get him on the phone. I think he’s listed in the book, under 'Pontoon,' or is it ‘Pontiff.’”

She began to slowly lift up her shirt, pausing so just a hint of dual nipple was evident, and said, “Will you let me sell the bike for you?”

Now I hate to admit this, but I do have a weak side, and she was using the cheapest of ploys to one-up my utterly cheap ploy. The truth is that if I had been one of the Indians running things on Manhattan Island when the Dutch showed up, they could have kept the $24 in cheap beads if one of their hotties had offered to model them for me.

“Sure,” I said. “Do I still have to talk to the Pope?” I didn't. And I was amazed at how well my little strategem seemed to worked.

Imagine my surprise when she rolled over at dawn the next day, kissed my neck, and said, “I have a buyer for the bike.”

“Who? How? Did you conduct an auction in here while I was sleeping?”

And then the light came on. I had been the victim of a first class hustle. Now that my wits had been cleared of passion’s haze, I could see how the trap door worked, and how I had been lured onto it.

The naked beauty next to me had a sister who was also a knockout, and this sister had a friend who was in the market for a used motorcycle. And the friend had been informed that there was no reason to look further for a quality bike, as one was coming available shortly.

“How shortly,” I asked.

“They’ll be here to look at the bike in 2 hours,” she smiled. “Wanna shower with me? I’m thinking of shaving my coochie. You could help.”

I was overcome by a feeling of lightheadedness, as the little pilot said, “Relax Jack. I’ve got the controls.”

The “friend” turned out to be a 20-year-old firecracker of a little red head that matched the definition of “tom boy.” Wearing coveralls and a Wallace Beery shirt, “Liz” was first class eye-candy; flat as a board, with the body of a swimmer. She was a hair stylist with two ambitions: to get a college degree and to get a motorcycle. In tow was her husband of two years, a likable sort who owned a lawn mower repair shop. Turns out she’d been riding a Japanese 250 for a year, and was ready to move up to a much bigger bike.

Likable sorts are often paired with firecrackers, but it is an odd combination. The husband didn’t plan on getting a bike but was going to be able to fix this one, whenever it needed it, as two-stroke engines were “his life.” I remember thinking, “When was the last time you fixed a lawn mower that hit 100 miles per hour, you likable asshole?” But I just smiled instead.

Liz straddled the bike, and despite her diminutive size, had no trouble flat-footing it. As I recall, the machine was pretty light. “Can I start it,” she asked.

“Can you,” I replied, warming up the battered baby seal look that I save for special occasions. This got raised eyebrows from my honey, and a passing look of askance from the “husband.” But what it got from her was a dazzling smile, a hint of a blush, and a flash of crystal fire from dazzling baby blues.

She glanced downward at the side of the engine, looking for something.

“The choke is on the handlebars,” I said, pointing to the little lever on the left.

Liz smiled again, unfolded the kick starter, and switched on the ignition. For some women, every movement is an expression of sensuality. She came down on the starter with determination to get in a good solid kick. I could almost see the muscles flex in her leg. It wasn’t necessary. The engine exploded into life on the first kick. (I had just replaced the plugs with the brand new spares.) She duck-walked the bike up and down the sidewalk, getting a feel for the clutch.

“This is so much different from my other bike,” she said. “I want it.”

The likable sort put his hand in his pocket with purpose, and said, “I understand you want $400 for it. I can give you $350.”

Shocked for the second time that day, “It comes with the crash frame, the sissy bar, and the windscreen,” I stuttered.

“Three seventy-five,” said my girlfriend.

He had exactly $375 to the cent, folded over in his pocket. He didn't even count it. The likable sort handed me the cash, while my hot squeeze magically produced the title, which she had fished out of my bedlam of papers sometime previous to this ambush. He disappeared around the corner and pulled up in a pickup, towing a lawnmower trailer. They loaded the bike and split.

“Come on,” said my girl. “We gotta hurry.”

She drove like a woman possessed, out to a furniture store that was holding a huge tent sale. Sofas, easy chairs, kitchen sets, and bedroom ensembles filled a parking lot the size of a football field. She dragged me by the hand through a maze of “red tagged” specials, stopping at a nicely upholstered “wing” sofa in a colonial style. It was marked $375.

“What the fuck...” I started to say.

“Exactly,” she replied, shoving me down into the comfy confines of the new sofa. She sat down next to me, cupped my face in her hands, and covered my lips with her mouth like she was trying to revive me from drowning. There must have been a thousand people milling around, and my girl was attractimg an audience.

“He’ll take it,” she said to the salesman. The audience started to clap. The year was 1979. Customer service was alive and well in America, and the sofa was delivered that afternoon. She tipped the delivery guys $20 and they took the old couch out with them.

“Well how do you like it,” she asked, sitting down next to me in the house that evening. “Are you pissed?”

“Not at all,” I shrugged. This sofa is a big improvement over the other one. And it’s just big enough for the three of us.”

“Three of us,” she asked quizzically?

“You... Me... And your shaved coochie.”

“It was worth it,” she said, kicking off her jeans. “I got rid of that rat bike and that ratty sofa all in one shot.”

Epilogue...

As the poster at the bottom of this blog reads, “Motorcycles make good girls do bad things!” They sure do. Liz became very proficient at riding my old Kawasaki. She rode it to college every day... Where she fell in love with her English professor, who also rode a bike. The two of them were last seen heading west. The likeable sort she'd married early in her life ended up by the side of the road with his pants around his ankles. He should have gotten a bike himself, and rode with her to school each day. Then again, things probably would have ended the same way. But with his own bike, he wouldn't have given a shit, and would have found another redhead.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2010
AKA The Lindberg Baby (Mac Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)

33 comments:

Rogers George said...

Ah, Jack, I wish I could tell where your bio leaves off and your novel begins. I'll mention you in my next post on Mushrooms to Motorcycles, and goats in the post after that.

Cantwell said...

Another beautiful story! I love the part where you describe how the battery acid made marks on the exhaust. Oh and the part about nipples too.

Thanks again for the images,
Michael

Steve Williams said...

Late at night under a full moon you can see Liz and that professor on lonely roads here heading west.

Another great story. And informative too. My working vocabulary has expanded again as I make a note about "the little pilot".

Steve Williams
Scooter in the Sticks

John said...

I have taken 8 ladies motorcycling virginity. It almost always goes somewhere. Women love bikes. Although I must say they seemed to love my "vibrator on wheels" Triumph Bonneville more than my R75/6 that replaced it.

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Rogers:

This little tale rings true from beginning to end. It was nice to know that the magic of the H2 wasn't lost... Just dormant. I can imagine what it must have been like for Liz... Getting to college... The first few "rides" with her English professor... And then riding into the horizon.

Cool, huh?

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Michael:

For me, the H2 passed from being a machine of wonder to the "blender" from hell. I never really developed a "love" for it. And I think that was because the machine bred contempt from other established riders. By the time the Honda 750 was all over the streets, no one took the brute power of the H2 seriously anymore.

I was distracted by other events, and never once thought of getting the Z-900. And while I have many fond memories of the H2, I have ridden my K75 much harder and faster. And the BMW takes it and delivers a lot less trauma.

I heard through the grapevine that the woman in this piece now lives only 40 miles from here. I haven't spoken to her in 27 years. What would I say? "Hey! That bike is going for $4 grand now. What do you think the sofa is worth?"

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad
Twisted Roads

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Steve:

Somewhere, Liz and her professor ran out of gas and probably ran out of love. Motorcycle reality is a lot like that. Too oftem, that which sizzles, fizzles.

The little pilot has been making big decisions for me most of my adult life. I've grown comfortable with his judgement.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear John Claus:

Not only have I never had a virgin, but I get most women three weeks after they have broken up with a guy whose dick is 18 inches long. My only satisfaction in this is that he is usually another BMW rider.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

BMW-Dick said...

Another piece of outstanding entertainment. I couldn't stop reading it even though I had to take a wicked piss; your writing sometimes has that effect. Good news: I made it thanks to years of practice and Pre-Obamacare superior surgical skills.

gainesville365 said...

Dear Jack,

I'm glad that le petit pilot has such a good navigational system.

Did you treat that couch with Scotchguard before breaking it in?

Conchscooter said...

I knew a man once who got laid thanks to a Kawasaki triple. The rubber frame failed to take the corner that he was unable to negotiate with his feeble riding skills and he got laid out on the tarmac while the bike pretzeled itself on a gravel bank. It died but he is still alive and a happy grand dad. still married to the same woman. I can't make up my mind if he got the better deal or you did.
I always was a nerd and was happy if my bikes could fit saddlebags and transport me to the neighboring country. What women or the neighbors thought of them never entered my mind.

bobskoot said...

Jack rIEPE:

I am looking for a BIG pilot, do you think that Kawasaki will be releasing the H3 anytime soon ?

also, will your Little pilot suffer any shrinkage as a result of your weight reduction programme ?

we have inquisitive minds

bob
Wet Coast Scootin

Nikos said...

Dear John Claus:

Judging by the diffident nature of the response to you I think Jack could be suffering from shaft drive envy or inferiority complex.

The newer BMWs have a support structure for their shafts that allows a degree of parallel working and stops excessive "standing up" on rapid acceleration (probably less of a problem for Jack these days).

Must go now - I need to lubricate my splines

Doctor Nikos

Charlie6 said...

Jack....another outstanding story....

Like Steve, I loved this phrase:

"I was overcome by a feeling of lightheadedness, as the little pilot said, “Relax Jack. I’ve got the controls.”" Pure gold, oh guru, pure gold.

It made me laugh out loud and the boys rushed over to see what was causing the old man to laugh like that, had to shoo them away as I didn't want to explain the shaving of coochies.....


dom

Redleg's Rides

BeemerGirl said...

Definitely goes both ways. I just wish I had taken up the fine art of motorcycle riding and alluring in high school when the first flutters appeared. Never was attracked to the guys on the sport bikes, too egotistical, but I sure did like the bikes!! Maybe if a more mature beemer rider had shown up it would have been a different story.

Thanks for sharing. Enjoyed the laugh!

-Lori

Jack Riepe said...

Dear "Leather" Dick (Bregstein):

I would have called you about the run to Cutter's today, bit I am getting a bit odd about attracting witnesses to riding events where I haven't mounted the bike in three weeks.

I think I'll be ready for a crab run this weekend.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Gainesville #365 (Cupcake):

I am always delighted to find a note from you among the snippets from my usual readers. My hot squeze once described "the little pilot" as a compass needle that was forever pointing to her ass.

She is right.

That sofa didn't need Scotchgard... It needed a tarp.

By the way, you are entered into the monthly EZ Tire Pressure Gauge Contest. It would be a gas if you won.

Fondest rgards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Conchskooter:

I am 56 years old and as fat as a fucking zeppelin hanger... And I have a wonderful girlfriend who is kind to me. But when I get on my K75, I am transported back to the year 1975, when I was 21, and I am riding to the chase of the ultimate good time once again.

When I was 21, there was nothing like a weekend of riding, drinking, and raising skirts. I find it still hard to improve on the formula now. If I had it to do all over again, I would have bought the Honda CB750, and then traded up to a black Kawasaki Z900.

But you own a true time machine, and I envy you a bit. (Don't let it go to either of your heads.) While my K75 represents the bikemaker's art in so many ways, it is the scientist's idea of what a mid-range motorcycle should be like — forever. Which is to say it will run the ass off everything in its class, given time.

Your bike is a true snatch-snatcher in every sense of the word. Modern in nearly all regards, but etenally hot-looking. Too bad it has no tach, marking you as something of a twit.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Bobskoot:

You wrote, "I am looking for a BIG pilot..." Your crocs confirmed this to us years ago.

One of the things I discovered through the H2 was that most women gauge "pilot" measurement through a rider's smile. I go through life leaing with my smile.

I will never regret owning an H2, but like I said, it can only be described as primative. Aside from the engine, I don't think the Z900 was much of an improvement in handling.

Thank you for reading my blog, and for writing in.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Nikos:

As I am an older model, I lack the planetary gear that keeps things horizontal. When it starts to point downward, I'll assume it means I'm ready for the grave.

So how is that RT holding up?

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Charlie6 (Dom):

I am delighted that I was able to repay you back in laughs what you so generously provide in awe-inspiring pictures.

"Coochie shaving" is usually a turning point in a young man's life. It's something tht should be taught in school at some point. Maybe it is...

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Beemer Girl:

My most recent piece is a classic example of who has been calling the shots in my life. And I can assure you, no one has ever coupled my name in a sentence with the word "mature."

I'm glad you enjoyed the laugh.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

cpa3485 said...

I was standing next to a client one day, both of us pissing into urinals, when he mentioned something about "having his brain in his hand". I was laughing so hard that I nearly pissed everything in the room.
Another great story, Jack. Dare I say, "Keep it up"?
Jimbo

Jack Riepe said...

Dear CPA3485 (Jimbo):

My life adds credibility to the statement, "It isn't the destination, but the ride." And I have had an interesting time. It sounds to me like you and your clients know a good get-together too. I used to have a couple of clients who were women, and I'd let them "steer."

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad
Twisted Roads

Shannon T Baker said...

My grandmother used guilt and fear to ensure my behavior was exactly what she wanted. My mother used guilt exclusively. That was nothing compared to what the women since then have used. I look back at all the times I was "guided" to the right decision...and realize it was (mostly) for the best.
Hang in there.
-Buddha

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Shannon T. Baker:

I was never guided, always lured. And was always surprized by the conclusion. Speaking of surprize, that is one hell of a hot Sportster you ride.

I added your blog to my destination's list tonight. I find it rather well written.

Thanks for reading and for writing in.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Bryce said...

To some sex is a four letter word,
but then so is BMW!

Sex is fun, and at 21 you obviously were quite sure of your capabilites, then.

These days your writings are far more enjoyable I suspect. Mind the age of the release valve on the blimp may well be
past its best before date.

Therefore my condoleneces to your K75.

kecia said...

great story jack!

Classic Velocity said...

Dear Jack,

You really are living up to your masthead here with another fine piece. I hope you rode that sofa as hard as you rode the bike that it replaced.....

classic velocity

Young Dai said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Young Dai said...

Jack

Although by your own admission you were royally screwed 3 times in less than a day, I get the impression you enjoyed each time :)

Allen Madding said...

reep
You aren't fooling anyone. It is quite apparent that you intentionally switched platforms to improve your fishing skills. The obvious conclusion was the H2 wasn't attracting women, a really nice sofa should work and did. And to add to your mastery, not only did you switch platforms, you got the girl to do all the dirty work while you laid back and enjoyed the right.


Pretty crafty I must say. Play on, player.

-Peace
Allen

bobskoot said...

Jack "r":

Intermittent problems really bug me. You just never know when it will fail again, if ever.

Our crabs are not blue, they are sort of red and much larger than the ones in your photo. The last time we purchased them at the dock we got 3 for just over C$50.+ Right now Salmon are cheap as they have just had the largest run in history.

lobsters prepared the asian way in white sauce is the best. I'm drooling for some right now. If you lived closer I would have you bring some over for a feast, either that you could send the air fare instead

bob
Wet Coast Scootin