Thursday, December 23, 2010

I Accept The Harley Challenge...

The email was utterly suspicious.

It read, “If you don’t want your balls cut off, meet us at Ryan’s Pub in West Chester, on December 22, 2010, at 1pm... Come alone, and bring two copies of the cigar book.” The note was signed “The Harley Guys.” The cigar book in question — Politically Correct Cigar Smoking For Social Terrorists — was written by me in 1998.

I get lots of fan mail, most of which starts off with cheery greetings like, “You son of a bitch. This kid looks exactly like you and I want money...” Though the “Harley Guy” email appeared to constitute a threat, it seemed devoid of actual malice and I decided to show up at the appointed time. Still, I pressed for some additional details and authenticity. For all I knew, this could have been an ambush set for me by sex-crazed Victoria Secret models. (They have been sending me photos of themselves — in their underwear — for some months now. Apparently, their underwear is for sale. And I would gladly buy some if I could pick it myself, like strawberries off the vine.)

“Dear Harley Guys,” I responded. “Do you spend more money each month on chrome polish or on KY jelly for taking it up the ass when you are guests of the Turkish penal system?” This was a trick question rather like “Who won the 1939 World Series,” which was bandied about by G.I.s in WWII, when climbing into strange trenches without the appropriate password. To me it was a “no brainer,” but since the response was hours later in coming, I didn’t realize the answer could possibly result in a tie.

“Chrome polish, Lardass,” read the reply. “Why don’t you ride up on that K75 so we have something to take a piss on, Sincerely, the Harley Guys.” Why not, indeed. “Dear Harley Guys,” I typed. “With a 30-inch seat height, the K75 towers over what you’re used to and you would have to take turns standing on each other’s shoulders so the guy on top could hit the pegs.”

“We’ve done that lots of times,” was the response. “The guy on the bottom just can’t look up and must keep his eyes closed. Be there with the books.”

This was promising to be an intriguing meeting.

West Chester, Pennsylvania is a visually pleasing urban center. It has the charm of a college town where someone in authority saved most of the 1890's architecture. The place is loaded with specialty shops and has an abundance of good restaurants, bars, and places to hang out. It is the home of West Chester University, which is one of the 14 educational institutions comprising the Pennsylvania State System. And while I can’t make this statement with certainty, the school seems to have a rule requiring all female students to be absolute beauties. Those are the pluses. On the negative side, traffic in West Chester is on a par with rush hour in Mumbai and parking is doled out by secret lottery.

I don’t go anyplace where I have to park more than 15 feet from my ultimate destination. For this reason, I have had dinner in West Chester (about 10 minutes from the house) three times in 10 years. “You’ll be a screaming madman if you have to park in West Chester,” said Leslie (Stiffie), my significant other. She is compelled to remind me of my shortcomings. “That would make some impression on your new Harley friends, who are probably just waiting to beat the shit out of you anyway.”

“I’ll take the bike and park between cars or on the sidewalk,” I quipped.

“Then you’ll have to leave now,” she said. (It was the day before.) “It has been three weeks since you last rode and you’ll be as stiff as a jack handle.”

“Always,” I whispered to myself. (Jack Handle was my porn star name.)

“I’ll take you in, drop you off, and pick you up,” she said with a sigh. This sounds like the height of romance but in fact Stiffie never stopped the car, shoving me out while maintaining a slow roll.

“My cane,” I yelled. It came flying from the SUV’s open window like a javelin. It would have bounced into traffic had the back of my head not arrested its flight.

Above: From left, the author, George Byerly III, and Adam Hummel — The "Harley Guys," who flattered me with a private book signing at Ryans Pub in West Chester. Pa. Photo by "Morgan," a real cute waitress who used Byerly's cell phone.

Ryan’s Pub is the epitome of a decent neighborhood saloon, with its ancient storefront appearance, the long hospitable bar inside, and the battered booths along the wall. It is suitably dark and the bartender pours with a generous hand and an open heart. I paused at the first booth, which was occupied by two of the cleanest cut, middle-aged guys I have ever met. The guy on the left was the scruffier of the two in that he had a slight beard and mustache. He could easily be mistaken for a college professor focusing on woman’s studies. The guy on the right looked like an ad for the seven virtues. Neither one gave the impression they would ever say “fuck,” even as a plaintive verb in conversation with a hooker.

These were the “Harley Guys.”

George Byerly III and Adam Hummel are two bikers from Morgantown, Pa. who showed me one hell of a good time. These guys had made a 45-mile trek into West Chester to host a private cigar book signing (in essence) and seldom have I been so honored. For 90 thrilling minutes, we discussed our favorite rides in the area, traded different riding techniques, and amazed each other with tales of near-death escapes on two wheels. I told Byerly of how I was hurled to the pavement by a left-turning assassin (in the pay of a former wife); and he shared with me how a car-load of Benedictine nuns beat him through a railroad crossing, leaving his feeble ass in a ditch (and his neck broken in two places).

Above: Adam Hummel's Harley Davidson Low Rider, a dazzling machine of sinister dimensions. The seat is 11 inches off the ground. Photo by Adam Hummel.

Hummel (who looks a lot like one of those German figurines) confessed he has never gotten a speeding ticket, has never passed anyone on a double yellow straightaway, and has never dropped his motorcycle under any circumstances. The words were barely out of Hummel’s mouth when Byerly and I began to distance ourselves from the speaker, so that neither of us would be struck by the lightning bolt hurled down from the motorcycle gods to avenge this statement of hubris. Byerly is an integral part of human reconstruction at a local emergency room and Hummel has built his reputation on running a power washing company for the past quarter century.

Above: George Byerly's "blackened" Harley Davidson Road King, the perfect image of an iconic bike with timeless styling. It is the preferred motorcycle of "The Children Of The Corn." Photo by George Byerly.

The “Harley Guys” treated me to lunch, and unlike Jim Ellenberg and Dick Bregstein (my usual two wheeled partners in luncheon crime), they encouraged me to order from the adult menu, so I didn’t have to have “The Zebra” (chicken nuggets, chocolate milk, and the piss yellow Jello). As it turns out, these guys and I share a passion for many of the great roads in this area. These include that gorgeous stretch of Route 9 in Delaware (along the salt marshes), the eastern shore of Maryland, Chincoteague Island, the Roads west of Gettysburg, and several of the winding Amish loops around Strasburg. I was surprised to discover that their riding styles also paralleled mine. I ride for an hour or so, and must then painfully unfold my legs from the pegs. The “Harley Guys” ride for an hour or so, then stop for coffee, a smoke, or to wipe a smudge (real or imaginary) from the chrome. They even do crab runs, favoring a place called “Crabby Dick’s,” which I think explains a lot.

Our waitress was a cute as a button (and probably registered at West Chester University). The “Hardy Boys” dropped their conversation and got lost in the depths of her eyes each time she brought another round to the table. Then they’d argue over who she was actually sizing up from the corner of her eye.

“That’s easy,” I said. “She’s fascinated by the BMW rider.” I proved my point when she arrived with lunch. Introducing myself with the famous “Battered Baby Harp Seal Look,” I explained I was the publisher of Twisted Roads and asked if she’d mind sharing those eyes with thousands of readers, by posing for a photograph on my K75 — the legendary “Fireballs.” She blushed a little, bit her lower lip, and said, “Sure... If I’m here.” She turned and left, with an extra flourish in her step. The Harley Guys were speechless for a second, then begged me to show them the battered baby harp seal look. I politely declined, explaining the hidden dangers of this unbelievable power.

George and Adam then honored me with the rare “Harley Challenge.”

They offered to let me lead them on a ride at any speed (up to 65mph), on the route of my choice, daring to stop at as many topless joints, go-go bars, and other scenic vistas as often as I liked (up to three or four per hour in the saddle). I felt like I was among true two-wheeled brothers. They had just one demand of me: that we would wear matching Twisted Roads Tee Shirts on that day. I was deeply touched. George Byerly had one day off this week, and he decided to share it with me. I had another appointment at 3pm with a publisher, which I would have gladly cancelled had I realized the circumstances. (Meeting with a publisher is a like meeting with a cobra suffering from hemorroids—there’s a lot of hissing and kissing their ass becomes a dance of death.) Lunch with the Harley Guys was one of the most gratifying afternoons I have spent with fellow riders in a long time. These guys not only get the joke, but they are fully capable of perpetrating a few of their own.

Thanks a lot guys... Lunch is on me the next time. (I recommend the “Zebra.”) Actually, I was thinking of The Whip Tavern. You might be into that.

©copyright Jack Riepe 2010
AKA “The Lindbergh Baby” — Mac-Pac
AKA “Vindak8r” — Motorcycle Views
AKA “The Chamberlain” — PS-With A Shrug


It was the coldest night of the year, and the children in the orphanage were huddled together for warmth, having eaten the stale crusts of bread and having consumed what moisture they could lick off the freezing radiator pipes. It seemed like just another desperate winter’s eve, when the stillness was shattered by the distinctive sound of a three cylinder engine (running with more of a whine than a roar). One of the stars on the horizon seemed to glow a bit brighter, and in a minute or two it split into a headlight, a pair of MotoLights, and two PIAA HID lights.

The children watched in amazement... Their eyes growing round with wonder as Santa Lucia pulled up on her red 1995 K75. She was stunning with her flowing white hair and golden crown lit by candles.

Above: Santa Lucia, the spirit of Christmas for many in the Nordic Countries.

Reaching into her sidebags, Santa Lucia handed out thick slices of steaming prime rib, accompanied by little bottles of American Rye whiskey, and containers of hot custard. Then each child was given a nice maduro cigar to round off their new inner warmth, along with instructions for seizing the orphanage from the bastards who ran the place.

With the kind of smile that only children can appreciate, Santa Lucia climbed back on her bike and roared off toward a Turkish prison, where two Harley Guys had been especially good.

Merry Christmas to all of you; and to your families and those you hold dear... And to those of other faiths, I wish you the warmest and best for the new year, with my hopes that each of us will find our own personal star to follow.

Fondest regards,
The Lindbergh Baby • reep • Toad

Monday, December 6, 2010

Humor With Balls —

Humor With Balls —

The Best Christmas Gift Anyone Could Ask For

Outside of a motorcycle, nothing defines character, rugged individualism, and contempt for the conventions of society like smoking a great cigar. Yet the cigar-smoking elite mask their behavior with ostentatious ritual, unwieldy traditions, and bizarre paraphernalia designed to confound lesser Alpha dogs.This outraged author Jack Riepe, who lit his first cigar in the third grade, after first asking Sister Helen Brimstone for a light from hers.

Above: The funniest book on specialized human behavior, 30 chapters, 178 pages

In Politically Correct Cigar Smoking For Social Terrorists, Riepe puts cigar-smoking in perspective, and relates it to love (getting laid), making romance last (how to pretend to listen), and the manly arts (hunting, fishing, spitting, and public speaking). Critically acclaimed, this book improves the quality of at least one life with every sale.*

Politically Correct Cigar Smoking For Social Terrorists is more than just the funniest damn book ever written about cigars. It's a unique perspective on romance, politics, economics, science and America's hottest new trend -- cigar smoking. Winner of the Wilmington Institute of Holistic Dry Cleaning's prestigious “Golden Hand Grenade Award” (for advice on relationship building in third and fourth marriages), this book offers a rare insight into subhuman nature. Author and humorist Jack Riepe spared neither himself, nor anyone else, in a desperate bid to tell his side of 30 outrageous stories.

Plus this book answers the lingering questions that plague day-to-day living...

Chapters 1 & 5: The Link Between Motorcycles, Cigars, and Romantic Encounters

Chapter 12: Making an Exit When The Babe Dumps You For Some Other Loser

Chapter 14: Guaranteed Strategies For Getting That “Special” Father’s Day Gift

Chapter 15: Guaranteed Household Chore Escape Techniques

Chapter 22: Taking The Human Sacrifice Out Of The Cigar Lighting Ritual

Chapter 30: Clever Responses to “Why Don’t You Put That Out?”

This book comes with a Million Dollar Guarantee!

If you don’t like it, send the author $1 Million Dollars...

And he will rewrite it any way you like — Guaranteed!

On The Investment Nature Of This Book:

It is a well-known fact that objects d’art and books increase in value when the artist or author dies. Now Jack Riepe is feeling pretty good at the moment, but at the rate former wives and elected officials would like to kill him, it’s just a matter of time before your modest expenditure on Politically Correct Cigar Smoking For Social Terrorists becomes a profitable investment.

Offered at $25 (plus $3 S&H) — With a Bonus Personalized Gift Autograph!

Not only a great gift, but great holiday sentiment too!

If you plan to give a copy of this soul-healing book to a spouse, lover, close friend, riding buddy, or someone who threw you a fast pop at closing time, the author will autograph it and include a warm personalized message from you to the recipient at no extra charge!

Example: Breg Dickstein has ordered a book for his friend Bobby Heaver. Riepe might write: Dear Bobby Heaver — Dick Bregstein says all you’ve been reading is diet books since they used the “Jaws of Life” to pull the Harley out of your ass. Here is one book dealing with the joy of excess, without the calories.

Best Wishes,

Jack Riepe

Order two books at $45 ($6 S&H), and get one autographed to yourself!

Now you can buy copies on Amazon (new ranging in price from $43 to $160, and used from $14 bucks), but the sale of each book purchased directly from the author goes toward women met in bars, gas for his bike, cheap cigars and Irish whiskey. In essence, it’s a stimulus package.

To Order:

Email your full name and address to, plus a phone number (very important if you are ordering a personalized gift copy). Mark the e-mail: Cigar Book Christmas Gift -- Rush. Indicate if the book is a gift for yourself or a gift.

If you are ordering a gift copy, include the full name of the recipient, plus a line or two about the individual. (ex: He rides a Harley; She sucks at golf; He smokes cigars like a chimney; He reads Twisted Roads all the time;) Spelling is critical, make sure you get it right.

Books are shipped with an invoice, (I trust bikers) and come with an enclosed, pre-stamped, addressed envelope. (Shipped to US and Canada only, sorry. Payment is in US dollars.)

Please be advised that Jack Riepe is a paranoid prick and would never share, or sell, consumer information.

* The author’s.

Saturday, December 4, 2010

"...Then I Ripped That Borrowed Seat To Shreds."

There was a butcher shop on West Side Avenue, in my native Jersey City, where my mother would occasionally buy veal cutlets and sausage. I remember two things about this place: the sawdust on the floor and a poster on the wall. I wondered why anyplace would spread sawdust on the floor but later learned this was the trademark of upper crust saloons. The poster depicted the profile of a steer, divided into sections representing each cut of beef.

I was fast to make comparisons as a kid, and I referred to this artwork on the wall of the butcher store as the “map of the cow,” as each outlined section reminded me of a state in a beef-shaped country. I once asked my mother if she could buy all the separate parts of the cow so we could reassemble it back in the kitchen. She looked at me like I was a twit, apologized to the butcher, and explained that I had been dropped on my head five or six times on the day I was born.

Yet the idea never left me that some things should be easily broken down into their more obvious components and reassembled nearly blindfolded, like the way a US Marine can assemble a .45 automatic with his eyes closed. Motorcycles should fall into this category.

Consider the profile of the average motorcycle, a cruiser if you like. Most everything is exposed and in plain view. Visually, it is like the profile of the steer on the wall in the butcher store. Plugs, air filter, the battery, essential wires, tires and drive train are all in plain view. To the child in me, these should just pop off and pop on again, with a minimum of aggravation. But despite an incredible mechanical evolution (or as a result of it), motorcycle maintenance continues to require an intuitive ability to read engines, an understanding of spatial relationships, patience, and a high degree of manual dexterity. Attempting to address a clutch issue, a transmission issue, a Hall sensor issue, or even a question of a blown or loose relay, demands a good deal of experience, knowledge and sense.

Nothing is ever as simple as it should be, or even as it looks, when it comes to mechanical issues with a motorcycle.

Even aftermarket stuff that is advertised as “bolt-on” generally requires some fiddling, or a degree of customization to make it fit. When a part or an accessory is described as “universal,” this means it will seamlessly mate with 680 models of 12,000 kinds of motorcycles. The unspoken line is, “not necessarily yours.” I have purchased a number of items off the shelf at Hermy’s Tire and Cycle, my BMW dealer in Hamburg, Pa, only to discover the bolt holes are off a bit; that a wire is shorter than it’s supposed to be; or in one case, the directions were mislabeled and the roles of the connecting posts on the relay were reversed. This last situation upset me so badly that I poured myself three drinks trying to figure the damn thing out. It was much worse for my friend Jim Sterling, who was actually out in the garage attempting to install the new horn. (This sometimes happens with aftermarket products but is never the case with OEM BMW parts.)

While most shade-tree motorcycle mechanics are delighted by this kind of challenge, I am not. It is my thought that if I have to drill a hole in something, solder a connection, or fashion a bracket out of another existing part, then I am undoubtedly doing permanent damage to an already functional design. And on a BMW bike, mistakes become the subjects of new chapters in thin checkbooks.

Some adjustments or replacements look ridiculously easy, and give the expectation that they can be addressed by an idiot in an hour or an expert in ten minutes. Yet attempting to resolve the issue (by any means other than by throwing money at a dealer) is often met with frustration and aggravation. Dedicated Twisted Roads readers will remember when I ordered my custom “really fat-assed saddle” from Russell Cycle Products last year. This meant sending off my existing seat pan, leaving bare metal for a few weeks of the early spring riding season.

Gerry Cavanaugh — a fellow member of the *Mac-Pac — came forward with another K75 stock saddle for me to use until my custom number came back. On the second day of riding on this borrowed saddle, I managed to catch the upholstery with the metal eyelets of my riding boots. There were six little tears in the vinyl. Looking down at the damage, I thought, “I should be able to fix this myself for under $50.” That simple assessment was interpreted by the motorcycle gods as pure hubris... And they smote me accordingly.

Above: Mac-Pac member Gerry Cavanaugh was kind enough to lend me the seat from his BMW K75, while my seat pan was off getting rebuilt into a work of structural art at the Russell Cycle Products facility. I repaid his kindness by ripping it to shreds — but he didn't know that. Cavanaugh is seen here getting stuck with the tab for lunch at Crawdaddy's, a local Cajun gin mill. He suspects he is getting screwed but hasn't felt the bite yet. Photo by the author.

I got one of those kits that claim you can repair a tear in vinyl upholstery “with invisible results, just like the pros.” There are several kits out there ranging from $18 to $29. Mine was acquired at the local auto parts store on the low end of the pricing scale. It included some backing to be inserted into the tear, chemical filler, and five little paint containers, the contents of which could be mixed to match the vinyl in question. There were also a handful of patterns to emboss on the soft vinyl and a device like a little soldering iron to heat everything up.

Above: Gerry Cavanaugh in his red "Stitch," beside his trusty BMW GS, which he named "Faded Glory," in honor of his years of motorcycle riding. In the picture above, Gerry is saying, "If we all split lunch, how come my bowl of gator gumbo cost $361?" This was one occasion when a certain red K75 lived up to its name (Fireballs), and shot out of the parking lot before Cavanaugh could get his "Stitch" zippered. Photo by the author.

According to the directions, you shove the backing into the slit, spread some filler over the wound, color it, cover the soft smear with a texture pattern, heat it with the branding iron, and buff it with a little stick. Five minutes later, the tear is miraculously repaired and invisible to the naked eye.


I followed the directions like a novice on the bomb squad. In print so fine as to be mistaken for a crease in the paper, the directions warn against overheating the vinyl, which can occur in .03 seconds. When this happens, the invisible repair looks like an acid burn on the face of a Victoria Secret model. Two attempts left Cavanaugh’s seat with vinyl leprosy five times larger than the original tears. The whole thing was a complete waste of time. And then I had to ask myself the question, “if you lent a flawless motorcycle seat to a friend and it came back covered with invisible tears hidden by seat cancer, wouldn’t you feel screwed?”

I felt so sure of the answer that I decided not to let Cavanaugh in on the joke.

Calls to two dealers regarding torn motorcycle upholstery produced the response, “We send it out.” But no one would tell me who they sent it out to... Which led me to believe that motorcycle seats are repaired with living tissue taken from dead bodies by unscrupulous morticians. I also suspected that my initial cost estimate of $50 was low by a factor of five.

So I started calling places in the phone book that dealt with automobile upholstery. I figured that vinyl is vinyl and a bike seat has to be easier to repair as it can be tossed on a workbench. Wrong again, Bullwinkle. A number of places that repaired car seats wanted nothing to do with a bike seat. One guy offered to take a look at it, but couldn’t tell me when he’d get to it, or what it would cost (not even a ballpark figure). Another guy told me that I could drop it off there, but that they would “probably send it out.” (Repairing motorcycle upholstery is apparently on a par with international espionage.)

Enter Chris McClintock of Bux Customs. An unassuming but incredibly talented artist in vinyl and leather, McClintock turns motorcycle saddles into bold statements of contemporary styling that go far beyond the stock seat.

Above: From a Yamaha, two colors and two textures create a unique seat statement. Photo courtesy Bux Customs.

Above: Cross-brushed suede coupled with a carbon-fiber texture create a one-of-a saddle. Photo by Bux Customs.

Above: Sculpted foam and one-of-a-kind blue flame stitching added an extra dimension to this black solo saddle. Photo courtesy of Bux Customs.

“Two areas that get minimal attention by motorcycle manufacturers are horns and seats,” observed McClintock. “ The horn is invisible. Yet next to the gas tank, the seat is one of the most noticeable characteristics of the motorcycle. And whether you are screaming on the asphalt or riding cross country, the design of the seat impacts the rider from the bottom up.”

“Do you have any experience with vintage motorcycle seats,” I asked?

“Like from a ’47 Harley or something like that,” McClintock asked in return.

I explained that the pinnacle of vintage motorcycle seats was the stock unit from a 1995 BMW K75. (He hadn’t known that. And when I showed him the K75 seat, he thought it had come from a Vespa. Not that coming from a Vespa would make it a little girly seat or anything like that.)

McClintock produced an album of his high-end custom work, which adorns some of the highest powered squid-rockets in southeastern Pennsylvania, Delaware, and Maryland. These saddles flow with the lines of the bike, combining different materials, textures and patterns to create an extension of the machine’s (and the rider's) personality. While some of his unique designs can best be described as “crescendoes in understatement,” each emphasizes “lethal power” and “raw sensuality.” These seats ooze hot, screaming bike sex.

"Will one of your seats get me laid," I asked candidly?

"I'd have to make it big enough for you to wear," said McClintock.

Above: Bux Customs seats can be made to compliment any custom paint job. According to Chris McClintock, a custom seat can add a new dimension to a bike with a "near custom" or limited edition paint job. Photo courtesy of Bux Customs.

McClintock works with each rider to match the expectation of the seat’s comfort and practicality with its overall visual appeal. He offers a broad selection of materials, including vinyl, leather, and suede, in a range of colors to compliment every paint scheme. And depending upon the application, he can sculpt seat contours to order.

McClintock explained that making six repairs to a motorcycle seat was ridiculous and that the unit should simply be recovered. Evden so, he found my order to be extremely challenging. My directions included no sculpting... No exotic foam compounds... Nothing more elaborate than basic industrial black vinyl, typical of soft cafeteria seating at federal penal institutions. His biggest challenge would be in not falling asleep while meeting my specs.

“How long will this take,” I asked?

“I’ll call you in a few days,” McClintock replied.

“To give me an estimate of completion,” I prodded.

“No... To tell you to come and pick it up,” he smiled.

Above: The Bux Customs seat on this gorgeous Hayabussa captures the lines of an exquisite paint job, carrying them throughout the length of the machine. Photo courtesy of Bux Customs.

Above: Here is a variation on a similar theme, but using three colors, instead of two. Bux Customs seats are very popular with the "heavy power crowd," but McClintock has done a great deal of work on cruiser seats as well. Photo courtesy of Bux Customs.

The seat was ready in five days. It had the crisp appearance of a uniform shoe at a really tough Catholic school. Yet instead of the stark, totally austere look of the least expensive vinyl, it had a cool textured appeal that would go great on Gerry’s otherwise stock K75. “All of my seats have to have a slightly unique aspect to them,” said McClintock. “It’s not the K75’s fault that you are an unimaginative, cheap pain in the ass.”

The job was more than $50 bucks too... But it was well within the parameters of great value and service for the price charged.

“Are you sure this is my seat,” said Cavanaugh, as I returned it to him with a bottle of Scotch. “This looks brand new.”

“Gerry, I take care of stuff people entrust to me,” I said.

Cavanaugh grunted in total agreement, looking at me the way a prosecuting attorney sizes up a carnival barker.

So if you’re looking to get a highly personalized, highly-visible, high-end crafted saddle, or just looking to get a good one repaired, I highly recommend Chris McClintock at Bux Customs. The riding season is already over for many in the "savage power bike" catergory, and a seat from Bux Customs makes a dandy Christmas present. Why not put a bug in your spouse's or significant other's ear and get something you'll really like? (And if they surprise you with a wheelbarrow or a 12-step book on relationship building, you can piss away their Valentine's Day gift cash on a little reward for yourself.) The number for Bux Customs is 610-505-2042. Or reach Chris McClintock online at Tell him “Jack” at “Twisted Roads” sent you.

I have no financial interest in Bux Customs, nor did I receive products nor services by way of compensation for this story. This story is factually presented and accurately illustrates my attempts to get a stock motorcycle seat repaired at minimal cost. If I had another issue with a torn motorcycle seat I would have no qualms about taking it to Bux Customs for repair, recovering, or redesign. You shouldn't either.

*The Mac-Pac is the BMW riding club serving southeastern Pennsylvania, chartered by the BMW Motorcycle Owners of America. With some 250-members, the Mac-Pac advocates safety, training, and camaraderie through a common interest in BMW motorcycles and social networking. The club routinely aligns itself with local charities ranging from free clinics to the MS Foundation. They have also raised funds for local hospitals and sponsored participants in three-day walks to defeat breast cancer. While interests of members vary greatly, the Mac-Pac pursues motorcycle restoration, advanced riding technique, track days, seasonal group rides, and long-distance riding. The group meets for breakfast at the Pottstown Family Diner, (Rt. 100 in Pottstrown, Pa) on the third Sunday of every month.

I'd like to thank everyone who contacted me about my article (The K75 — A Love Affair) which ran in the November 2010 Issue of the BMW Motorcycle Owners of America's publication: ON (the Owners News.) December's story in the same publication details the previously undisclosed facts regarding the questionable credentials I used at the BMW Rally in Burlington, VT (2006), and how I found ethics in the moonlight that week. If you ride a BMW and have not yet joined the MOA, this magazine is but one of many membership benefits. Click on the MOA logo at the right for details.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2010
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Twisted Roads)
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With A Shrug)