Dispatches From The Front... February 2011

One a month, Twisted Roads will present "Dispatches From The Front," a collection of letters from our readers, many of whom are writing from the road, the halls of government, pool halls, the Witness Protection Program, and fully accredited mental institutions. Whenever possible, the Twisted Roads Editorial staff will attempt to answer readers' questions or provide some measure of resolution.

Dear Twisted Roads:

If you make fun of another Harley in either your blog or in one of your elitist magazine columns, I’m going to ride my Electra Glide (if it’ll start) over there and shove that red BMW K75 so far up your ass that you’ll have to go the dentist to check the tire pressure on the front wheel.

Do you understand me?

Sincerely,
Your Mother
(Who can still beat the shit out of you with impunity.)


Dear Mom:

Yes, Mom.

Sincerely,
The Twisted Roads Editorial Staff




Dear Twisted Roads:

If you make fun of another BMW “R” bike in either your blog or in one of your elitist magazine columns, I’m going to ride my R1150R over there and unplug your battery tender. I‘m sick and tired of the way you make fun of the iconic bike that spawned that bastard BMW “K” series. Now here is my question, I was in the straightaway on US-202 the other day, pushing 80 miles per hour, when the stream pressure gauge dropped to zero for a second or two, then it came back to the proper reading. What do you think is the problem?

Sincerely,
Baron Von Munchausen
Struddle, Germany


Dear Baron Von Munchausen:

It sounds like you are burning coal that has too many prehistoric toads in it. Pick out a few random nuggets and see if they will eat flies. If so, you’ll know you got a bad load of fuel.

Sincerely,
The Twisted Roads Editorial Staff




Dear Twisted Roads:

I hope you can answer my question, as I may have hurt someone’s feelings. My circumstances are very unusual. My wife asked me if I’d mind if her cousin came and stayed with us for a few months, while she looked for a job. Her cousin was a former model for a specialty company that made brassieres for gymnasts who are 34 “Cs.” But the company moved to Tahaiti and she wanted to start a new career as a mud or Jello wrestler for a traveling carnival.

What could I say?

Family is family. My wife is 32, Asian, with the kind of body to kill for. She has long black hair that frames her face in a statement of passion and pure sexual electricity. Her cousin is two years younger, with a slighter smaller build and a perfect rack (that stands by itself with nipples that point to stars on the lower horizon). How do I know this? Because she walks around naked all the time.

I first ran into her coming out of the bathroom. She was running from the shower to the guest bedroom, wearing only a few droplets that the towel had missed.

“Don’t look,” she squealed, as she squeezed by me in the hall. Naturally, I looked.

I thought that this would make things cumbersome for a while between us, but she acted like nothing happened. Then a week later I stepped into the bathroom (the door was open), and she was shaving her legs on the edge of the tub.

“Sorry,” I sputtered, “But the door was open.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she laughed. “The bathroom was steaming up and I opened the door to un-fog the mirror. Do you mind if I use your razor to shave this?” And with that, she shows me the three-by-three piece of heaven’s real estate that she’s lubing up with baby oil. I grew a bone so big and so hard I nearly fainted as the blood drained from my head in two seconds flat.

Since then, I have run across the cousin three times in various states of undress. Last week, she was making breakfast early on Sunday morning — topless. Then I found her skinny dipping in the pool. I came home from work early one afternoon to find her doing yoga on a mat.

“Watch this,” she said, assuming a position that put her sugar scoop at eye level. Then she started to hum and I’ll be damned if it didn’t seem like the music was coming from Cupid’s mail slot.

The final straw came yesterday. I was in the in the garage, changing the oil on my 2004 BMW K1200GT, when the cousin came in wearing only a really short football jersey.

“Whatcha doin’,” she asked.

“I'm changing the oil on my motorcycle. I put 3,200 high-speed miles on this batch and it’s time for a change.”

“Modern lubricants can go a lot farther between oil changes,” she said, slowly raising the football jersey to reveal she had once again polished her fortune cookie with baby oil.

“But the manufacturer, in this case — BMW — specifically calls for changing the oil at 3,000 miles, to prevent engine wear or damage due to oil breakdown or from particles suspended in the lubricant,” I replied.

“That’s old-school thinking,” she purred, running a fingertip up and down her peach slice. “Oil is so much better now. And its better for the environment to go through less of it. Less of it in use and less of it to dispose of. More of it for other things.”

I hate pushy women who have to be right all the time... So I told her to shut the hell up and then I threw her out of the garage. So here’s my question, could she be correct about the oil? I’d hate to think I gave her a hard time over data that could very well be "old school."

Sincerely,
Russell Elis
Beaverview, Tennessee


Dear Russell:

Technically speaking, your wife’s cousin is correct. Yet according to the manual of the time, changing the oil every 3,000 miles will guarantee the best possible performance from your 2004 K1200GT, while minimizing potential damage to the engine. However, it’s nice to know that you can go a little farther, if necessary, without compromising the engine. You could apologize to her if you wanted, but it sounds to us like you have a much bigger problem. If she feels this comfortable wandering into the garage, what’s to stop her from occasionally taking your tools.

Sincerely,
The Twisted Roads Editorial Staff



Dear Twisted Roads:

I am the leader of a powerful nation and can fan papers off my desk with these huge fucking ears. Experts have determined that the key to stimulating the economy is to get small businesses, which employ 65 percent of the nation’s workforce, percolating again. So here’s what I did: I met with the leaders of some of the hugest corporations on the face of the planet, sat them down with the head of the last country in the world to have an artificially sustained economy, and told millions of people who neither live nor work here that we were ready for business.

Let’s see you and all the other small business assholes find fault with that.

Sincerely,
Gummy Politico
Not Quite Maryland, Nor Virginia

Dear Gummy Politico:

“The oxen are slow, but the earth is patient.”

Sincerely,
The Twisted Roads Editorial Staff



Dear Twisted Roads:

Sexism is rampant throughout the entire biking culture in general, but reaches an all new low on this blog. Why do men have to be viewed as alpha dogs? Why must women be seen as an art medium for “tramp stamps.” How is is you see everything in terms of visual appeal, with tanned, slim, leather ensconced bodies as part of the destination.

I had hell of a run along the border in Arizona, yesterday. I started out in a joint in Sierra Vista, and ran north to Green Valley, and eventually hit Tuscon. I was traveling light with a leather pack and a bedroll, both of which were strapped down on back. I was out for dust, starlight, and adventure — the three things that make a ride great. I know you’d be inclined to toss a bit of romance into the mix to make it perfect... But your idea of romance is a “trombone solo,” breakfast you didn’t have to make, and fond memories of mammaries out in the sunlight by the side of the road.

I wanted a run devoid of the things that would make late to hit the road in the morning, and the kind of entanglements that might tempt me to double back. My route was laid out in a loop, and I thought I might get something in the way of a warm welcome. Yet my lover is a devoted Twisted Roads reader, and your influence has taken it’s toll.

I rolled in the front door of the house I’d left four days before. There was a candle lit in the kitchen, and moonlight pouring in from the skylight.

“Stay right there,” a familiar voice said.

I stopped.

“Now take off your top.”

I took off my top.

“Step out of those jeans.”

I stepped out of my ripped jeans.”

“Now take off that little lacey bra.”

I took of the bra.

“And drop the panties.”

I dropped the little silk panties I had been wearing.

Then my wife told me to make sure the Sportster wasn’t blocking her in the garage, as she had to leave early for work, considering I just sit around all day, drinking, farting, and trying on her clothes. I’m tired of being reduced to a target for her sexist remarks. I want to be recognized for what I am — a Sportster rider.

Sincerely,
Bill Toverstadt
Between Tuscon and a Hard Place

Dear Bill:

Twisted Roads can recognize you a mile away.

Sincerely,
The Twisted Roads Editorial Staff



Dear Twisted Roads:

All my life I wanted a tattoo. But I waited... Not because I wasn’t sure that I wanted one... But because I wasn’t sure what it should be. Some days I wanted the image of my motorcycle on my chest. On other days, I thought an illustration of the perfect woman would look cool on my chest. Yet one’s idea of the perfect motorcycle is sometimes subject to change. And there is nothing like the occasional hint of divorce to make one think twice about permanently inking a portrait of a woman to one’s skin.

I have supported various political causes — and thought some cool political slogan or philosophy would look good as a tattoo — only to be disappointed by the ultimate results of either the movement or the philosophy. I have gone through different phases in my life, such as the skull and dagger phase, the lightening bolt phase, the sex, drugs and rock and roll phase, and strange symbol phase.

Well after years of deliberation, I finally came up with something I am never going to change my mind about... And my wife is giving me a ton of shit about it. The design would be dead center on my chest, though not of an imposing size. It would combine an illustration that is almost feline, with something that looks like a winking eye. Still, she is busting my balls relentlessly.

What advice can you give?

Sincerely,
Currently Tattoo-less in Seattle
Seattle, NJ

Dear Tattoo-less In Seattle:

Do not rule out compromise. Is there something she would like to have that bugs you? For example, does she want a bike of her own, a piece of jewelry, a pug dog, a hot-looking gardener to screw when you are out riding? You might be able to find common ground by offering something that she’d like in return. Another possibility is to tell her you have a fatal disease, and with less than six months to live, you really want this tattoo. Of course, you will be miraculously cured in six months, and she will be used to the artwork by that time. Either that or you will have acquired a gardner.

Sincerely,
The Twisted Roads Editorial Team



Dear Twisted Roads:

My husband is normally a good-natured, sweet guy who rides a Yamaha Royal Star Venture. For years he has talked about a tattoo, but never acted on it. Now he is finally determined to get one and I am enraged by the idea. I wouldn’t give a shit if it was a skull and crossbones, or a hand grenade with the word “mother” over it.

But what he decided to get is two lines of type that reads, “My Mother-In-Law — Kathleen Carmody of Duncansburg, Pa — Has A Face Like A Cat’s Ass.” It would be over an illustration of a cat’s rear-end, with the tail curling in the air. I rest my case.

Sincerely,
An Enraged Spouse
Seattle, NJ

Dear Enraged Spouse:

Your husband sounds like a man who doesn’t lie. Does you mother have a face like a cat’s ass? If so, we must sometimes bow to the inevitable. It never pays to deny the truth, especially in a relationship.

Sincerely,
The Twisted Roads Editorial Team


The Twisted Roads Editorial Team will accept and consider any reader letter regarding motorcycles, riding technique, gear, personal relationships, Constitutional law, hygiene, or bizarre sexual practices. Published letters do not represent the official position of Twisted Roads, nor the personal opinions of its editorial staff. Twisted Roads does not offer counseling from licensed practitioners nor should one assume any answer will not be anything but the biased opinion of a guy who drinks beer, smokes cigars, and looks to get a little every now and again. Send letters to jack.riepe@gmail.com