Thursday, March 24, 2011

Dispatches From The Front... March 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:


As so many of your stories begin, the day was hotter than a college cheerleader’s shaved quim and I pulled into a gin mill just outside Winslow, Arizona to grab a cool sarsaparilla. My Victory Vision was tethered to the zeppelin moorings outside, attracting the usual crowd of the curious and idle. This bike was the closest thing I could get to Judge Dredd’s motorcycle in the movie of the same name. I even had my riding gear designed to look like Judge Dredd’s uniform.


Now I was just sitting there, striking dramatic poses for the seƱiorita’s at a nearby table, when some guy pulls up on an old red BMW K75 combo blender and sewing machine. The friggin’ thing must have stealth mode. One second there was a void in the atmosphere, and in the next the ugliest motorcycle in the world is parked to the Judge Dredd Sexual Street Justice Machine. The rider swaggered up to the bar like it was assumed he was going to get laid and drink for free.


He orders drinks for the house, roses for the seƱioritas, and “destiny” for himself. This turns out to be a double Jameson’s Irish whiskey, served in a woman’s navel. (And three bar hotties volunteered!) Well he ends up ordering four or five rounds on a tab that is almost as big as my bike, when he makes a bet with the bartender. The wager is that we got five balls between the two of us. It is apparently common for BMW riders to grow a third testicle with all the riding they do and the exposure to the power transfer between the saddle and the man-pillows. Not vibration, which is the reason most Sportster riders are women, but a solid connection between the soul of the motorcycle and a man’s sense of character.


So this K75 rider bets the bartender double or nothing for the existing tab, plus one of equal value, that he and I have five balls. You should have seen the look on this guy’s face when I leaned over and said, “Hey buddy, I hope you’ve got 4 balls.” Not one person heard that K75 start up and pull away at 85 mph. My tab came to $264.


So put the word on the street... I’m looking for the BMW rider whose got some balls.


Sincerely,

Eddie “One Ball” Sturottio

Finderne, NJ


Above: The Victory Vision is as distinctive a bike as any rider cold ever hope to own. Photo from the internet.



Dear Eddie “One Ball” Sturottio:


That would be all of us, including the women.


Fondest regards,

The Editor

Twisted Roads



Dear Twisted Roads:


The last episode you wrote — Daylights Savings Time — was so fucking lame that I was embarrassed to read it aloud in my therapy group. But I didn’t know that until I actually volunteered to go first, stood up, and got into page three of the painful printout without getting a laugh. Could you please install a suck-meter on your blog so I could be spared this kind of humiliation in the future? What does Daylight Savings Time have to with riding a motorcycle, getting laid, or partying on a weekend? Absolutely nothing, that’s what. Please don’t let this happen again.


However, you might want to look into the wild tire-changing parties we have up here in Keene, NY. There’s hilarious story material there, like the time we spilled the Dyna-Beads into the oatmeal for a “balanced breakfast.” Get it?


Sincerely,

Chris “Both Coasts” Westboffen

President/The Yellow Honda Riding and Farting Society

(Both coasts being both shores of Lake Champlain)




Dear Twisted Roads:


She was beautiful. I met her in a Key West bar, where the setting sun turned her hair into spun gold. She had the kind of seamless tan that suggested clothing was always optional on her stretch of beach. When she smiled, the air in the room turned thin, and I found myself spinning out of control whenever she looked in my direction. She moved across he dance floor like a lobbyist through congress, touching everyone but staying beyond everyone’s reach. There would be no fingerprints on her ass.


I knew she wasn’t for the likes of me, but was shocked to find myself talking to her at the end of the night. I mentioned I ride a “discount” Triumph Bonneville, without a tach. She whispered she had a thing for austere British iron and asked if I’d take her for a ride to a quiet place, “where the moonlight meets the water.” We left the bar and rode to a deserted spot by the Blue Hole on Big Pine Key. Gently pushing me down on the sand, she said she wanted to ride me like I was a 1970’s Triumph.


“Go ahead,” I said.


“Okay,” she whispered. She stood up with the moon behind her, looked down at me, and yelled, “Start, you old British Fuck.” Then she kick-started me in the balls three times.


When I came to, the blond, the bike, and my wallet were gone. I was in the fetal position on the sand, almost face-to-face with that puny alligator the Chamber of Commerce dropped in the Blue Hole. How much longer should I wait here for her? It’s been three days and I’ve eaten every one of those stupid chickens that have wandered within reach. You know, they’re not bad. They taste a little like iguana.


Sincerely

Lutsey Baravelli (Not My Real Name)

Key West, Florida (Where body paint hides European Cruise Ship Breast Sag)



Dear Twisted Roads:


There are 13 covered bridges in and around my town in Pennsylvania that are no longer safe for standard vehicular traffic or even those cute buggies. My plan is to put a fresh coat of paint on these and convert each into an “Amish House of Rolling Pleasure” for bikers. Motorcycles could slowly troll through, while Amish maidens conferred upon the riders such delights as “The Dutch Taffy Pull, the “Your Shu-Fly Is Open,” and “The Dutch Egg Noodle Special.” Not only would this promote the preservation of these structures, but it would offer riders the opportunity to spend money in these little communities where feed corn is still king. I think this would be a much better alternative than Amish Casino Gambling.


Sincerely,

Enoch Lapp

The “Covered Bridge Real Estate Elder”

Bird-in-Ass, Pennsylvania



Dear Twisted Roads:


I’m tired of reading all this bullshit about BMW riders having supernatural powers and pile-driving sexual capabilities. I ride a Kawasaki Vulcan and most of the BMW riders I’ve met are average, every-day douches. I was on a ride through West Virginia (where I originally met my wife, who is 20 years my junior and a former runner-up in the Miss Sizzling Breakfast Sausage Pageant), when this guy pulls up to the hotel, and proceeds to dismount by pulling a step out of his top case.


So I chime in with, “Maybe you’re too old for this young man’s game!”


And he answers with, “Life is challenging for me now that I’ve grown this third testicle.” But he doesn’t say this to me... He says it to my wife!


So I came back with “Balls just walk a man in baseball.”


And he turned to my wife and said, “Whether you walk or run, it makes no difference how a man gets past third base.” My wife is a very religious person. She must have been praying at the time because I heard her sigh and utter, “Amen to that.”


Then this bastard stares her right in the eye, and if he didn’t look like something that would climb onto the ice in Canada, only to be clubbed to death by real men. He was gone in the morning. Them “K” bikes make less noise than flushing a toilet on the Niagara River. No one at the hotel heard him go. And no one heard my wife slip out to go shopping or something either. But she’s gone too, probably scared to death by the memory of the BMW rider with the three testicles.


Sincerely,

Dickie Bottfly

Truth-In-Advertising, West Virginia



Dear Twisted Roads:


I hate it when people greet me with a fucking 'aloha' --especially when it's 40 degrees and your balls are aching... Anyway... What you are suffering from is the result of either a very mistaken indulgence in some badly seasoned 'soixante-neuf' OR a case of the Creeping Cruds. Either way, the cure is the same .


This is not some macho posturing-- this actually works, i have done it.


The Hat Cure: lie down in your bed, take off your hat, and put it at the at the foot of the bed. Be careful here-- make sure it is the foot. Open a bottle of decent Scottish or Irish whiskey, no corn mash. Start to drink. When you see 2 hats at the foot of the bed, get all the blankets you have and get underneath them. Sweat like a bastard, as if you just received a subpoena and your bike won't start.


You have nothing to lose except the toxin that put you into this condition. Alcohol is a powerful diuretic. You can drain the dragon without it, but it's a lot less fun.


Anyway, be well, go forth and try to multiply. If you can't, then go fifth and divide.


Best regards,

James Odell,

Somewhere in Friggin’ NJ,

r1200GS, triumph Scrambler,

age 62, 3 ex's and a current girl friend who is a goddess



Dear James:


I am feeling somewhat better now as I went to a "natural healer," who made a poultice for my chest, and who bled me periodically. Also, leech therapy worked too. It appears I may have had cholera or yellow fever. I am now feeling well enough to walk to the bathroom to take piss, as opposed to relying on the nearest open window.


Sincerely,

Jack • reep • Toad



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


All Points Bulletin:
Do you have a BMW K75 with the "rare " Sprint Fairing (generally around 1986)? If so, contact me at jack.riepe@gmail.com(.) I want to do a special story on these bikes for my monthly column in the BMW MOA magazine — Owner's News. I am very interested in a copper-colored one up in Oregon or Washington State (US).


©Copyright Jack Riepe 2011 -- All rights reserved.

12 comments:

BMW-Dick said...

Dear Jack:
Although you have consistently "dissed" me in your tall, short, and medium-statured tales, you have - until now - spared many of your other riding/reading buddies. I have been contacted by several of the folks savaged in this post, and we are forming a Riepe Rail-riding Moto Group. Tar will be imported from La Brea, The Colonel is providing free feathers for your rail ride, and we've hired a dozen side show strong men to carry the rail with you aboard. Be sure to wear a cup! http://www.livestrong.com/article/157448-chinese-cupping-methods/

Charlie6 said...

Another outstanding set of dispatches from the front Mr Riepe!

The looks on the Victory Vision, one either likes it or hates it....but comparing it to Judge Dredd is quite accurate. I'll use that in the future to describe said looks to the non-cognoscenti.

The dispatch from Key West had me laughing out loud, you could see the end coming but not how it was delivered.


dom

Redleg's Rides

Colorado Motorcycle Travel Examiner

David said...

Your story reminds me very little of a deceased friend of mine Sam, he had one testicle yanked out due to testicular cancer and delighted correcting the plural to singular when anyone commented on his "balls". He dropped dead of a heart attack at 51.
We're all still alive or else we wouldn't be reading Twisted Roads by Jack Riepe.

Cantwell said...

Dear Jack,

In regards to the treatments you described to James, I was thinking that you might benefit from maggot therapy. I believe they eat any dead and decaying tissue while promoting natural and healthy tissue growth. This might work on your third testicle problem, as I'm certain that that is just dead calloused tissue you have generated from rubbing yourself on your beautiful K75. It might also help with the 'Dispatches From The Front' because gauging by the comments, it is just dead issue that needs to be removed and replaced with something more substantial. Perhaps a non-fiction piece regarding Lysol bathroom wipes.

Sincerely,
Michael

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Dick:

I can't believe that you are complaining that you were not targeted by this blog episode. I can remedy that in an instant.

Sorry you're not free to go riding this week, though it looks like it will still be cold.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Charlie6:

I had fun sorting through these "Letters To The Editor," but you and I seem to be in the minority. Mike Cantwell is even going so far as to suggest this feature be dropped, and I am thinking about pitching the idea in a reader survey.

The guy in Key West seems to be down for the count with the flu, or something.

Thanksa for reading and for writing in.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear David:

Friends of mine from high school have a "chat" list or something like that going on FaceBook. I was amazed to see how many of my boyhood friends are already gone. All of them were thin. One friend of mine was in perfect physical shape, with six-pack abs — on the outside. He never had cause to get an EKG, and died of a massive stroke, when he was 34.

This is why it pays to live each second like they are metered out like gold — because they are. We are among the living because we ride.

Thanks for reading my tripe and for writing in.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Mike (Cantwell):

Speaking of maggots, how are you? I understand that you are down for the count... So is Michael Beattie in Key West. I sincerely hope you are not slammed with the same thing I had, though variations of it seem to be going around. It was the most aggravating thing that there was no position in which I could get comfortable, except sitting upright in a chaor and leaning slightly forward. And this would be great, except I never felt like reading or typing.

I deeply regret that you are now opposed to the "Dispatches From The Front Feature" and have recommended it be dropped. I will propose this in a Twisted Roads reader survey, and promise to follow the results, blaming you regardless of the outcome.

I sincerely hope you feel better.

Sincerely,
Jack • reep • Toad
Twisted Roads

I promise that, Ihor said...

,after my EKG tomorrow, I shall drive over to your home with my aluminum and beat you into a scallopini(estimated total area at about 3.7 acres). A spinach salad and a glass of cianti rounds out the menu. It will like reliving a night at Enrico and Pagliari's. Hide where you will, here it comes!

ADK said...

Dear Oddballs,

I didn't know you could count.

Nikos said...

One of these letters resembles one that appears in the March issue of the BMW Journal (the organ of the UK BMW Owners Club).

Only joking, there was nothing of interest at all this Month save a rather intriguing classified advertisement for a one piece leather suit size 16 to suit 4ft tall female. Shame I'm male and 6ft 6in tall.

best wishes for Lent, N

Jonesy said...

BMW riders are not "every-day" douches! They are eccentric self-important douches! Great piece Jack,,,