Monday, April 18, 2011

Rule # 1: Don't Hide Panties Under Your Bike's Seat...

It was the fight of the century... And nothing would be the same at its conclusion. The woman was older than me by two years, and had all the expectations of someone deserving of a home, children, and a man capable of making simple decisions. I wanted to be a writer, eventually, when there was no other way out. In the meantime I wanted to ride my motorcycle, drink, and get laid. I was 23 at the time, and couldn’t find fault with my logic. I was living in a shithouse of an apartment in Jersey City, which my father likened to the kind of place that Ralph Kramden (Jackie Gleason, in the TV classic “The Honeymooners”) would call home.

The woman had two points that were hard to argue against.

The first was that I was nailing someone on the side. The second was that I was going nowhere. My counter-points were as airtight as cast iron gauze. I stated that at my age, it is perfectly natural for a man to be suspected of nailing someone on the side, and that I could understand her tendency to question my occasional hard-to-explain absences, which were nothing more than research for a novel I planned to write in my late 40’s. As far as going nowhere, I was presently headed out the door for a weekend of solid debauchery, with a riding buddy named “Cretin.” Our agenda would embarrass a Marine drill sergeant. (Cretin had hooked us up with a couple of beauties who were going to dance naked around the campfire. This was one experience I thought any novelist worth his salt should personally witness.)

My girlfriend made the kind of face worn by an arch-villain about to confront Superman with kryptonite, as she produced a pair of panties she’d found under the seat on my Kawasaki H2.

This is generally the scene in a courtroom drama where the defendant breaks down and admits to owning the bloody hatchet. I did nothing of the kind.

“I found them,” I said, wearing my own face of righteous indignation, borrowed from Pontius Pilate.

“Up some stripper’s ass,” she screamed.

There is no point in trying to explain how a severed arm found its way into the trunk of a car... Whatever you say, it’s going to sound stupid. So I tacitly admitted my guilt by pulling on my jacket, kick-starting the Kawasaki, and riding off to meet Cretin. It was my intention to give the woman 20 or 30 years to cool off. The real bad news was finding a seriously inebriated Cretin rolling on the floor of the shithouse that was his apartment, in the arms of some floozie who was 80 percent breasts and 20 percent tattoo. Judging from the atmosphere — a combination of cigarette smoke, stale beer, and sweat — this marathon fertility rite had been going on for three days.

“Can’t make it this weekend, Reep,” said Cretin, who gestured to the babe with a shrug. “Suzie caught her boyfriend cheating on her and came to me for advice.”

This was one of those times when one guy looks at another guy, and that guy instantly understands that the only appropriate answer is the sound of a motorcycle pulling away.

The 1975 Kawasaki H2 was loaded down with my standard weekend gear: a small tent, a seasoned sleeping bag, Svea stove, Rice-aroni, and quart of rum. What it lacked was a destination. I headed north to New York State. Thirty-four years ago, the border between northern New Jersey and southern New York was where concrete suburbia abruptly ended at a tree-line that vanished into little valleys and climbed abrupt rises of 900 feet. The three cylinders of the Kawasaki ran like a tag team of Samoan midget wrestlers, who had some idea of a common objective, but who weren’t in perfect agreement on pulling it off. That engine ran a lot like my mind, in fits and starts, with an occasional backfire.

Just 90 minutes before, I was a happy guy who was slipping away for a weekend of non-stop screwing around with a go-go dancer, on a shit-hot motorcycle, with a friend who could be relied upon for staging mind-bending orgies, without the knowledge of my stunning girlfriend, who would greet me on Sunday night like I was a conquering hero. And now I was among the ranks of the abruptly single, riding off to a weekend of solitude, without a destination, while the best-looking woman ever to take off her clothes in my short life (up till then), was undoubtedly throwing her shit into a pillowcase, or anything handy, prior to walking out the door.

All over a pair of panties she found under my bike’s seat.

I could barely remember the panty donor. But then I sort of did. Hitting the open expanse of the New York State Thruway, I opened the Kawasaki’s throttle in turn and let it run. The steady outboard motor-like droning of the engine seemed to improve my powers of recollection. The panties had belonged to a blond I met at a local watering hole. She was amazed that I was a writer (not quite true at the time), and that I was working on a story (always), and that my primary character was a blond (34b), and that I was looking for someone who had the fierce beauty and savage sense of independence — to use as a model — in my story (Bingo). At some point that night, I’d clutched her panties to my face and told her they were scented with the passion of life — and that every word I’d ever write would be dedicated in some way to that scent. (Well, that’s been largely true too.)

I pulled over an hour later at a campground in Newburgh, NY. Setting up my camp was the work of a half-hour, and I prepared an hors d'œuvre by pouring four ounces of rum into a half-filled can of Coke. This enabled me to drink out in the open, regardless of local policy. Sitting at the picnic table next to the fire ring in my $14 campsite, I started to write a few things down in my notebook. Some of these statements would be useful in future relationships, like an accurate assessment of my short-sighted behavior with regard to my poor girlfriend. Never again would I hide a woman’s panties on my bike. There had to be a much better place.

I was on my third hors d'œuvre when a voice like butter asked, “Is my music botherng you?" The source of the question was a cute tomato sitting at the picnic table in her campsite. She had pulled up in a battered Volkswagen Beetle, set up a cheap nylon tent that was guaranteed to fall down under the insistence of heavy moonlight, and was strumming a guitar by the light of candle stuck in a wine bottle. She appeared to be a senior in college.

Oblivous to the music up until that point, I replied, "Of course not. Will you play some more?"

"I play my best music by candle light. What are you writing?"

“These are notes for my novel,” I said. “Care for an hors d'œuvre?”

Turns out she had just left her cheating boyfriend. Worse, the bastard didn’t take her music seriously. I thought her rendition of “Stairway to Heaven” was quite good enough. I took her music very seriously.

Copyright Jack Riepe 2011

46 comments:

BMW-Dick said...

Dear Sleezebag:
This tale is an excellent example of why I enjoy riding with you. We never know when an exciting coed with a guitar might pop up in the middle of an adventure. Next time can I be the writer? You can be the Clandestine CIA Operative.

Kimi said...

My favorite part about reading your blog is trying to determine what relative percentage of the story is true and what's utter bullshit. There should be a sliding scale at the bottom of the page where readers can log their guesses - or little voting buttons next to each paragraph where you can click "fact" or "B.S."

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Dick:

On at least one of our runs, a young hottie got dressed in the front seat of a car behind you in a parking lot. These things do happen. But it is more likely to happen to me than to those other stiffs you run around with.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Kimi:

If you get a chance, why not just take a pointed stick and shove it in my eye?

I'm assuming you'd have pressed the "true" button after reading this piece.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

bobskoot said...

Mr Jack r:

it's no wonder you like to go camping . . . with my luck, nothing would happen

bob
Riding the Wet Coast

Charlie6 said...

Now I have to add connoisseur of great musical talent to the list of skills practiced by you in the past to aid in the the de-flowerment of women....

My question is, why did you retain said garment? Kind of a self-inflicted problem wouldn't you agree?

Great story as always Jack, you'd have gotten the "true" button push from me....

dom


Redleg's Rides

Colorado Motorcycle Travel Examiner

DougBob said...

Reep Toad,

All I can say about your latest musing is " . . . oooohhhhh, and it makes me wonder . . . "

DougBob

ADK said...

Having seen most of the women you dallied with in the last twenty yrs or so I'm surprised those panties would even fit under your bikeseat.

Of course, on reflection, I'd now have to hit the 'True' button.

Steve Williams said...

Dear Mr. Riepe: It is always a pleasant surprise to see a new piece of prose appear on Twisted Roads. Without question, Twisted Roads is the Citizen Kane of motorcycle blogs.

It's from that place that I found myself offended and annoyed at the mere suggestion that these stories are fabrications, prevarications, or worse. The idea that someone believes you would deviate from your high standard of journalism makes me jumping up and down angry.

I would suggest in the future that you either burn the panties or only pursue women who wear men's boxes or Fruit of the Loom briefs. That way you will have more latitude in future explanations.

Don't you ever have normal experiences, the kind that guys like bobskoot and I can relate to?

Steve Williams
Scooter in the Sticks
Follow me on Twitter

You are, Ihor said...

, all the kryptonite any co-ed ever feared!! Do you realize that we're about the age of Gwyneth Paltrow's father when he passed away? It's a fact.
Soon the only way to get your attention will be yelling, "Hey, pops!!" Then you'll wheel over to see who was yelling. And won't recall who they are.

Geographically speaking, Ihor said...

Know, Steve Williams, that John needs no more latitude. But assuredly requires less circumference!! No explanation is up to the task.

Jack Riepe said...

Dear ADK (Chris Wolfe):

You are so going to pay for that comment. If I were you, I'd put a drip pan under my balls to catch the sweat. Start running, you British Twit. Are you riding the Triumph down to the BMW rally? When I ask for a volunteer from the audience, two of the biggest sauerkraut goons you ever saw are going to drag you screaming out of the crowd.

And fucking Ihor is going to have to start looking over his shoulder too.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Steve:

Nicely done, Steve. That comment started out well and came straight from the "Chris Wolfe" school of advice. I sense I'm paying for a bit of license I took the other day... But such is life.

But ask yourself this question... Why would anyone want to have normal things happen to them? What is the point of riding two-wheeled machines, if you don't get into serious trouble every now and again. The lesson of the Visagoth lifestyle must not be lost to future generations.

Look what happens to you and Bobskoot. You ride to a place and they run out of apple pie. Bobskoot rides to a place, and a nun on a Seguay steals his parking spot. I pull up someplace and the first woman I meet asks my opinion on breast augmentation.

Changing my life to the sedate pace of normal would be easy... But I don't want to give up ridng a BMW.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Bobskoot:

I am a lightning rod for the unusual. Stick with me when we do Key West. Your cameras will get a good workout.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Dom:

I have a six-point buck on the wall in the livingroom. I kept the buck for the same reason I kept the panyies, I think. Then again, maybe I had it in my mind to re-install the panties at some point.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear DougBob:

Wonder is the essence of motorcycle riding. I like to give a good measure of that to all of my readers.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

ADK said...

Pete Shweddy is my hero.

http://www.hulu.com/watch/4156/saturday-night-live-nprs-delicious-dish-schweddy-balls

If only there were a drip pan large enough.

bobskoot said...

Mr Jack r:

If Steve and I were riding in the forest and hills of PA, he on his Vespa and me on my mighty V-strom, my hope would be for him to stop for a few photos, which will give me time to twist my throttle and head directly to the Saint's Cafe ahead of him to grab that last piece of Apple Pie. Of course, while devouring it before Steve arrives it wouldn't occur to me that this was actually the last piece, I mean, how many times have your ordered apple pie and the server says, you are in luck "I only have one piece left" .

The realization that the apple pie is gone would only be revealed upon Steve's arrival an hour later as he toddles his way to our intended destination curiously taking photos along the way.

Of course the tables could have turned if he were riding an R100GS

bob
Riding the Wet Coast

Gary said...

Kimi-
I believe EVERY word! ;-)
Gary

Great story Jack.....you're going to have to start riding with me to help me with my stories (usually just pics)...the best I can come up with is "What happens in Pot Hope Simpson, Labrador, stays in Port Hope Simpson, Labrador."
Gary :-)

Doc Rogers said...

Dear Jack,
I long ago ascertained that I missed the "Luck" line. Until today, I had wondered if ever one might have the good fortune of meeting the person who managed to go through said line twice, thereby benefitting from my misdirection on creation day. Nice to meet you. Glad you have put it (the Luck) to good use all these years. I suspect that you in fact made it through that line more than twice. Great story! Take care, Doc

Anonymous said...

Dear Jack,

I still don't understand... Why were you hiding your panties in your bike seat ? Wouldn't you have some miniature closet, all cedar and angled mirrors (perhaps hidden within the recesses of an otherwise forbidding tool-chest)for that?

bluekat said...

Great story! I was fearful Cretin had left you in a fix, but of course karma (or whatever) has smiled upon our Jack once more. All the sweeter that she was a musician since you have such a passion for music! :)

By the way, you haven't said where the new, improved panty hiding spot is located.

Of course I must pick 'true'. How could there be any doubt!

Nikos said...

Jack

One thing troubles me - why would a girlfriend inspect your Kawasiki under seat area in the first place?

All the best

Inspector Nikos Clouseau the suspicious

DC said...

Kimi,

Be sure to soften that sharp stick blow to Jack's eye with a pair of panties. :)

DC

Jack Riepe said...

Dear DC (Dave Case):

Like Kimi would listen to either you or me.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad
Twisted Roads

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Nikos:

There reaches a point where most women in a relationship with me start checking things that I normally keep locked or somewhat reserved. One of my former wives used to go through my computer and cell phone like a hot knife through butter.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad
Twisted Roads

Jack Riepe said...

Dear BlueKat:

The truth is that this woman with the guitar was just out for a little vamping, and I happened to be within range. I once carried a pair of panties in the center console of my Suburban for two years.

I am too old for panty trophies now. (Bullshit.)

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad
Twisted Roads

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Anonymous:

The love of my life (Leslie/Stiffie) presented me with an 18th Century Ship Captain's Medicine Chest, in which I keep special things. But the only panties anyone is likely to find in that are hers.

Leslie is a multi-media artist who works in metal. She is out in the garage and in my tool box all the time. When you get older, you realize there is to place to hide — anything.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Doc Rogers:

There are two luck lines... One is for good luck and the other is for bad luck. I have passed through both, often. The trouble with the bad luck line is that it is so much shorter.

But the good luck one does not always mean I'm going to get "lucky."

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Gary:

I'd be delighted to ride with you... I'd just have to leave a few weeks earlir to meet you half way. I'm glad you liked my story, and pleased you told Kimi off.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Bobskoot:

But while you might get ahead of Steve, your parking space would be snatched at the last minute and you'd be riding around in circles when Steve pulledup... Only to learn that a GS rider scarfed down the last piece of apple pie.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear ADK (Chris Wolfe):

He's your hero because two women were discussing Schweddy Balls as offerings from "Season's Eatings." I've heard several women discussing "Brit" balls, and how they'd like to kick them or cut them off.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Ihor:

What do you, Chris Wolfe, and John Wilkes Booth have in common? Now ask me if I enjoyed the play.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

ADK said...

Rather that, than offering sweetbreads to ex wives and divorce attorneys.

BTW, I hear those bite marks will come out w/ a solution of spit and vitriol.

We perform Ihor said...

, up to expectations! And we know our target and hit the mark unassisted. Anything else is an encore. Were we less kind, we'ld sweep the stage and orchestra with napalm.

How are you feeling otherwise?

Jack Riepe said...

Dear ADK (Chris Wolfe):

Speaking of broken balls, I am dying to see your bike since you had the duct tape replaced by regular body work.

Has the snow melted up there yet? I think Cantwell killed his family and ate them. The last time I spoke with him, he could only make motorcycle sounds into the phone.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad
Twisted Roads

Jonesy said...

Actually, that story should have started with Bregstein(sp?), having seen you in a state of undress, inquiring as to why you were wearing women's panties to which your answer would be, " Ever since my girlfriend found them under my motorcycle seat!"

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Jonesy:

That is not so far-fetched. If leslie had found something like that, I'd have told her they were chewing gum, and swallowed them.

Thanks for reading,
Jack • reep • Toad

Classic Velocity said...

Dear Jack,

I never thought to try the writer working on a novel thing in my youth. I was busy trying doctor in training, racing driver, and wealthy prince out among the common people. If only I had known...

Shannon Baker said...

Thanks Jack, you lousy SOB!

Wonderful Wife found this article stuffed under the seat of the Sporty now I am not allowed to ride anywhere that she doesn't follow in the Miata...she can't drive a stick!!!!!

Hang in there

-Buddha

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Wayne:

The writer angle only works on the most susceptible of coeds, and then it works best if you say you are a "poet," which means you are extra sensitive for her pleasure.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Shannon Baker:

Good... You could use a little supervision.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Lady Ridesalot said...

I don't know which was more enjoyable... the post or the comments.

I'm afraid I'll have to agree with Kimi on this one. It seems like most of your stories are compounded with a mixture of both... "fact" & "B.S." Of course, this is what makes coming over here for a visit so enjoyable. Everyone need a little comic relief now and then.

Don't worry though. My daddy taught me how to sharpen sticks when I was little so we'll make sure (when we stab you in the eye) it will be quick and painless.

BTW... you could have told your GF you were just trying to get in touch with your feminine side and you were trying them on for size. I mean... according to ADK... just sayin'. ;D

Rhonda said...

Jack...if it didn't happen that way, it should have.

Chris Luhman said...

Thanks Jack. Another good read to break up the day. :)

PS: voting/reaction buttons are a good idea. Check your blogger account to add them ;)

Settings -> Design ->Page Elements -> Blog Posts -> Edit -> Reactions

:)

BeemerGirl said...

These stories just crack me up because I am naive enough to take it at face value and believe that everything happened just as you wrote. I mean, why would you lie??

But then I find the comments can be so much more interesting sometimes. LOL.

-Steel Cupcake