Monday, October 10, 2011

Motorcycle “Cool” And Naked Women...

The element of “motorcycle cool” is something that most riders (and non-riders) take for granted. It is assumed that a motorcycle will impart to the average individual some super-human dimension of coolness that can easily be parlayed into street “cred” (credibility), or more specifically, sexual desirability. This assumption was foremost in my mind when I purchased my first bike, a 1975 Kawasaki H2. While it cannot be denied that the average biker enjoys highly aggressive sexual activity with a frequency that would tire a male mink on a fur breeding farm, it can be argued that the motorcycle may only be channeling existing character traits.

Yet at age 19, at the alleged peak of my potential as a casual and willing sperm donor, I was fairly convinced that I didn’t have any existing character traits that identified me as preferred breeding stock. The painful truth was that most women I met back then seemed to instantly know that they were never going to have sex with me — throughout their entire lives. Reversing these conclusions became a painful preoccupation with me.

A careful study of other men, who routinely got their horn honked by blonde bar hotties, revealed they:
a) wore animal hides;
b) had a body mass that was 120% muscle
c) had 98% of that body mass covered by tattoos
d) largely communicated by grunting and eye contact
e) bought their footwear in a shop that once supplied Storm Troopers
f) rode motorcycles

After a brief consultation with an unscrupulous Japanese motorcycle dealer (who may have been the King of the Gypsies), I came away secure in the knowledge that if you took care of the last point, all of the others would come gradually. So I put my faith in Japanese cutting-edge technology of the time and bought a green two-wheeled powerhouse with a two-stroke engine modeled after a three-cylinder nuclear reactor. To put a real curse on things, I also bought two candy-apple green metallic helmets too.

Now I did this in an era when the preferred color of a motorcycle was “black;” when the preferred color of a motorcycle helmet was “black;” and when the preferred sound of a motorcycle was distant thunder (but if sound had a color, it would have been black too). I left the dealer’s like a cheap Las Vegas act called “The Flying Unfuckable Douche.” Some men can go through life secure in the knowledge that they are setting trends. I just made impulsively questionable decisions.

But a motorcycle is a motorcycle... And nearly all can function as talismans. Despite its stupid color, its wretched sound, and marginal handling (read “dangerous”), the Kawasaki was fast, somewhat loud, and to the point — it always started. This was not something riders of more popular two-wheeled sex generators could always say. In fact, many were the occasions when their pillion candy sat at curbside, smoking a Marlboro, while these clowns jumped up and down on kick starters that barely produced a series of dull thuds.

Every man has something to help guarantee the propagation of the species. Some guys have muscles... Other guys have great tans... I have the “Battered Baby Seal” look, and a line of bullshit like the extended runway at Newark Airport. My motorcycle, the Kawasaki, gave me enough of a sense of identity to sit at some dangerous thug bars in Jersey City, and peddle my shit with confidence.

Since I couldn’t really grunt with authority... And since my riding leathers were nothing more than a WWII army fatigue jacket... And since my footwear came from the boot department at Sears... And since I drank Irish whiskey straight (the drinking age in New Jersey then was 18)... And since I smoked a cigar (really odd for a kid my age)... I emerged as that rare individual — the “original.” And as an “original,” I told stories. And when “Angie” turned up at the bar one night, I watched her from the corner of my eye, and told a story or two an octave or so higher, and got everyone around me laughing. And I did this keeping a straight face, without cracking a smile myself, carefully watching her reaction.

I did this three of four times over a two week interval, until the evening came when she was suddenly standing next to me. I had just peeled off a pretty good story about something that had happened to my pal “Cretin” (a personality well-known to the inmates of this saloon and to my dedicated readers), when she looked me right in the eye and asked, “Want to buy me a drink?”

“Is this a trick question?” I asked in reply, gesturing to Vinnie the bartender to refill her glass.

“You’re really a funny guy,” she said. “Can you say something funny now?”

Naturally, I couldn’t.

So I tried grunting with purpose and gave her a point blank blast of the “Battered Baby Seal” look for good measure. For those just tuning in to Twisted Roads for the first time, I have discovered that by manipulating my smile to the side a bit, while maneuvering my eyes downward, I can assume the facial properties of a battered baby seal. These are harp seal pups that are mercilessly beaten into mittens, hats, and fur collars for coats by highly-sophisticated Canadians, who never miss an opportunity to criticize their gun-toting neighbors to the south. The sympathy element this gets from women is unbelievable.

Angie touched my cheek and squealed with delight. “I love it when you make that face,” she said. “You’ve been making it at me all week.”

I clutched my helmet under my arm and played my trump card. Smiling, I told her it had been a real pleasure but that I had to go... Something about an early fall ride I did every year... Up the Palisades Interstate Parkway in the dark... To the Bear Mountain Inn, where I’d spend the weekend. I explained how I would ride around the upper Hudson Valley, over the next day or so, taking in the last warm weekend of the season.

“You’re leaving now?” she asked.

“Yup...”

“Can I come?” she asked.

I said nothing for a full four or five seconds, but looked into her eyes, commanding every muscle in my face and groin to remain frozen.

“Okay,” I said.

Angie slipped into that other stupid, metallic-green helmet I had, and climbed on the back of the H2. Our first stop was her place. Her neighborhood was in one of Jersey City’s seedier parts of the “Heights,” where some of the streets still ended in cobblestones and abandoned factories. She was in and out in 5 minutes, without having gained anything in apparent baggage. (Angie’d grabbed a couple of changes of panties and her toothbrush; all of which were jammed into her purse.)

I kicked the Kawasaki into a growl and we headed north.

The first 15 or 20 miles were the northern end of Hudson County and the eastern end of Bergen County, NJ. I skirted a half-dozen communities that were simply a continuation of city streets (the primary difference being the flat roofs of the blue-collar middle class gradually yielding to the peaked roofs of the more affluent Bergen County residents) by taking Kennedy Boulevard to US-1. The Palisades Interstate Parkway starts (or ends) at the George Washington Bridge, and runs along the cliff tops on the west side of the Hudson River. The road is recessed from the cliff tops so the spectacular views cannot be seen from the highway. This is just as well as the PIP was engineered and built in the ‘30s, when the average speed of a car was 45 miles per hour. The entrances and exits for this major artery are still about 25-feet long... But traffic routinely rockets around at 70 mph now. The fatalities would be staggering if motorists could be distracted by the view.

The Kawasaki ran as well as it ever did that night, with the speedo pegged around 75 mph. It was past 10 o’clock and the night air was cool for the denim jacket and jeans she was wearing. I could feel her tits on my back as she inched herself into me for warmth. I pulled over to get her a sweatshirt from the pack I had on my sissy bar, as soon as I could see a gravel-free spot on the shoulder. (The shoulder used to be grass on the Palisades Interstate Parkway and I’d be damned if I’d pull onto that in the dark.)

“I have to pee,” she said, skipping outside the headlamp’s cone of illumination. “Don’t look.”

For once, I didn’t. What was the point? I’d be seeing her sugar scoop up close in less than an hour.

The focal point of Bear Mountain State Park (in the town of the same name), the Bear Mountain Inn, was 65-miles to the north. This imposing log and fieldstone structure is six stories tall, and was built of native materials as a works project in the height of The Great Depression. (I mean the Great Depression of the 1930’s... Not the current one.) The place housed three mediocre restaurants, a really mediocre state park-administered hotel, and the coolest bar in the Hudson Valley. “The Cub Room” was centered around a stone fireplace that could accommodate logs 18 inches in diameter and six feet long. The andirons were cast iron cub bears four feet tall. Above the fireplace was a four-foot by eight-foot oil painting that depicted an old man with a beard waking up in a field... And in blending in with the borders of the artwork were scenes depicting the entire story of Rip Va Winkle, by Washington Irving.

It was a Saturday night, and only the locals were drinking in the Cub Room that night. We’d pulled in, checked in, and still made last call. Checking in had been a trip. I was nineteen, and assumed she was about the same. The desk clerk looked at me like I was stealing something... But in the end the guy flipped me the key with a fast look at my driver’s license.

We had a couple of snorts at the bar (18 was the age for drinking in New York that year too), then called it a night. The Bear Mountain Inn was alleged to have been renovated a few times, but the designer must have trained at the Turkish Penal system. The rooms were small, spartan, and fully reminiscent of the Depression. But they were clean and warm. In fact, the first thing I did was to turn up the thermostat. (This can assist in making a blanket superfluous.)

I tossed my gear on the floor, unlaced my boots, and stretched out on the bed. There is something about watching a woman take off her clothes for the first time that still utterly fascinates me. I was certainly mesmerized that night. She took off her earrings, washed her face, and brushed her teeth. She took off her blouse and undid her bra with a single hook in the front.

Her breasts were the size of grapefruit with dark brown nipples... And like all nineteen year old breasts (that I can remember) were perfect, especially as they were aimed at me. She stepped out of thong panties, revealing a dark swirl of pubic hair, and laid down alongside me, with her head on my shoulder.

She put her fingertips under the tops of my jeans and said, “Don’t I get a peek?”

Once again, I grunted. (I had no choice at this point in time as I had swallowed my own tongue.)

And so began one of the most incredible nights — and there would be two of them this weekend — that I ever had on a motorcycle. Yet nothing is ever really perfect. Ninety minutes later, I felt like a spent shell fired by distant artillery, when this naked beauty nuzzled my neck and said, “Say something funny.”

The god of Motorcycle Cool giveth... And the god of Motorcycle Cool taketh away.


Twisted Roads Readers — How would you like to see the final version of Jack Riepe's new motorcycle book? As a traditional paperback? Or as an e-book? Please take the poll on the upper right hand column of this blog page. The book, The Biker's Guide To Eternal Youth and Jackhammer Sex, will be out next year.


Jack Riepe's Farewell To Pennsylvania Ride...
Saturday, October 15th, 8am
The Frazer Diner
US-30 (Westbound) Frazer, PA
Just west of RT. 401 and US-30

• Plans for Jack Riepe's "Farewell To Pennsylvania" Ride are in the final stage. The 6-day advance weather forecast is slated to be "partly sunny" with temperatures an ideal 66ยบ (F).
• The ride is slated to begin at the Frazer Diner, on US-30, in Frazer, Pa (Westbound), with breakfast at 8am. It's "Kickstands Up" at 9am, with a 60-mile ride through rural Pennsylvania, To Port Clinton, Pa, where a hot German, Oktoberfest, lunch will be served to all who participate.

• Ride your own ride, or stick with one or two other riders...

• The Oktoberfest Lunch — with door prizes — will be provided by Hermy's BMW and Triumph.
• Riepe is leaving Pennsylvania as part of a strategic retreat, following the equivalent of his third divorce. (The man is a tower of strength, or something.)

If you are planning to attend: Please drop us a line so we know to look or wait for you. Send an email to jack.riepe@gmail.com


©Copyright Jack Riepe 2011

28 comments:

somepinkflowers said...

aahhhhhh....


U R The Best
at this story*telling style!


:-)

{{ The Best.
you make me want
a
baby
hog...


is there such a thingy?

all i have
is
my Huffy Good Vibration bike...}}

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Some Pink Flowers (Bonnie):

What a delightful surprise to find you here in my blog spot today. I am delighted you liked this episode in my early riding life.

Oddly enough, many women seem to get a thrill out of vibration bikes. For that reason, the Harley Davidson Sportster remains the closet thing to a highly manageable, short wheel-base bike, with a strong appeal for women.

I'd recommend a BMW, but the last one that vibrated was in 1939.

Thanks for reading Twisted Roads

Fondest regards,
Jack/reep

Conchscooter said...

I am waiting for my Bonneville to impart cool but so far- nothing. Clearly I need to buy a candy apple H2 and baby seal eyes. Or join the Rick Perry campaign. Nah,not even that would work for me. Thank you for letting me
live through you.

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Conchscooter:

You may have several problems here. First, if you read the story carefully, you'll note the line where I say, "The motorcycle may simply be channeling existing characteristics." In your case, that may be a lot to ask of the Bonneville. And secondly, the narative assumes you want to impress someone. By your own admission, you'd just as soon poke someone in the eye with a stick as much as say "What ho, Reptile?"

As I have said before, however, the Bonneville is a very cool motorcycle.

Thank you for reading Twisted Roads and for boosting our Wikio ratings to #4 this month.

Fondest regards,
Jack/reep

Radar said...

Jack,

You are definitely on to something with the Sportster observation. I believe the reason they put such a small tank on the Sportster is to remind the rider that he needs to stop and "finish" with his passenger, else the vibration of the bike earns the win, so to speak. BTW, the vibration feature comes standard on all Harley models and has never failed me.

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Radar:

I once watched a woman hit 70 mph on her Sportster, then clasp the tank tightly with her legs. Fifteen seconds later, she was rolling her eyes. I caught up to her at a gas station down the road.

"Does your boyfriend ride," I asked?

"Who?" she replied.

Fondest regards,
Jack/reep

Charlie6 said...

Another great story Jack!

So, did you come up with something funny? : )

dom


Redleg's Rides

Colorado Motorcycle Travel Examiner

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Charlie6 (Dom):

In truth, I remember thinking to myself, "I think the condom broke..." But that would have been a mixed humor situation.

Thans for reading Twisted Roads!

Fondest regards,
Jack/reep

Flimsky said...

Jersey City Heights, home of Pershing Field where the hot dog man had his name painted down the entire side of his truck which was the size of a UPS delivery van....George Marasipatopaphelopolis. Not bad dogs either.
Interesting how that seal look was placed in the paragraph adjacent to your typical picture in front of the Salem Nuke Cooling tower. I was wondering what it would have looked like, but the current picture says volumes.

Rhonda said...

I heard that candy apple green is the new black, but maybe that's a few decades too late for you, eh?

MattPie said...

Great story Jack. I was thinking about you as I passed thru Jersey on the way to Harlem for BBQ last week.

As for the book poll, it would be a shame to have your work lost to time in a digital format. Paperbacks can be kept forever, who knows how those devices will fare (speaking as someone who has a Nook).

RichardM said...

Candy apple green? I've wondered who bought things that color.

As far as the book, what about an audio version? I finally started to "read" books again with audio as I can listen while doing something else.

Richard

Nikos said...

I agree with RichardM, my vote is an mp3/audio podcast version read by you Jack.

1939?

Best wishes from dismal Britain, N

Lady Ridesalot said...

Dear Mr. Riepe,

The Sportster??? Mere foreplay my friend.

Idle for a while at a red light on a '98 Harley Davidson Classic... and say ahhhhhhhh!!

just sayin'...
Lady R

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Flimsky:

I remember the best hot dogs (dirty water Sabrett) dogs as coming from the hot dog guy, with the traditional cart, in Washington Park, off North Street. My friend Cretin pointed out to me that this vendor had a city painted "yellow line" around the place his cart stood... And that if you wanted "girls" for an occasion, he was the guy to talk to.

Bruce, believe me, no guy has ever seen the "battered baby seal" look. But a few women we know, since they went to St. Al's, St. Doms, or Holy Family Academy, have seen it in action.

Thanks for ready my tripe, and for commenting. I owe Mark M. big time for getting behind my stuff on FaceBook.

Fondest regards,
Jack/reep

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Rhonda:

The helmets were awful-looking. They were candy-apple metallic green, with black accents. They said "douche" on them in neon.

The green Kawasaki did not last. In the middle of it's second year, it got creamed by an old son of bitch sliding through an intersection. I replaced it with a red model.

That's how stupid I was. I should have taken the insurance cash and bought a Z900. And believe it or not, that bike wasn't even offered in black.

Thank you for reading Twisted Roads, the moto blog that elevates skirt chasing and cutting up rough to an art form.

Fondest regards,
Jack/reep

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Matt:

I learned to ride in Jersey City... On my last two-wheeled trip back there, however, I felt like a clay pigeon in flight. I saw death threats every 30 feet, as cars came at me like meteorites.

Regarding the book poll, I am surprised at how strongly the biker crowd is coming out in support of the paperback. I actually like holding a book in my hand... Take the cigar book for example... I feel like I accomplished something.

Fondest regards,
Jack/reep

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Richard M:

There was a lot of stuff like that hanging on the walls of the Japanese bike dealer. The bike was this interesting deep green, and the helmets seemed kinda cool to someone who hadn't gotten the real "cool" memo.

I wonder about an audio book, and I wonder how hard it would be to produce one. Man, so many readers would be shocked by my Jersey City accent.

Fondest regards,
Jack/reep

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Nikos:

It would be a real pisser if I decided to release an audio book, and had you read it — with your soft, cultured, British accent.

And only added my voice as say the character of Cretin.

Fondest regards,
Jack/reep

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Lady R:

Well.... Well. The voice of experience. I occasionally rode around on a Honda Aero Shadow, which is a cruiser designed to somewhat look and sound like an HD model. (This was after riding my BMW K75 for a season.)

I stopped at traffic light, and my vision blurred. I thought I was having a stroke. My vision cleared with the application of a little throttle. The problem reoccurred at the next light.

"So that's what vibration feels like on a motorcycle," I thought.

Women BMW riders merely have to be content with men who are hung like a moose.

Fondest regards,
Jack/reep

Classic Velocity said...

Jack, I had no idea that I had the same date for the Classic Velocity event. How do I clone myself ?

Anonymous said...

CaI was amazed to read a fresh instalment of your episodic exciting motorcycle life. The sexual content, implied and actual was rather over the top for my taste. The exciting motorcycle details were enthralling. Thank you for entertaining me and introducing me to an interesting menopausal lifestyle change. I am on my way to a Harley Davidson dealer as soon as I close the laptop.
Yours sincerely,
Arbuthnott D Brainerd PhD
Princeton NJ.

Steve Williams said...

Sugar scoop.

That's the point in the manuscript that I had to stop and jot those words into my research journal. Visiting Twisted Roads has transformed me over time from a regular Vespa rider into a motorcycle anthropologist. Unlike others who write "just the facts" or pose as riders they can only dream of, you pull aside the curtain to reveal the truth of what it means to be a motorcyclist.

I dream of one day making audio recordings of the grunts and line of shit as well as video recordings of the battered baby seal look. Sitting here typing I imagine myself a sort of 21st century Jane Goodall.

I have to admit I was a bit startled by the farewell ride announcement at the end. That's tomorrow morning. And a long ride on a rainy day.

Shit.

Steve Williams
Scooter in the Sticks
Follow me on Twitter

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Steve Williams:

The truth is that in my youth I rode a motorcycle for high-speed thrills, to party, and to get laid. Quite frankly, I'd be delighted if I could hit that agenda again tomorrow.

And I ride still, albeit not as I did, because I like to remember myself as I was. If I had to do it all over again, I might have held onto some of those women a bit longer. To quote Claude Rains in Casablanca, "The time may come when good-looking women are in short supply."

I daresay I could show Jane Goodall a few things.

Please don't give tomorrow another thought. I am looking forward to the mayhem of the diner and the laughs at the dealers. It will be a pisser.

I can't imagine getting up in darkness, to ride through the fog, on a scooter, in deer infested territory, to eat scrapple and eggs in grease.

Don't be silly. I'll be riding out your way soon enough.

And I know that my stories leave you fascinated.

Fondest regards,
Jack/reep

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Wayne:

This is going to be a reunion of sorts, and a maddening ride through fall colors to an Oktoberfest party. Lots of folks had conflicts with either the date or the time of day.

Considering this is my swan song for living in Pa for 2011, I do not regard it as a high point. But I can assure you, my return ride (and Victory run) will be something.

Keep smiling, Wayne.

Fondest regards,
Jack/reep

BeemerGirl said...

Late to the party. But spending 12 hours in forced computer homage does nothing for a reading life. I keep your blogs for last, knowing I will get a giggle or smile. But they continue to pile up as I can't make it through my backlog.

I've finally caught up and have enjoyed them all. I think there is something to be said for both yours and cretin's style. Just don't switch between them every 5 minutes. ;)

Nice salute by "the Cadre", but are you sure that isn't just the way they are saluting you? I would recommend watching them around other highly esteemed individuals and determine if they are greeted in the same fashion. It might just be they reserve that high a form of flattery to you.

Great story-telling. Keep up the fun reads.

Hope the ride yesterday was perfect. I know the weather sure was. Couldn't be beat! Sorry to learn that you are moving even farther away...

Steel Cupcake

Another Canuk said...

Do one called "Naked motorcycles and cool women"

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