There are letters from allegedly living Twisted Roads readers. The Twisted Roads editorial staff will entertain questions from serious bikers regarding advanced riding technique, mechanical issues, rider safety, relationship building, how to break up with a woman (while tapping her sister on the way out the door), how elected officials get such big heads through such tight assholes, and which comes first: the pothole or the $900 bill to replace the wheel?
We will attempt to effect resolution for some readers with substantial bribes of Big Jim’s Chocolate Chip cookies — at our discretion. Don’t even think of hinting that you should get a box, unless you look like the woman in the first letter and include a picture.
Dear Twisted Roads:
I am getting married in a couple of weeks to a woman who I met on a motorcycle run last summer. We are both a little nervous as this is an “inter-racial” relationship. (She rides a Harley and I ride a Vespa.) First there is the question of the blood test. I asked her about it and got a bone-chilling look. Then she pulled a Buck knife out of her boot and sliced her own palm, asking, “Do I pass?”
I really didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded.
Do you know if during the wedding ceremony the minister still asks if there is anyone present who objects to this marriage “to speak up now or forever hold their peace?” I jokingly mentioned that my mother might object. My fiance just laughed and said, “Not if she’s tied to a tree with a dead rat in her mouth.”
It’s not that I’m getting cold feet, but we were meeting with the caterer to finalize a few reception arrangements, when the gentleman asked, “What sort of napkins would you like?”
My fiance tested 20 of them by blowing her nose in each one, finally choosing a roll of paper towels as “best.” When asked if she wanted our initials printed on them, she replied only “FU,” in the dead center of each one.
She is stunningly beautiful, with a seamless tan, a few hidden tattoos (from the Kama Sutra), and likes to walk around the house naked. She has the skill of a gourmet cook and occasionally serves paté that she has created from all natural ingredients, using her flat stomach as a platter. When it comes to matters of the bedroom, she does things that would embarrass a farm animal.
Yesterday, I was moving some of her stuff into the bedroom, when I came across a strange red metal box marked, “Snap-On Tools.” I immediately suspected some higher level of sexual perversion, so I called her on it.
She was topless as usual, but I noticed a slight blush of embarrassment coloring her perfect nipples.
She bit her lower lip in hesitation, then said, “Don’t open it.”
It was filled with the strangest tools I have ever seen, including a wrench like a dental pick, complete with a series of paper-thin shims.
“What are these?” I demanded.
She started to sob, and replied: “When I get really hot and sexually uncontrollable, I have a mad desire to service German motorcycles.”
I can’t believe she kept this hidden from me. If a woman will hide secrets like this in the bedroom, what else will she conceal? I think it would be wise to postpone the wedding at the very least. My riding club — The Really Hard Guys Scooter Squadron — tells me I’d be much better off finding a woman from my “own” Vespa-riding kind. What do you think?
Sylvester T. Simons, III
Accountant To The Pet Grooming Profession
Dear Sylvester T. Simons, III:
Your riding club is undoubtedly correct. A woman like this is thoroughly unpredictable, and could go off the deep end in the blink of an eye. Just imagine how mortified you’d be at the next national Vespa Week (in Sturgeon, South Dakota), if she started walking around topless among the pup tents and bingo games! Worse, she could start doing stuff like this now even as you try to do the decent thing and unceremoniously dump her.
I have never left a reader in the lurch and I’ll de damned if I’ll start today. I’ll marry her, giving you a chance to escape on your Vespa. I’ll do the best I can to distract her over the next six or eight months, allowing you to get as far away as you can at 36 miles per hour.
Don’t waste time, however. Bring her over here right now.
Dear Twisted Roads:
I have been a devoted reader of your blog for two years and go over each story several times, sometimes taking notes. You constantly reference a handful of guys as your riding buddies, and allude to a much larger cadre of moto-acquaintances as the Mac-Pac, a riding club with a preoccupation for BMW motorcycles that borders on sexual deviance.
Your description of these guys, for the exception of a Ducati jockey and an MV Agusta enthusiast, would lead your readers to believe they are all cool, accomplished riders, capable of getting a laugh from the guys and a smile from the ladies at the drop of a hat. Yet it has been my experience that a staggering majority of BMW riders are unbelievable douches, who leave 8 percent tips on the counter, sleep with a GPS under their pillows, and who wear full ATFGATFT (All The Fucking Gear All The Fucking Time) — even when taking a piss. (You have to really wonder about a guy who takes a leak wearing ballistic gloves.)
How do you explain the discrepancy between your perception of BMW riders and mine?
The Waitress At That Shithole Where You Guys Meet For Breakfast
The mayor of a southern town hosting a gathering of BMW GS riders once said “These guys arrive with one undershirt and a $10 dollar bill. Then they stay a week, changing neither one.” That cannot be denied. I have seen several GS riders, en route to remote and desolate destinations on the far side of Canada, stop just long enough to chew the bark on young birch trees. They get this way from making BMW bike payments and from occasionally buying spare parts. These transactions can force a man to live on $3.80 a week, all that is left from a $4,000 weekly pay check.
Sleeping with the GPS under the pillow becomes a reflex action for many BMW riders on weekend runs where each day begins with the tradition of “2,000 miles before breakfast.”
Many BMW riders wear full protective gear when they piss because they are doing so at 90 miles per hour, while standing on the seat, with the most important tool on the bike in their hand. Naturally, they are wearing riding gloves. This practice, taught by most BMW clubs as a rite of initiation, can save up to 28 minutes a day. This is a significant economy of riding time as the average BMW Saturday afternoon run is the distance between Chicago and Tahiti. Things are more difficult for women, who must drop their pants. Many feel shy about this if they do not have a perfect tan on their butt, or a coiffed squirrel.
Now I do not mean to imply that the Mac-Pac does not have its share of douches. There are exactly six, and they always sit together at breakfast. Just look to see who is always sitting together to find them. You can confirm your sighting by asking them, “What is the best oil for my bike?”
The person who responds with, “The absolute best oil to use...,” is the head douche.
Dear Twisted Roads:
I have been a mental health professional serving the needs of the maniacally insane for over 25 years. Even a casual reading of remarks left on a previous blog episode, allegedly by “SnowQueen,” describing the publisher of this blog — Jack Riepe — as good looking, stimulating, and sensual, would lead anyone to believe there is a woman in basement someplace, wearing a ski mask while trying to start a chainsaw.
Now this may seem like a nice diversion for a few sentimental readers, but things are likely to change quickly when the door of the Twisted Roads office is sliced into sawdust by an infuriated “SnowQueen” looking for justice. And from what I can tell, she may certainly deserve it. Forcing a gentle beauty to ride pillion on what amounts to an outboard motor (1975 Kawasaki H2) with two tires is nothing less than the height of male hubris. In fact, seven southern states still have laws against this. Adding insult to injury was the fact this “bike” was painted in a shade of reddish purple that occurs only in bad science fiction.
In a more perfect world, real men would hold Riepe down while the SnowQueen diced him into lizard chum. The only thing saving Riepe’s life right now might be that most chainsaw killers neglect small engine maintenance in the winter. Chances are the plug needs replacing, the oil and gas have probably separated, and the chain itself is need of lubrication. Since this blog so frequently dwells in the land of the extinct two-stroke street bike, I think it is only fair that one or two articles on two-stroke engine maintenance appear, regardless of the danger to its author and publisher.
Dr. Albert Hissingaz
Wilmington Institute, Wilmington, NY
Dear Dr. Hissingaz:
If I had a dime for every woman who tried to kill me, I could afford to donate another book to the Wilmington Institute’s extensive research library, bringing its total up to 23. Woman have tried to shoot me... Poison me... And marry me to death. Things got so bad in one of my marriages that the dog would no longer take scraps from my side of the table. My neighbor would cover his ears and close his eyes every time I started the car. One wife even ripped my soul out and held it in her hand while crows pecked at it. (The soul of a moto-blog writer is often confused with a huge testicle.) And still, I have endured.
Though the SnowQueen has once again slipped into oblivion, I sent a box of Big Jim’s “Riotously Delicious” Chocolate Chip Cookies to her last known address. She’ll have to put the chainsaw down to eat even one... And with that first bite (the culinary personification of the battered baby seal look), I will be saved.
Thank you for your concern...
Dear Twisted Roads:
Moved by one of Jack Riepe’s weekly appeals to buy one of his current books (Politically Correct Cigar Smoking For Social Terrorists), I ordered a copy provided it was personally autographed and inscribed “with a highly motivational” text. I followed the complex ordering instructions and paid in South African Krugerrands as requested. While the book itself lived up to expectation (with stories curing baldness, removing crabgrass, and promoting marital harmony), the personal inscription was illegible. I hired an Egyptologist to transcribe the hieroglyphics scrawled on the front — to no avail.
This expert concluded that this was either data from the Dead Sea scrolls or a horoscope for the missing 2000 years from the Mayan calendar. On a bet, I had a Seeing Eye Dog sniff it. The animal gave it a good going over, then lifted its leg on chapters 6 through 10. Can I send a picture of this page to the Twisted Roads editorial staff for a translation? Otherwise, may I suggest Riepe train a chimp to autograph books? Then again, if he could train a chimp to autograph them, he could probably train a primate to get this blog out on time as well.
Fort Worth, Texas
Dear Colin C:
Your correspondence — and that of every Twisted Roads reader — is important to us, which is why we passed it on to the Director of Marketing, which is the code we use around here for “Legal.” The last time we saw the Director of Marketing, he was sniffing the seat of a motorcycle last ridden by a fashion model in a lingerie ad. You may not be aware of this, but Jack Riepe has a medical condition that causes him to brush his teeth with gin, and to drink bottles of Woolite® from brown paper bags. He autographs books from his work station, which is on the curb of a Cape May, NJ street corner. Please accept a box of Big Jim’s Riotiously Delicious Chocolate Chip cookies for your trouble. A box will be sent to you shortly. (All of Big Jim’s Riotiously Delicious Chocolate Chip cookies are sold by the box. Some boxes may appear to be half eaten, like the one you’re getting. Please be advised that this is an optical illusion. You did not get the open box that was on Riepe’s desk.)
Pauley “Fitz” Tooley
TW Marketing Director
The "Dispatches From The Front" section of Twisted Roads considers any and all legitimate letters from readers who are bikers. Please address your letters to "email@example.com, placing the phrase "Dispatches From The Front" in the subject line. Selected letters will receive "promotional awareness" tokens at our discretion.
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