Getting The Ton Pulled By Someone Else... A Reader Strikes Back!

I’m always delighted when Twisted Roads proves to be a lightning rod for readers responding to stories I’ve written. Paul P. Savagattis (not his real name) is a rider from New Jersey who was so deeply moved by my last blog episode — which detailed the first (and last) time I took a Kawasaki H2 750cc Death Bike over 100 mph — that he was compelled to share a similar experience. The tipping point for Paul was that the stretch of Interstate-80 (I-80) on which I choose to pull the ton (35 years ago) runs right through the town he called home as a kid. He pulled his stunt on US-46, which parallels the interstate, though under slightly different circumstances. And his machine was a BMW “R” Bike.

“Everything Leaves Fingerprints In A Small Town”
By Paul Savagattis (Not His Real Name)

Just west of Willowbrook Mall, on US-46, is my home town of Fairfield, NJ. Once a bucolic, almost rural New Jersey community, Fairfield today is barely on the edge of the great urban sprawl that surrounds the mega-tropolis that is New York City, about 25 miles to the east. Still, it has managed to retain much of its charm and appeal of bygone years, and I do not now live much farther away.

I occasionally rode with a few of my brother's police buddies, who liked my motorcycle cop leather, which consisted of 70 pounds of cow hide, adorned with epaulets. They thought less kindly of the BMW motorcycle I straddled, however, marking it as a symbol of the Third Reich. Their preference was for the Harley Davidson of the period, or just about anything else — including Japanese marques.

There is a one-mile stretch of road on the eastbound side of US-46 that had no highway entries and all cross-roads were on overpasses. It was a great place to open the throttle without fear of drunks entering the roadway. It should also be noted that the local whitetail deer (rats on stilts) had been hunted almost to extermination back then
and were extremely rare. (This is no longer the case.)

Returning from late night dates, I often let the “R” bike run on this stretch... And while never hitting the red line on the tach, I could get an indicated reading of 107 mph on the speedo. Bikes weren’t made the same way they are today, including Beemers, and mine vibrated more than a “Vic Tanny” ass-shaker.

One night, I was ripping along at the speed of light and passed a police car tucked away beneath the concrete pylon of an overpass.

“Fuck me,” I shouted into my helmet, predicting what was likely to be the next step. At the time, Fairfield had many dedicated officers who fell into the category of being total pricks. The fact that this guy was hidden on the median at 1:30am was a good indication that he was taking scalps and mine was next to be hanging from his belt. There could be no explaining 52 miles per hour over the posted speed limit. And a speeding ticket was likely to double my $69 insurance. (Remember he days when $69 bought anything?)

The next exit was mine, and my house was close to the ramp.

I took the turn at the maximum speed possible and ripped into the open garage, coming to a halt next to my brother Tommy’s Triumph Trident. I sat on the bike in total darkness for a minute or two, and noted there were no red and blue flashing lights in my wake. Could the cop have been sleeping? Taking a piss? Reading a book on personality improvement?

I went into the kitchen with the intent of raiding the fridge. My mom kept a police scanner there because her “number two son: Thomas” was a police special volunteer, and because she had been planning a local bank heist for years. The scanner was still droning at 1:30am, and I heard:

(Dispatch) “202.”

(Police car) “202.”

(Dispatch) “What’s going on out there, 202?”

(Police car) “Not much, kind of quiet.... Tommy’s brother just went by here doing over 100 mph, but not much else going on.”

I started laughing my ass off. And then it occurred to me: Black bike... German jugs... Windjammer fairing... and Gestapo riding gear equals “Tommy’s brother.” I decided to limit my life of crime to fewer of these 35-second rides.

Respectfully submitted,

Paul Savagattis (Not his real name)

Twisted Roads does not advocate the irresponsible operation of motorcycles, excessive speeding, nor unlawful activity with a motor vehicle. Yet we were all kids once... And once was enough. The publisher defies anyone who has owned a hot-running bike in the past to say they never had a little "bad boy" fun with it. Speaking to the graduating class at the College of Cardinals, Twisted Roads Publisher Jack Riepe once said, "Show me a biker who never passed an RV or a slow moving farm vehicle over double yellow lines, and I'll show you a real douche."


The Rites Of Spring...

Dear Mr. Riepe:

The warm April sun is falling on bunches of daffodils that are scattered about the yard like random crowds at an old-fashioned outdoor concert. They bob in a kind of agreement to each rumor of the gentle breeze, and seem to be waiting expectantly for something... Maybe for the music to start... Actually, they are waiting for the neighbor’s cat to again move among them.

I never had much luck with plants, and was advised that I should talk to those struggling for survival in the garden. (My garden looked like last summer’s yam crop in Uganda, where it rains once every 37 years.) What does one say to plants?

Casual conversation... Motivational thoughts... And personal entreaties to grow all fell upon deaf ears. These plants were resigned to a brief, withering existence. And then, as a last resort, I started reading your book — Politically Correct Cigar Smoking For Social Terrorists — from the deck each day. The daffodils began to perk up in less than a week. I noticed they would even turn away from the sun to follow my voice around the yard, as long as I was reading your book aloud. Finally (around chapter 16), I realized the daffodils had developed an apparent collectively aggressive personality.

This became evident one morning, when my neighbor’s cat —Miss Tuffet — came over to take her daily piss in my yard. Cats have a very mediocre sense of smell and their urine is scented so that others of their kind can sense the feline presence. (I can assure you there is not another cat within 20 miles of the yard.) Miss Tuffet went among the daffodils, and let out a wail as they attached themselves to her like lampreys. She jumped the fence to the neighbor’s driveway doing about 60 miles-per-hour. (I think that is very fast for an animal with a fat, furry, useless ass like hers.)

As a neighborly gesture, I cut a dozen of these flowers, put them in water, and gave them to the old bitch next door. I haven’t seen her, nor the cat, in a week.

I bought the book as part of your last promotion, in which you offered one for the price of $30, and a second for the original cover price of $15. I gave the second book to my riding buddy, Irv, who’s been reading it to his mother-in-law’s parakeet. (This objectionable old witch makes the bird take a sunflower seed from her lips for a treat.) I understand the little parakeet ripped the old lady’s tongue out yesterday.

These results are probably not typical, and undoubtedly not worth mentioning. But I though you’d be interested anyway.

Sincerely,
Dewey Simko
Amish Curse, Pa


Teeth Like A Chainsaw...

Dear Mr. Riepe:

I found a copy of your book — Politically Correct Cigar Smoking For Social Terrorists — on a table at the place where I go to get my nails done. I was having having a bad day, following an argument with “Bill,” my husband of 12 years. Bill is your average guy. He plays golf, cuts the grass, yells at the television, and keeps a nice coat of wax on the car. In his spare time, he is a prick.

I decided I wanted some fun n my life, and opted to get a nice Harley-Davidson for Saturday afternoon rides to a place with a pool table and guys who communicate through animated tattoos. Naturally, Bill raised an objection and said, “No.” I was crushed that he felt this way, and mortified that he thought he could tell me “No.”

That was when I found your book. I started reading it in the bathroom, where I discovered its natural properties as a laxative. Then I found myself reading it in bed at night. Within three weeks, I was amazed to learn my vagina had grown a set of teeth. They were the sort of teeth you’d find on a chainsaw. I further discovered I could audibly grind them whenever Bill gave me that “special” look.

We now have matching Harley’s, our own custom pole cues, and award-winning tattoos — all because you started smoking cigars when you were four-years-old. (You should see how Bill turns pale every time he hears a chainsaw.) And by the way, the two chapters on motorcycles and cigars brought me to tears for their realism and heart-warming conclusions. (Imagine you, crashing you bike in front of a titty bar?) I recently purchased two of your books, at the special rate of $30 for the first one and $15 for the second, so I could share the joy with two of my close personal friends, who are also married to shit heads. They’re now getting motorcycles too. Marge (housewife and bookie) is getting a “Sportster” like mine, and Cheri Pie (exotic dancer with a huge rack) is getting a BMW K1600 and a trained python.

Has anyone else sent you a story like this? Shouldn’t I win a box of Big Jim’s “Insanely Delicious Cookies,” or something?

Yours truly,

Shirley Pinafore
Dago Beach, Ca.

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