"Death On The Prairie"
Dear Twisted Roads:
I was crossing the North Dakota prairie on my 1975 Harley Davidson Iron Head Sportster with my mother-in-law on the pillion. I have been married for 22 years and have avoided giving this old bitch a ride until now. My wife recently agreed to a threesome — with a pole dancer from a local moto watering hole — if I would just take the old bat out for a good high-speed run.
This Harley’s got straight pipes that roar as loud and as ceaselessly as summer thunder, and I could still hear my mother-in-law bitching about my shortcomings. She started with the usual horse shit about how her daughter could have done so much better than the guy who mops up the containment room at a nuclear facility... How none of her other high school boy friends had “Eat Me” tattooed on their foreheads... And how none of her other guys drank beer from bullet holes in the beer keg.
I was about to go deaf when a wild turkey flew across the road and swacked her dead-center in the open-faced helmet. I glanced in the mirror and saw the remains of a huge Tom jammed into her gaping maw. Suddenly, all I could hear was growl of the bike and wind whistling around my goggles. It was the first time the old bag couldn’t talk in 30 years. For a minute, I thought she was going to fart herself to death. Being out on the silent prairie at 90 miles per hour was like finding yourself between pure thought and raw speed.
I realized she might choke and thought about getting her some medical attention. We were about 25 miles west of Fargo, North Dakota and I took her to a clinic — in Billings, Montana. I got there too late, though. The turkey was dead. My mother-in-law had nearly chewed through the 45-pound Tom by the time we got into the emergency room. I bought a turkey call for the ride back.
Here’s my question: do those turkey calls ever work?
Stanley “Sturgis” Slankowski
As a dedicated BMW GS rider and an engineer, I will attempt to give you a highly technical explanation that implies I actually know something about the subject. While the noise of a moving motorcycle may seem constant to the rider, the Doppler effect (named after Franz Doppler, an engineer who thought he was a huge cockroach) creates a moving barrage of sound to anything ahead and on the side of the machine. *Therefore, the full impact of the turkey call will only hit a stationary bird for a second, causing great confusion as to the call’s exact source.
It won’t work well if at all.
Next time, try duct taping the turkey call into your mother-in-law’s mouth. The constant high-pressure discharge of sound should draw turkeys up to ten miles ahead of the speeding bike. Of course, it may also succeed in attracting one 700-pound turkey. If this happens, pull over immediately and use the video camera app on your cell phone to tape the resulting mating ritual. Keep the bike running in case your mother-in-law wins.
* When a BMW-riding engineer uses the word "therefore," it means you are dense if you don't understand the conclusion.
Thanks for your question.
Outdoor Editor/Twisted Roads
"When In Washington, DC"
Dear Twisted Roads:
On a recent tour of Washington, D.C., prompted in part by a TW blog episode in which publisher Jack Riepe haunted a cemetery, I discovered there is a discernible lack of cosmetic surgery options in the nation’s Capitol. There were no facilities to get a boob job west of New York Avenue. No one would do a nose job on Pennsylvania Avenue. Oddly enough, I could get a hand job just about anyplace on Capitol Hill. Why is that?
Anal Park, Iowa
You were probably in Washington on one of the six days each year that Congress is in session. If you stand on the steps of the Capitol (the building under the huge gas-pressurizing dome) with your Johnson extended but ensconced in a glove, you will have it “shaken” by every third person exiting the facility, who will swear they are delighted to see you and sorry that you missed their 90-second annual contribution to government (a vote on postal regulations in Somoa).
Emmit “Brownie” Smearz
TW Political Editor
"Breaking Another Moto Guzzi Record"
Dear Twisted Roads:
I was riding through the Adirondack mountains when I pulled over to buy a half gallon of maple syrup at a roadside stand. The grizzled sourdough behind the counter assured me that the containers of syrup had been boiled down from the trees behind him the month before. I noticed that all of the syrup he had to sell was very dark. The syrup I have bought off supermarket shelves in my native New York City is very light. I suspected a con job and made that famous "New Yorker Aggravation Face" by puckering to the point where I looked like a pair of eyes over a cat's ass.
Then I demanded much lighter syrup.
The Adirondack gentleman explained that the syrup would lighten naturally if I shoved the container up my ass.
I was able to ride my Moto Guzzi 340 miles before the half-gallon container in my ass became a distraction. What is the record for riding an Italian motorcycle with a half-gallon container of syrup in one’s ass?
President And Total Membership
Salami Bikers International
33rd Street (Between 9th and 10th Avenue) Chapter
New York City, NY
Dear T.D. Filcher:
The record is 342 miles. You almost did it. If you go back and tell the guy his syrup tasted like piss, you could easily break the record for riding 340 miles with a boot in your ass.
TW Italian Bike Editor
"Lying To My BMW-Riding Lover"
Dear Twisted Roads:
I met a BMW rider in a bar the other night. (I don't know what kind of bike he rode but it's the one you see in all those old black and white pictures of the Civil War. It's the one with those jug things sticking out on the side.) Now I know that 99% of BMW riders are total douches, complete with the kind of conversation that would put a statue into a coma. (Keywords are “oil change" and “airhead.”) But this guy seemed different. He was full of life and outrageous stories. He told me he could make a face that gave him mystical seductive powers. He called it "The Manatee Mug." We had a couple of drinks and then he made this silly sort of face.
I let him believed it worked. I took him back to my place and took my clothes off.
Well, he was gone in the morning. And yet, I was troubled. I felt as if I had lied to him. That stupid face meant nothing to me. In fact, I faked all of those orgasms too. I even lied about my age. I am not 42-years-old, but 97. Still, I had a good time with him, even if I did have to buy all the drinks. So if you ever run into a guy named "Breg Dickstein," will you tell him I said "hello?"
Shades Of Death Nursing Home
Grey Thigh Gap, North Carolina
I will remind "Breg" of his encounter with you often.
"The Salami Of The Month Club"
Dear Twisted Roads:
I found an interesting internet dating site for single women interesting in meeting guys with motorcycles made in Italy. Using the "Two Wheeled Salami Dater's Hotline," I met a fascinating man who rides a Moto Guzzi. I was totally unfamiliar with this bike, which has a sideways-mounted, V-twin engine. The machine represents a timelessly clean Italian design that is really beautiful in every regard. The rider wants me to come over to his place (in exciting New York City) for pancakes. What should I do?
Anticipating your answer,
191 Dumont Road
Insist on an omelet instead. Anything that does not require maple syrup.
TW Food Editor
"Harley Riders Debate Classic Issue"
Dear Twisted Roads:
I am writing to you in my official capacity as the President of the Smegma Lac Harley Davidson "Classic" Riders, in Smegma Lac, Michigan. Each month, our club debates another issue of extreme pertinence to the riding community... then we conduct an outrageous wet tee shirt contest. This month's question has us stymied. Here it is, "What the hell was the Scots poet Robert Burns writing about when he penned the words 'Twa Corbies?'"
Smegma Lac Harley Davidson "Classic" Riders
Smegma Lac, Michigan
Dear President Gelding Thomas:
It is common knowledge throughout the Highlands of Scotland that when writing the words "Twa Corbies," Robert Burns was thinking about the difficulties of synchronizing the three carburetors on the legendary Kawasaki H2. Burns was not known for his patience, and the original quote was
"The fookin twa corbies on this piece a shite,
Adjust them as ye will in darkness or light,
Na' man nor God can get them a'right."
All the best to you...
TW Classics Expert
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Pictures Submitted By
Twisted Roads Readers...
"How big do you like 'em?"
Above: Wayne "Woody" Woodruff (Pennsylvania) likes them as big as his new BMW F800GT, one cool-looking bike. When asked the question, "What kind of rider has an F800GT," Woodruff smiled and simply gestured. (See tee shirt for explanation.)
Tuff Cookie Rider "Triumphs..."
The Secret K100 Turbo Project:
Above: Peter Frechi's (Pennsylvania) secret garage project: the K100 Turbo. Frechi has been working on this bike for 17 years now. Why? He wears a blindfold while doing the restoration work under the direction of Gerry Cavanaugh, who only speaks the Cantonese dialect of Chinese. Frechi is also deaf. Frechi has great expectations of this turbo-equipped BMW classic. He has named the bike "The Hindenburg."
Another Rider Plans To Leave The Pavement
Above: Dan McKenzie (Minnesota) proudly poses with his new Suzuki V-Strom 650, which he is equipping for expeditions that do not require pavement. A dedicated Twisted Roads reader, McKenzie claims he got the idea for riding in the dirt after reading it in this column for years.
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