Cheri Pie -- Recipe For Road Romance

This is a repeat story that ran on a smaller, BMW list last year. I am using this opportunity to share this piece with a greater number of readers while I recover from an arthritis attack today. The pictures and the links are both new and informative. -- Jack

I once asked the legendary solo biker Doug Raymond (Philly to Prudhoe Bay on the Arctic Circle in Alaska and back in 13 days) how he got started one of his big runs? He just smiled and said, “I generally get on the bike.”

I was actually looking for a bit more detail than that, but sometimes that’s all it takes. On this particular day, I needed a destination. Did you ever have one of those days where you wanted to see something new, but you didn’t feel like going very far? Or a day where you didn’t mind going far but you just didn’t feel like packing for it? These generally occur on a hot summer day, when inspiration is at its lowest point.

On this day, I went into my study, picked up an atlas, and thrust my finger into the center of it. My destination would lay at my fingertip. And considering how lazy I felt, I was hoping it would be with a 100-mile radius of the house.

It was. My finger was solidly planted on Camden, New Jersey.

Camden is one of the few US cities that has an ongoing State Department warning urging citizens to go someplace else. One of the last hotels in the city advertises upper floor rooms beyond the reach of standard small arms. As a destination, this place required some measure of preparation. I wouldn’t have to pack much though as it would be practical to sleep in my helmet and ballistic gear.

Camden, NJ is one of the few places left in the United States where 

a battleship stands ready to shell the city at point blank range.

Nothing saps a man’s strength, resolve, or good will like summer heat. Thirst and dehydration were my greatest fears. I went to that great source of data -- the internet -- to look up four or five potential places enroute that might serve as an alternate destination in the event the day clouded over. Under the heading "The Alternative," I found several items of interest that did not relate to Camden. These included a site for sexual rituals and an organization advocating murder over divorce for immediate financial relief.

I altered my search to "T&A" (as in “the alternative”). This produced the listings I had in mind. (Did you know that “T&A” is also a show business term?) According to the internet references, one should have at least $50 in singles when entering a T&A oasis. I had $40 in singles and a $10 roll of quarters left over from last year’s Christmas bonus. My boss didn’t mean to give me a shitty $10 bonus in quarters last year. But if I hadn’t swiped it from petty cash, I’d have gotten nothing. I slipped it into my front pants pocket.

I had no idea at the time the role this roll was to play in my survival. I suited up in my ballistic jacket, threw my leg over the K75, and roared off into the August heat.

Dehydration is the number one enemy of bikers on the road. It sneaks up on you and makes your sweat run cold. The temperature was in the mid-90's when I roared out onto Rt. 202, and headed north. Roaring might be a bit of an exaggeration, considering I ride a BMW K75. This bike makes a noise like a hummingbird caught in a top hat. The sound didn't last long as traffic was at standstill. So here I was, the world's largest living mammal, dressed in black, sitting on a nuclear reactor in the sunshine, behind a Parabellum fairing the size of a sheet of plywood.

I began giving off 25,000 BTUs per minute.

It was time to look for an oasis. The closest stop on my list was "The Velvet Pocket," a joint of faded glory in Phoenixville. Parked outside this place was an F650, with a leopard-skin cover over the gas tank. The bike belonged to Cheri Pie, a gifted pole dancer who was inside plying her trade at the moment. She was wearing a tee shirt adorned with a picture of a BMW F650 over three words: "Women In Chains." Below that, she wore only an invitation.

Not quite Cheri Pie's Leopard F650 but you get the idea.

Owner:  Sang Nguyen -- Exotic Vehicle Collector

My adventure had begun in earnest.

I took a seat up front. Cheri Pie hadn't taken her eyes off me from the second I swirled the dim light with my presence.

"You are a BMW rider," she said, biting her lower lip.

"Maybe," I answered in my unmistakable Clint Eastwood way. "How can you tell?"

"Because you are sitting in a T&A bar, wearing a ballistic jacket, helmet, and gloves," she replied.

"All of the gear, all of the time," I said in a purposeful voice, absently tapping the roll of quarters in my front pocket.

"Oooooooooooooo." she said.

The local chrome and noise biker crowd arrived at this time. It was clear they thought the place was theirs. Cheri Pie was a bonus to be passed around, with everyone taking a slice. The leader was a neckless human tattoo wrapped in leather pants, a leather vest, and a leather jacket. Cheri Pie looked like a deer caught in the headlights of a stream roller.

"You," he said, pointing at me. "Get the fuck out."

I stood slowly and reached for the bottle of rum on my table. I showed the bottle to the bikers, tapping it with my keys to indicate it was glass. Then I shattered it against the roll of quarters in my crotch.

"Damn," said the leader of the chrome and noise boys. "That's tough."

"Now you try it."

To his credit, he picked up a bourbon bottle and smashed himself in the balls. A second later he was on the floor moaning.

"Anybody else," I asked. There were no takers. "I'm leaving and I'm taking the girl."

Three minutes later I was on the road again, and Cheri Pie was riding alongside on her F650.

"Where are we going," she shouted.

"Camden."

The look of fear returned to her eyes the second time that day.

To be continued...

Copyright Jack Riepe 2007
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac-Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Delphi)
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With A Shrug)

The Best Pick-Up Line For A Middle-Aged Man: “Wanna Ride On My Harley?”

There was a time when I didn't own a BMW K75, or any bike, as money was tight... But I still wanted to enjoy the benefits of riding — like hot women. This story is from that time.

Middle-age creeps up on a man like a bad hangover. In your 20’s, it’s a rumor. In your 30’s, it’s like the land you think you can see when staring at the ocean’s horizon. But it begins to make its presence known in your 40’s. You don’t look as good in jeans as you used to, and your hairline may start to receed as your gut begins a definite downward droop. And even if you work out and play tennis, jog or pole vault, certain umistakable signs give your age away.

I know a guy who does everything but pack himself in nitrogen every night in a futile effort to keep his stud appeal. He had a handelbar mustache like a moose’s antlers. It gave his face a distinctive character. And while he’s managed to stay fairly thin and keep a respectable head of hair, his signature mustache turned snowy white when he hit 50.

“I had to shave it off,” he said to me, crying into a low carb, invisible calorie, no-taste beer one night. “I tried everything. Shoe polish... Grecian Formula... Dye... Everything looked stupid. And without coloring it, I looked like Captain friggin’ Kangeroo. No matter what I used, it would leave black marks all over the lips, neck, and bodies of cooperative, passionate women. They’d laugh in my face and leave.”

Since shaving off his mustache, however, he’s cut out the middle man. Without that distinctive mustache, women now laugh in his face and leave without going home with him.

This guy — and a lot of others — make the mistake of trying to appear sexy and youthful by clinging onto props that can only weather and wither. They get tattoes, earings, tans, and hair implants. And for what? They still look like scarecrows or fatties trying to be high school football stars. I have discovered the best approach to looking sexy and virtually immortal is to be identified with a symbol that is timeless... Like a Harley Davidson motorcycle.

The Harley is timeless. Once the icon of lawless nomads, it has come to signify enduring youth with an undeniable sense of individualism and coolness. Nothing sounds like a Harley, and nothing generates the throbbing, pulsating power of sexual rhythm (if you catch my drift) like a Harley Davidson motorcycle. The main problem with Harleys is that they don’t give them away. (Harley's have other problems, but since no one rides one more than 60 miles at a time they are not important.) In fact, those who sell Harleys understand they are selling Milwaukee Iron manhood extendors and price them accordingly. Inductuction into the club requires more than a little jack.

Successful middle-aged men occasionally have this jack to spare. Since I collected wives in my youth (and college tuitions lately), the only jack I have is under the bumper of a rusting truck in the driveway. And yet I have developed a strategy that puts the Harely Davidson magic to work for me.

In the far reaches of Pennsylvania, there is a gentlemens establishment that attracts a certain class of exotic woman. (The type who under normal curcumstances wouldn’t look at me twice. One, because I have that middle-aged beaten look; and two, because I am a middle-aged beaten man.) I put on my best pair of stressed jeans (accented with an oil stain and a few threadbare patches), tuck them into a pair of biker boots, and throw on a weathered leather jacket. I carry a Viking helmet (horns and all) under my arm and head out to this particular watering hole.

If you get there at just the right time, the crowd is inside and the bikes are largely unattended outside. I just stand around next to an unusual looking one. Sooner or later, a passing hot tamale assumes the Harley is mine and makes a comment, which is generally an invitation to get to know her better. When the bar closes six hours later and the bikes have all left, I claim my Harley was stolen and we head over to my place to commiserate.

Last week, things took a different turn. The lady in question was as hot as lava from the source. Tanned, long blonde hair, and eyes the color of conspiracy, she asked, “That your Harley?”

“Yeah,” I said, looking away with staged indifference, thinking “Wow!”

“Does it throb?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Does it pulsate?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Do ya wanna take me for a throbbing, pulsating ride?”

“Yeah,” I stammered. “In about six hours, when this joint closes. Let's go in and figure out the route we should take.”

“Know what?” she asked. “You’re not gonna take me for a ride on this throbbing, pulsating, manhood extendor.”

“Well maybe not right away,” I stuttered... “If you’d like to come inside for a while, however...”

“Know why?"

I suspected the punch line was going to feel like a kick in the balls.

"Because this Harley is mine,” she said. And in an instant, she was on it and reving it to a prehistoric growl.

“Wanna ride on my Harley?” she shouted over the roar.

It’s still the best pickup line I have ever heard.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2004
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac-Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Delphi)
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With A Shrug)

The Hard Way Down -- And Slightly To The Left

The recently released motorcycle epic “The Long Way Down,” (starring Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman) has me thinking. The U.S. is routinely crisscrossed by bikers every year. In fact, they have gotten rather regular about it. Two 70-year-olds have recently ridden Vespas across the country without batting an eye. Doug Raymond of the Mac-Pac Eating and Wrenching Society rode a BMW street bike from Philadelphia to Prudhoe Bay, Alaska (on the Arctic circle) and back again in 13 days. (This included about 1,000 miles on the Haul Road, which is gravel.)

Even the world has been circumvented on two wheels. Beyond McGregor and Boorman, Edde Mendez (Moto Edde another Mac-Pac member) rode east from Morocco to Philadelphia, through the Sahara in Africa, up through Turkistan, through China and Russia, and across the U.S. for a total of 29,000 miles. He did this on a K75. Ted Simon of Jupiter’s Travels and the Raven brothers are just two other examples of riders whose combined efforts have left little pavement or dirt track unexplored.

All of the great motorcycle exploration rides have been taken. I recently heard of a rider who pulled into a remote African village on a dung and mud-covered BMW GS, opened his arms to say “Hello,” -- and caught a rock on his helmet just above his left eye. He was the 53rd rider to stop at this village in a month, and they were sick and tired of sharing what little they had with BMW riders who insisted on “separate checks.” According to Chief Mogube Alazumbo, “BMW riders arrive here with a one undershirt and a ten dollar bill. They stay a week without changing either one.”

Another village admits to offering adventure riders half-fermented goat’s milk and dried yams as a means to discourage their visits. “We ourselves eat a rather diverse menu, with various meats cooked to perfection, and several exotic vegetables that have a great taste and a Viagra-type effect,” says village headman Matua Nuttususi. “We would never share these with the hoard of visiting BMW riders. They’d be on us like locusts.” A third village hides their women when approaching motorcycles can be heard, letting goats wander about the streets untethered. “The appetites of these riders can be very strange,” said Utsi Baluka, a shepherd and nontraditional matchmaker.

Most of South America has been traversed by bikers too. The only parts left untouched are malarial swamps, snake and leech infested bogs, and stretches of virtual road jealously guarded by bandits to the point where riding on them is tantamount to suicide. Riders looking for manageable adventure at a price can enlist the services of specialty companies like Enduro Himalaya (http://www.endurohimalaya.com/gallery.htm), to be guided over ribbon-like roads bordering certain death in the highest mountain range on earth. You should look at their web site. Take the slide show. It is the only motorcycle tour I know where riders are encouraged to wear parachutes. (The slide show on this site has changed. The current pictures are certainly colorful and exciting, but the previous collection showed stretches of road that would scare the shit out of anyone.)

But this raises the question, “What adventure is left for the common man?”

I am proposing to make an epic ride, to be documented on film, that will cover a side of motorcycling that has yet to be presented on the pages of any book, or on the silver screen. It will be called “The Hard Way Down -- And Slightly To The Left.” This epic run will start in New York City and will be the story of one man’s -- and three women’s -- ride from Fifth Avenue to Key West. Using little advance planning, the group will be forced to stay in Deluxe or First Class hotels, eat only in four-star restaurants, and share jacuzzis under the harshest of conditions. In some cases the group will be forced to ride in light drizzle, heavy dusk, and and some extreme cases, bright sunlight. It will be the story of how room service meets the open road.

I have begun a search for sponsors, and for three women who would be interested in making this trip with me. Ideally, I am looking for a blonde, a brunette, and a red head, who share my philosophy of the open mind, the open road, and the open kimono. If necessary, I will consider Swedish twins as one rider. Now some of you will read this and laugh. But I am dead serious. The finished product will have the complexity of “Easy Rider, the technical polish of “The Blair Witch Project,” and the rakish dignity of “Jackass -- The Movie.”

Let’s face it... There something about conquering the elements that appeals to the primal man or woman in all of us. Yet there is also a degree of satisfaction in besting a head waiter or in getting a suite for the price of a regular room, that when coupled with motorcycling, is almost as good as the first five miles of gravel in Turkistan. It’s certainly better than the yurts I’ve seen in Turkistan.

Any ladies interested in making this run with me should indicate so in the comments below. Prospective sponsors should use my e-mail at the upper right of the blog.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2008
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac-Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Delphi)
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With A Shrug)

Have Dinner On Me!

Dear Esteemed Rider Friends and Colleagues:

At the end of every month, two lucky names will be picked at random from those who leave a comment on my blog --
http://jackriepe.blogspot.com/ -- to receive a gift card worth up to $50 for dinner or lunch at a popular chain restaurant in their respective states. Restaurants will include or be similar to Appleby's, TGIF's, or The Olive Garden. Winners will be notified and posted each month on my blog -- Twisted Roads.

1) To enter, simply click on the word "comments" that follows the signature line of each post. Type your comment in the dialogue box that will appear on your screen, then click on "publish your comment."

2) You may comment as often or as little as you like, but repeat comments (identical in nature or text) will be deleted.

3) Commercial announcements will not be counted and deleted instead.

4) Contest subject to change without notification

5) Contest void where prohibited.

6) Twisted Roads not responsible if the meal sucks or illness occurs from eating peppers, tomatoes, or old waitresses.

7) Dinners cards or certificates must be used within one year of issue.

At present there are three stories posted since August 1, 2008. August 1 is the contest start date.

Good luck. The blog URL is:

http://jackriepe.blogspot.com/

My Short Tenure As A Biker Gang Leader

The two shaky white-glowing orbs framed in my Napoleon bar mirrors quickly grew into the image of motorcycles, and a fast over-the-shoulder look revealed a custom chopper and a Harley Softail Springer on my tail. Despite wearing hides of animals on the endangered species list, both riders were gents, and maintained a respectable distance in a staggered formation. These machines had straight pipes, the roar of which caused the capillaries in my eyes to pulsate -- despite the fact I was in front of them.

The 2009 Harley Softail Springer "Cross Bones" has the classy, sexy lines of a biker's bike.

The rider on the left sported a chrome half-helmet and aviator-style glasses. The chopper's fork stuck out further than the reach of my second's wife's lawyer. The bike was a gorgeous metallic green, framed in chrome. I couldn't really see the Springer as well as I would have liked, but the rider seemed the part, with tattoes of hell and a grimace to match.

"Damn," I thought. "I should move over and let them by."

Rolling off the throttle slowed my '86 Beemer K-75 down a hair, a move these two guys simply copied. Surfing on the surge of sound, it occurred to me that this is what is must be like to lead a small -- but elite -- motorcycle gang.

I twisted the throttle out and the two bikers followed along like we were part of a synchronized Olympic event. This suited me to a "t." For a brief moment in time, it appeared as if two iron-horsed strangers had elected me leader and were determined to do my bidding. (Bear in mind I am also under the impression that most of the women I pass in cars want to have sex with me.) There are those who believe I read a lot into things.

The left turn signals on the trailing bikes winked on as we approached an intersection, and I realized my tenure as leader was about to end.

"Screw that," I thought, switching on my left turn signal as well.

We all banked into the turn like the Rocketts going through a routine at Radio City Music Hall. I was a bit more aggressive with the throttle now , as I didn't want this odd coincidence to prompt these guys to zip around me. They appeared to take my maneuvering in stride.

Nothing says "biker gang" like the classic "chopper."

Two miles later, their turn signals blinked on again, telegraphing a turn to the right. Once again, I also signaled a turn to the right. This prompted a quick exchange of glances between the other riders, who were beginning to catch on. This stretch of road ran us through a residential section, bracketing a small park. The speed limit dropped to 35 mph, which brought loud growls and staccato barks from the Harleys. To my delight, this happened at the entrance to the park, in which a dozen or so women were walking or jogging around a track.

Every head snapped around to the sound of the Harley pipes.

"Boy is this great," I thought. I had often envisioned myself at the head of a small biker gang, roaring into a village. In my mind, women would bite their upper lips, and run out on balconies -- while lifting their shirts -- at the roar of the exhaust. This wasn't quite the same thing, but it wasn't bad.

It must of looked somewhat odd though: two lean, tough-looking Harley riders, following the Michelin Tire Man on a futuristic BMW from 1986. I made the best of it, and attempted to look tough by jutting out my chin in a scornful pose once used to great effect by Benito Mussolini. I was noticed by two ladies, who then seemed to share a private joke as they busted out laughing.

It was at this juncture in the ride that I lost my gang. An explosion of sound behind me announced my escort was disappearing down a side road. I couldn't help but notice that neither rider bothered to signal this time. They had figured out that their leader, a biker lamprey, had been attracted by the light of their turn signals. They were taking no chances this time. I thought of pursuing them but gave this idea up as being beneath the dignity of a leader.

I figured an impression had been made on the ladies at the park, however, and I turned back hoping to get a little skirt action. I jazzed my engine while passing again through the epicenter of lovelies. The Beemer snarled like a wild electric razor running over a tough patch of chin whiskers. I'm sure this sound would have melted some cast-iron feminine resolve, if it hadn't been drowned out by the noise of the crickets in the park.

My arrival back at the house was shrouded in private humility, as I was sure the ride's details were known only to myself. However, it seems one of my girl’s friends was in the park that afternoon, and had called her to report I was being pursued by two biker toughs, who looked like they were going to beat the shit out of me.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2005
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac-Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Delphi)
AKA The Chamberlain -- Perdition’s Socks (With A Shrug)

Film Review --Three And A Half Stars For “The Long Way Down”

Rare is the rider who doesn’t dream about the sun silhouetting exotic spires on a distant horizon, or carving a turn into the kind of setting one finds on the cover of National Geographic, or pitching a tent among an ancient people whose heritage includes selfless hospitality. “The Long Way Down” is rich in each of these elements as it documents the 19-country ride of Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman, from John O’Groats in Scotland to Cape Town in South Africa.

Similar to the loosely structured plot of their first epic ride “The Long Way Around,” this film is the next in the genre of reality ride documentaries that combine breathtaking scenery with personal challenge and glimpses of life (or threats to it) in some of the remotest parts of the world. In the opening scenes of “The Long Way Down,” McGregor and Boorman explain how they wanted to do another ride that did not require the same commitment in time as did their last run. Both stated how they didn’t want t be away from their families for an extended absence.

What passed for a compromise was a 15,000-mile ride spanning 85 days. The starting point is a hauntingly desolate castle in a peculiarly-named town in Scotland, perched on the only peak confronting the sea for miles around. While the near adolescent exuberance of McGregor and Boorman -- set to bubbling over their pending departure -- is akin to the sort of dialogue one encountered in movies starring the Monkees in 1965, the viewer cannot help but wish more time was spent on the castle.

Our heroes retraced their steps to London, reshuffled their gear, and hit the high road taking the tunnel to Continental Europe. I found it oddly satisfying that McGregor and Boorman rode in the rain from Scotland to Italy. Camera angles were evenly divided between helmet cams, fork cams, and crew cams mounted to two Land Rover-type vehicles during the film. Two of the scenes shot in Italy included seeing the boys ride classic BMW R1200GS Adventures on the Appian Way, and a heart-stopping stretch on hairpin curves high above the coast. It was here that some clown flew out of an intersection and nearly scrubbed McGregor into history.

The ride truly gets fascinating when they cross into Lybia, where their American cameraman and security officer was unable to get a visa. The terrain in Africa changes dramatically from one country to another, with the road surface generally indicative of the local economy. The scene where Boorman and McGregor ride their bikes within feet of the pyramids was unbelievable. It is amazing to see a ribbon of hard-paved road thread its way through the dessert. The ferry ride from Aswan (and the temple of Abu Simbel) was like something out of the 1930’s.

There were the obligatory “riding the BMW’s through hip-deep sand” shots, which are still amazing. These were followed by the obligatory “riding the BMW’s through the hip-deep mud” shots. In this segment, they were escorted by a Kenyan paramilitary patrol, the leader of which had this look in his eyes that plainly said to me he desperately wanted to kick these two Bozos in the ass. The fact that we have all seen motorcycles snarling their way through endless sand does not take away from the accomplishments of these riders. There were plenty of days when McGregor and Boorman slogged through 350 miles of this stuff.

What would Africa be without wild animals? In Kenya, McGregor sneaks up on an elephant. Now I am not the world’s smartest individual, but I know better than to try that. There was a moment in which the gentle viewer was almost certain that McGregor would have to be peeled from between the elephant’s toes.

The incident with the elephant is the kind of larger than life episode that one associates with the big game nature of Africa. There are scenes where our heroes pull over to watch zebras, monkeys, wildebeests, gnus, sheep, and exotic cattle cross the road. In Uganda, they take a 90-minute hike to study gorillas in the rain forest. I always associate a more insidious side of life with places like Africa, however, and was gratified to see my suspicions surface. Camped someplace on the veldt, McGregor and Boorman find themselves surrounded by columns of “army” ants.

These are the kind of insects that vote, collect taxes, and subjugate small communities that have no phones (so the residents cannot call an exterminator). Thanks to the Discovery Channel, it is widely known that these creatures can strip the hide off a cape buffalo in less than an hour. McGregor and Boorman simply charted the course of the ants and stepped around them with a flashlight. In the morning, they discovered they were surrounded and that millions of these little suckers stood poised on their back legs, waving their mandibles in the air.

I would have drained two quarts of gasoline out of the GS’s tank and treated the ants to an amazing pyrotechnic display.

The viewer is treated to some stunning photography in this film. And a good deal of it is very unexpected. I had no idea how beautiful Ethiopia was. Sudan runs the spectrum with metropolitan Khartoum on one end, and vast lunar-like expanses on the other. Uganda is an explosion of color.

Yet the most poignant scenery is also the most tragic. This is in Rwanda, where the road surface is largely a rumor. It is here that McGregor and Boorman are given a tour of a wrecked church, where some 2000 people were executed in an act of genocide. Their skulls are still in the church.

First and foremost, however, this film is about motorcycling. Both McGregor and Boorman have found a formula for doing what most of us dream about. McGregor very candidly admitted that he has a penchant for dropping the R1200Gs Adventure. To prove his point, he drops it about 267 times on this ride. Boorman is more modest when it comes to drops, but shameless about staging wheelies on the world’s heaviest dirt bike. Had I been on this ride, the most commonly heard phrase would have been, “Mr. Riepe’s stunt double to the set please.”

A new twist for “Down” was having McGregor’s wife, Eve, show up for 5 days of riding. Eve had just gotten her license and dropped her bike at least four times on camera. Now this low of me, but after all I am a man. Eve McGregor is easy on the eyes, but Charley Boorman’s wife (who is only on camera for about 30 seconds) is drop-dead gorgeous. I don’t care if Charley’s wife doesn’t know how to ride a bike. She has other virtuous qualities.

The biggest difference between “The Long Way Around” and “TLW- Down” is in the interaction of the riders. McGregor does not spend hours whining about not meeting the common people as he did in “TLW - Around.” This may be because there was no other option. Also there is no friction evident between McGregor and Boorman on this ride. It is either deleted or saved for the mini-series.

I thoroughly enjoyed “The Long Way Down” and rated it three and a half stars (out of four). It has all the elements of a great motorcycle adventure, and made me wish I was going someplace too.

Jack Riepe
©Copyright Jack Riepe 2008
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac-Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Delphi)
AKA The Chamberlain -- Perditions Socks (With A Shrug)