Thursday, August 5, 2010

The Scarlet Letter "P"

Nothing is as sensitive as human skin. It is a dense weave of endless and inter-connected nerve endings, suspended in a living tapestry; a container for the organs and a mask for the soul. And mine felt as if the scarlet letter “P” had been burned into it with a glowing brand. The letter “P...” For “pussilanimous...” The letter “P...” For “pussy.” A “P” spit on me by the three BMW riders standing in my mechanic’s driveway. And I was so miserable in the fucking heat that I didn’t care.

My vintage 1995 BMW K75 had been in need of a little attention. Specifically, it was long overdue (3 years) for a change of coolant, a change of brake fluid, and a taste of fresh transmission oil. The manual, a rectangular, perfect-bound book, lists this service as “annual;” like the arrival of winter, or the return of the swallows to Capistrano, or the filing of taxes. Most of the guys I ride with in the Mac Pac (the local BMW club chartered and sanctioned by the BMW Motorcycle Owners of America) perform these services themselves, in garages attached to their houses; garages that are the equivalent of motorcycle operating rooms, complete with bike lifts, and tools arranged by purpose and size, and dozens of little jars holding exotic fittings (new and salvaged). They perform these routine acts of maintenance as foreplay to the riding season, and the manual is their “Kama Sutra.”

One man’s “Kama Sutra” is another’s “Ancient History of Basic Accounting,” however. Instead of being reassured by the pictures of disassembled throttle bodies or excited passages regarding spark plug gaps, glancing through the manual creates a dull throbbing in my balls. This is not because my manhood is in question, but because I have all the mechanical inclination of a cigar store Indian... And because every other page of the manual ends with, “Failure to follow these instructions carefully, getting every little detail right the first time, may result in accident or death, or even worse, damaging the parts of this German motorcycle that will cost more to replace than you made in the last ten fucking years.”

And they aren’t kidding.

Don’t get me wrong... My first choice of two-wheeled vehicles will always be a BMW. And in the long run, I don’t care what the bikes nor the parts cost. (Money is seldom an object when you don’t have any.) Leslie, my hot squeeze, once gave me a beautiful Raymond Weil self-winding watch. While I look at it to tell the time, I have no inclination to take it apart. I feel the same way about my BMW motorcycle. I like riding it. I don’t give a damn to know about the transmission splines nor the Hall sensor. So I take my bike to Tom Cutter.

Tom Cutter of the Rubber Racing Garage (in Yardly, Pa) is my bike’s primary care-giver. This is the same Tom Cutter who was honored by the BMW Motorcycle Owners as a “Friend of the Marque,” one of the highest levels of recognition granted in BMW circles... The same Tom Cutter who has restored a number of priceless vintage and antique motorcycles that were given away by the MOA as door prizes at their annual rally... The same Tom Cutter who races, and who is an “airhead” authority. He works only on BMWs and a handful of Ducatis. You will come across a bike for sale in the Philly area from time to time, and see it listed as a “Cutter maintained” bike. This is to help convey the idea that it has been flawlessly serviced.

My ride to Cutter’s shop covers 57 miles of turnpike, US-1, and a smidgeon of I-95. The traffic on a weekday morning defies description. At one point it is 6 lanes of merging metal madness (in one direction) and is either at a coolant-boiling standstill, or is moving at a nerving rattling 78 miles per hour (right lane). There are two showroom BMW motorcycle dealers in the area, but one is 60 miles to the west (over twisty backroads north of Reading), while the other is 54 miles north and east through the ghastliest urban sprawl you can imagine. There are two advantages to taking a bike to the Rubber Chicken Racing Garage: 1) Only Cutter works on it; and 2) He works on one or two bikes at time. You are given a time to drop it off and a time to pick it up. There is no screwing around. This means you will seldom be without your bike for a total of 48 hours. For someone who wants the minimum down time to enjoy the maximum riding time, it doesn’t get any better than this.

During the peak days of the season, you might wait a month to get an appointment.

Leslie followed me out for the fast hour-plus run. She asked me to stick to the speed limit. (It was the longest friggin’ 57 miles I ever rode.) Tom greeted me in the driveway by throwing a clean, dry shop towel in my face. The temperature was in the low 90’s and it wasn’t noon yet. Sweat squirted out of my mesh gear, creating a stream that favored the spawning of sturgeon.

Two days later, I rode out again in the passenger seat of the conditioned car of my riding buddy Dick Bregstein. The plan was to drop me off, and pick up another rider, David H., whose F650 needed tuning. The K75 was serviced and ready to go. Cutter had found an irregularity with the cooling fan’s relay, but told me it would be fine if I could avoid the worst stop and go traffic. He’d pop another relay in the following week.

Once again I was the largest mammal on two wheels and I began to sizzle in the heat. The thought of putting on that body armor (Joe Rocket Mesh Gear) and rolling out on the hot tarmac was the farthest thing from my mind. The stink of hot truck exhaust, the jellied shit smeared across the toll booth lanes, and the waves of heat rising up from 57 miles of microwaved roadway held the allure of a 60-year-old, three dollar whore.

“David,” I asked. “How would you like to ride my K75 back to West Chester?”

The question provoked the kind of stillness that would normally accompany taking a shit in one’s pants while standing on the receiving line at a black tie dinner. Cutter, Bregstein, and David H. exchanged glances that x-rayed the Letter “P” to my forehead. The silence continued, and they realized that I wasn’t joking.

David H. had ridden into the shop on an older F650, which is an unbelievably sparky, single-cylinder, chain-driven, highly flickable BMW, that can get a little buzzy around its top practical speed of 80mph. An experienced K75 rider, he took a few turns on “Fireballs,” smiled like a kid with an endless hall pass, and disappeared astride a red blur. (He later assured me he kept it under 90mph.)

Bregstein made small talk as we drove home. But the conversation was a trifle strained as he avoided even occasional eye-contact. He started to talk about the neighbor’s cats, but couldn’t help using saying the word “pussy” 17 times.

“Could we please talk about something else,” I asked.

Dick shrugged, and started to reminisce about the girls he knew in college... But the outcome was the same.

I couldn’t sleep that night. The thought that I had fobbed off riding my precious bike on a friend — on a day when the weather was absolutely clear (albeit hot) — was fundamentally troubling. I thought of great Mac Pac riders like Moto Edde Mendes, who rode his K75 across the Sahara (absolutely true), and felt the shame oozing from my soul. (I imagined I was in the Sahara, trying to call Bregstein on my cell phone, so he could ride my K75 to Sudan.)

The temperature was slated to be in the high 90’s again that following Saturday. I called Bregstein and conned him to riding with me up to the Strasburg Railroad Museum, over by Lancaster, Pa. (This is one of our most pleasant warm-up rides, of about 80 miles roundtrip.) Dick agreed.

I mounted the bike in humidity that was as wilting as my first mother-in-law’s voice. My gear was sticking to me before I could even press the starter. And when I got moving, the ambient air moved through my mesh gear with the cooling comfort of jet engine exhaust. “Fuck me and fuck this fucking heat,” I thought as I leaned into the first curve. The soft foam insert in my Nolan helmet was as soggy as a slice of Wonder bread, and sweat pour down into my eyes. My jeans felt plastered to my thunder thighs and I wondered if the bunched up denim doesn’t cause problems with the circulation in my legs. (I am presently too fat for riding pants and will not drop $700 for a custom pair from CyclePort while I am this size..)

I think the humidity has something to do with aggravating my joints. I went through three weeks of lessening pain (as I began to consciencously diet) and looked forward to getting on the bike. I had 15 minutes of pain-free riding before my hips and knees exploded. I had thought that dropping weight would make it easier for my hips to bend but this does not seem to be the case in this heat.

We shot along a little expressway (the US-30 bypass) that runs through some very pleasant farm fields. Normally, we would have flown through here like being fired out of a cannon, but the cops are out earning revenue and they are now hiding in the corn fields.

Coming up on the junction with Rt. 10, I began to slow for the merging traffic and for the red light ahead of me. A quick glance into my left mirror revealed that Bregstein had been cut off by the car behind me, which was so close to my rear wheel that only one of its headlights could be seen. I ignored this prick and concentrated on the stopped traffic ahead of me in the intersection. Easing into a graceful stop, I maintained my position in the left half of the right lane.

The douche in the car squeezed past me — in my own lane — looking me right in the eye, while he talked on the phone, as both of us were rolling, with 75 feet to go before the light.

I was furious. I wanted to pull him out of the car and beat the living shit out of him on the spot. Then I wanted to stomp on his fucking cell phone, and shove it up his ass with the front wheel of my bike.

The douche came to a stop at the light, still talking on the phone, behind a guy on a Harley. I lane-split up his right side and pulled in behind the mammoth cruiser. The rider looked back at me and smiled.

“Is Lancaster back there,” I asked, using my thumb to indicate someplace over my back. The Harley rider’s eyes followed my thumb and stared at the driver in the car behind me.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It seven miles in front of you.”

Bregstein also used the opportunity to lane-split and pulled up beside me. Yet he paused in mid-maneuver to stop alongside the car and look in the passenger’s window. The middle-aged stooge behind the wheel looked like he was going to shit.

When the light changed, Dick and I pulled away at 35 mph. The douche hung far back, and there was no more of the tailgating.

"What would you have done if the guy got out of the car," I asked Dick.

Ever fast on his feet, Bregstein replied, "I'd have shown him my AARP card and kicked him in the balls."

There was an antique car show and an accurate railroad scenario (gandy dancer tents and an encampment) being staged through the use of actual equipment up at the train museum, which jammed the parking lot. But Dick and I squeezed our bikes through the crowd and got the last best parking spot. We spent the next two hours experimenting with a new media that will soon become part of twisted roads.

It blistering hot when we saddled up for the return ride. The seats and gas tanks of both bikes were scalding to the touch. There would have been little puddles of gas on the ground, from fuel expansion into the overflow tubes, had we not burned off a couple of gallons earlier in the day.

“Why did you pick the hottest day of the year to ride,” asked Bregstein, watching me struggle to get into sticky riding gear.

“So you could tell David H. and Cutter that I am not afraid to ride in the heat, and that I am not a pussy.”

“We weren’t giving you a 'pussy look,'” replied Bregstein. “We were giving you an ‘asshole’ look, which in your case will be a lot harder to disprove.”

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2010
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac Pac)'
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)


Twisted Roads is again rewarding its readers with prizes! Two great prizes will be offered for the month of August: A Progressive Suspension & Tire Plugging Kit, and an EZ Tire Pressure Gauge.

1) To compete for the Progressive Suspension & Tire plugging kit, please answer this three question survey:
Do you carry a first aid kit? (Yes, Or No)
Have you ever had cause to use your first aid kit? (Yes or No)
If the answer to the above question was “yes,” did you find it adequate? (Yes or No)

Copy, cut and paste your response to Mark the subject line "Tire Plugging Kit." Include your first name and email address. Winners will be selected at random and notified by e-mail.

2) To compete for the EZ Tire Pressure Gauge, just leave a comment at the end of the blog. You can even say, “This blog sucks,” but then I’ll know you were either Chris Wolfe, Scott Royer, or Michael Beattie.

To leave a comment, read through to the blog’s end (sheer torture). For those who see the comments posted, just click on the option “leave a comment.” If you click the “anonymous” option, be sure you leave a readily identifiable name so you can be announced as a winner.
If comments are not automatically listed, read through to the end of the blog. At the end you will see something like “15 comments.” Click on the word “comment”. Type in your comment in the space provided. If you click the “anonymous” option, be sure you leave a readily identifiable name so you can be announced as a winner.

• Winners for both contests will be announced on the “Twisted Roads Blog,” on Monday, August 16, 2010.
• Winners will be chosen at random.
• Relatives and former wives of the editorial staff of Twisted Roads are not eligible for prizes.
• No substitutions
• Void where prohibited
• Prizes are awarded new as they are shipped in their original packaging from the manufacturer. Twisted Roads is not responsible for any defects in awarded prizes, nor for any incidents, accidents, injuries, damages or death perceived to be caused by defective prizes. Riding a motorcycle is a dangerous activity with special risks. We all ride at our own pleasure and peril.
• Unclaimed prizes will be held a year. It is up to all contestants to read the Twisted Roads Blog dated August 16th, 2010 to see if they are winners.
• Any additional taxes or fees due on prizes are the responsibility of the winners. Twisted Roads is happy to pay for shipping and handling.
• Topless contestants who send pictures of themselves usually do a lot better at winning prizes. My email address is posted on my blog. (I dare you.)


redlegsrides said...

Jack, I read this and yes, I am sorry to say....I thought the P word when I read you had someone else ride Fireballs back home....

However, you did redeem yourself somewhat by riding that hot day to the antique car show AND best of all, causing the douche in the cage to probably shit his pants.

I applaud Dick Bregstein's restraint on the car ride back while someone else was riding your motorcycle. I am sure it was his "menacing glare" at the cage-bound douche on Rt10 that caused the idiot to back off.

Good idea re the waiting till your weight loss is somewhat permanent before ordering the cycleport gear, its expensive and getting it modified later is not much cheaper.


Colorado Motorcycle Travel Examiner

Redleg's Rides

Woody said...

"I mounted the bike in humidity that was as wilting as my first mother-in-law’s voice."


Keep up the good work on the weight loss!!

BMW-Dick said...

Dear Jack:
I'm nominating you for the Mac-Pac's Wall of Shame which displays the portraits of pussies, politicians, and other pretenders (like blog writers). You are certain to be unanimously confirmed. The day we rode to Cutter's it was really hot and humid. Thanks for not noticing that I opted for AC and didn't offer to ride your bike when you pussied out. The Strassburg run was hot, but fun. The ass-hole who tried to run you down while he chatted on the phone deserved to have it deposited internally through any available or man-made orafice. Cooler weather is on the way!

Unknown said...


I would have ridden your K75 home for you in the blistering heat, but I would never forget, I will be talking about this for years, I have a memory of an elephant, I will tell all my friends, I will take pictures of you in the air conditioned car. I may like your K75 so much that I would just ride it home to British Columbia.

Wet Coast Scootin

Colin said...

I've been riding to work over the past few 105+ degree days here in Fort Worth. I tell myself it's to soften the blow of winter, which is I am actually looking forward to it, but I don't think that's true. I have a pirate buddy who gave me such crap for driving my car in the rain this past spring I think I’m subconsciously riding in the hopes that he will pass by work(his wife works in my building) in his truck and feel bad for not riding. I guess I’m saying I understand heat stroke with the sole purpose of un Scarlet “P”ing myself to buddies.

RichardM said...

How does that go? One day on a bike is worth ?? in a car... Or something like that.

Good story about your encounter with the cell phone idiot.


Anonymous said...

Jack: I'd like to call you a pussy but I haven't ridden since my last trip in May! I'm gettin ready for a trip to Montana at the end of August. I hate riding when it's hot. Anyhow, I do carry a first aid kit and no I've never used it. I'll e-mail a topless picture of myself later. Give me a call around coctail hour. BRALEY

Anonymous said...

Because of familial requirements, it was necessary to drive the cage here to northern Michigan for our annual vacation. I usually ride the K 75 RT and let them manage the cage. But reading your blog was almost as good as riding here. I even found myself reading it aloud to the extended family. I'm glad the 2 and 3 year old grandchildren did not understand the references to cats.

Roddy Irwin.

682202 said...

As always I laughed my ass off, until my co-workers come to find out whats wrong... Thanks I needed that.

Anonymous said...

Jack, I like your blog. I hope to see more of your stuff in the BMW MOA NEWS.

Rick C.
BMW Math Dude

Nikos said...

It's always good to get some othe fanny on your saddle from time to time, just to verify that tne machine is rideable. Naturally I draw the line at pink crocs as I have some sort of reputation to preserve in the leafy byways of rain swept sodding Cheshire....

BeemerGirl said...

Jack, I would have loved to have witnessed you skirting around that idiot and conning the Harley dude into looking back. PRICELESS! LMAO again when I shared it with others who expected something quite different. -Lori

The Armed Christian said...

I read this and you deserve the P! You want heat and humidity come on down to Houston sometime...triple digits and >90% humidity!
On a separate note, I ride with a big red-haired viking we call (originally) Red. Anyone tries to Douche with us and it only takes a few glares from him and a couple twists of the throttle of his unbaffled big twin for them to get the message ;-)
Oh, Texas is a concealed carry state which can also help curb the Douches...
Hang in there

ADK said...


Jack Riepe said...

Dear Charlie6 (Dom):

The heat might just as well be six inches of snow. I am drenched with sweat after standing in the driveway for just two minutes. My weight loss is beginning to add up. I am now less than 149 pounds from my goal.

I am going to ride tomorrow, however. Actually, in about 6 hours. It will be cooler and I want to feel the K75 in a curve before the traffic mounts. I am starting something new tomorrow, and I hope to have it finished in a day or two. It will be a major change to Twisted Roads.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad
Twisted Roads

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Woody:

My first mother-in-law was Kathleen J., of Goosegrease Flats, NJ. She has a personality that embodies a prison laundry in a ladies' penitentiary. When she speaks, statues bleed.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • †oad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Dick:

While there are a number of things that I do not handle well, I do not handle heat and an oppressive summer atmosphere under the best of circumstances.

I cannot help but notice that even thought the active ingredirent of my mesh jacket is air, the damn thing weights twice as much as my fall ballistic riding gear. It doesn't help that it is black either.

Well we're riding together again tomorrow, Dickie. But tomorrow we'll make Twisted Roads history.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Bobskoot:

That is the most amazing aspect of the Mac Pac... While their scorn is absolutely penetrating, they burn your ass once and it is in the past. I was cut some slack by David H. for two reasons:
a) He thought it may have been my arthritis, and I let him believe that.
b) He is one of a growing number of people who'd ike to ride "Fireballs."

And the truth is that I would hand my keys over to any of the guys in the Mac Pac... Most of them would have returned the bke with a minor improvement made to it.

That's an odd subject: letting someone ride your bike. In most cases I would say "No..." But with these guys, you know you are in the presence of skill.

Now Bob, do you honestly think I would flip my keys to a guy wearing pink crocs?

I can hardly wait to hear what happened to the scooter. Since you're not bitching about it being stolen and didn't end up in the hospital, I'm assming you sold it to someone.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • †oad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Colin:

Motorcycle riders continually bullshit themselves into thinking they don't have to prove anything to asnybody. Then they go out and damn near kill themselves so their friends don't think they're pussies.

I only had the morning to get that bike back from the shop that day... I actually had to write something for a client that afternoon. I stepped out of the shower, into clean clothes, and into Bregstein's air conditioned car.

Two hours later, I would have beebn back in the driveway, drenched with sweat, smeling like a moose. I just didn't feel like it. In truth, there are days when riding a motorcycle is a pain in the ass.

I can't imagine hopw you ride in 105ยบ heat. You must be one skinny little weasel.

Fondest regards,
Jsack • reep • †oad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Rich Machida:

As the saying goes, "A bad day on a motorcycle is worth twenty nice ones in a nice car. An oppressively hot day on a motorcycle is equal to 120 hours of forced anal sex with the guards in a Turkish prison."

That's what I hear from a rider in Key West.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • †oad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Braley:

Finding a note from you is like finding $5 in an old coat pocket. How are you doing? And I would expect you to defend me against anyone who called me a pussy. Granted, you'd probably say something like, "Aw, Jack's no pussy. He just rides like one."

Ride up here for the third weekend in August, and stay here at the house. All three toilets work. It's just that they're all in the garage which makes it a little strange. West Chester is almost Montana.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • †oad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Roddy:

Kids have to grow up sometime and a government study (I forget which government) concluded that kids who read my blog grow up tough, assertive, sexually capable, and dominant among lesser males --- and that was just the girls.

I was delighted to see that you have finally decided to leave a comment on my blog, 'cos the bag of burning dogshit on the porch was getting old.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • †oad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear 68202:

I played that number in the state lottery tonight and pissed away $5. I was delighted to read that you got a laugh out of my stuff while you were at work today. I used to get in trouble reading funny stuff at work all the time. One day, my boss came up to me and said, "What so funny? Care to share it with the rest of us?"

I looked up at him, smiled, and said, "Eat shit, Fuck-nuts."

It was one of my more brilliant and abrupt career decisions.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • †oad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Richard C.:

Thank you for your encouraging note! You should offer a correspondence course in how to say nice things. I'd pay to get Bregstein to take it. Wait a minute, screw Bregstein. There is reader below who commented under the name "ADK." He's a real prick. I'd sign him up.

I am finishing three stories for the MOA as we speak. They're different from my usual stuff. Instead of being funny, they're full of soul-searching and beagle-eyed personal reflection from a man whose questioned his middle-aged approach to failure, and who just wants to get laid by Swedish coeds instead.

What do you think?

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • †oad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Nikos:

I'm confused... Even though I have not succeeded at racking up the miles this summer, the one person who has ridden less than me is you. In fact, the pictures you've sent me depict disjointed Beemer parts in various states of buffing, with cryptic messages alluding to naked Crisco parties in the Cotswolds.


And we never did get that facts regarding that mirror.

Fondrest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Beemer Girl (Lori):

I cannot tell you how nice it is to get a letter from a reader that does not start out with:
• You Son of a Bitch:
• Dear Shit Bird:
• From the First Apellate Court Of Appeals

And you appear to be telling me that I made you laugh twice! Now you'd think I could end the day on high note, wouldn't you?

Nope... Just two letters down from yours is a short note from the personification of jock itch. Every time I get away, they pull me back.

Thank you for your kind note.

Fondest regards.
Jack • reep • †oad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Shannon T. Baker:

I can only imagine the anguish you're riding in this summer. And the heat must be coming off that Harley engine in waves. But I used to have a good time in Texas. I have been laid there about 400 times, as opposed to Massachusetts, where I have only gotten jerked off.

I like Galveston, Houston, and Dallas. There is no better state for a cold beer or a bucking brunette.

And I am not normally a man who insists on making a point, but I was mad enough at the asshole who ran me off the road to want to pull him out of the car.

Great to hear from you Shannon (Buddha)!

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • †oad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear ADK (Chris Wolfe):

Somebody told me tht "ADK" really stands for "A Dick." That would be about right. You missed a great weekend. Cantwell rode down here and we cut up rough. We did a run to the northeastern shore of Maryland... Then Mike tied on a raging shitter back at the house. He decided he liked cigars, and I gave him two of my preferred bus mufflers to smoke.

I met in the hallway around 5am. He swore a cat had climbed onto his face and shat in his mouth. (I didn't even tell him about the cat.)

Is that yellow piece of shit you ride still road-worthy? If so, you know where the whiskey runs pure and the fun is never-ending.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • †oad

cpa3485 said...

Can you make that fine print any smaller? I am too tired tonite to read anything that small.
On the way back from Nebraska today I actually took off my mesh gear jacket for awhile. It wasn't blazing hot, but felt good for awhile without the jacket. Then I started feeling naked and vulnerable. I put the jacket back on at the next stop.
I decided the motto for the trip was "It's not hot as long as you are moving"

Premeditated Scootin'

The Armed Christian said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
The Armed Christian said...

Wait a minute, when were you in Texas? My Biological father's name was Jack. You might owe me 18 years of child support not to mention!

And another 27 years of interest on that amount!!!!

A friend has been offering me his BMW if I would just take up the mortgage payments on the maintenance, with that kind of money...

Backroads Buddha

John said...

Jack, another good one for the books. I hope one day to have Cutter go over my father's old R75. At this point I would have to ask how much, which would be too much, therefore he can not do it. But one day. . .

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Shannon T. Baker:

Son! Is that you? You wouldn't happen to have a job and a spare room by any chance, would you? I could be persuaded to come a visit, but I couldn't stay for longer than six or seven months... Not until things quiet down around here.

The room would have to be a quiet one, with air conditioning. I have a delicate condition that precludes getting up before noon. I am also partial to rye whiskey, but it will be okay if you have gin too.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad
Twisted Roads

Colin said...

5'10 260, skinny is a relative term.

Conchscooter said...

Wanker. Call me an Enemy of the Marque. The day my Bonneville needs it's water pump servicing I'll call you to give me moral support.
ps: does the tach work when you are too afraid to ride the bike?

The Armed Christian said...


Sorry it took so long to respond. It took a little doing but I have arranged for most of what you asked for. Unfortunately we don't have room for you in the house (the back child's support would really have helped that) so I arranged with the good folks at TDC (Texas Department of Corrections) to put you up for as long as you would like. The extra amenities will be provided by your new roommate (he goes by the name of Tiny) and he assures us that he...errr, you will really enjoy all the activities he has planned.

By the way, Tiny says he rode his bike (alas not a BMW) everyday regardless of the weather. In fact he rode through Hurricane Ike on it just for fun. Of course, that was before the miscarriage of justice that left him behind bars for a multiple homicide he did not commit. The tire iron, blood samples, tissue samples and the ears were all planted by some pansy who didn't want to do his own time...or ride in the heat.

Let me know when you will be down so we can hold the reservations.

Your son,


Anonymous said...

The east coast meaning of friend seems to be 180 degrees from the way the word is used out here on the west coast.
I think a Jewish person would get better treatment from a pack of skinheads than you do from your fellow MacPac members.

RedBeemer of Oregon

sgsidekick said...

Jack, once again you made me laugh. Even got a chuckle out of Ron! We just never know what we'll find flowing from your mind down to the keyboard, do we? I'm sure Ron cringed when he came to the part about Leslie "requesting" you to stick to the speed limit. Sounded too much like what I say...

irondad said...

Actually, I think it was quite the clever trick. After all, if you could manage to having David riding the bike when the cooling fan relay gave out, somebody could be blamed. And perhaps saddled with the repair bill. Sorry your plan backfired because nobody else saw the brilliance of it.

Now I have to get the image of sweat through the mesh out of my head. Kind of like somebody squeezing a big, soft, smelly sponge. Anybody seen the Lysol?

What was that about somebody giving and then taking away?

Jack Riepe said...

Dear IronDad (Dan):

We all use the same mechanic! And there is no way one BMW rider would try to perpetrate a breakdown on another. It should be noted that the bike has really yet to experience a problem with the cooling fan, as it has yet to oveheat. I suspected the fan should have gone on, and I was right.

The expression is, "Twisted Roads giveth, ang giveth good, before occasionally taking away."

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear SGSidekick (Tena):

I'm glad you got a good laugh out of my bog... That's what's its there for... So my readers can find some amusement in my trials and aggravation. Tell Ron I said, "Hello."

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Red Beemer (Oregon):

While it cannot be denied that the boys of the Mac Pac play rough, they are all wool and a yard wide. In the past year, they have helped three guys stuck on the road, raised money for two charities. moto marshalled a major MS event, helped two members move, and supplied a neighborhood clinic with cases of bandages and other supplies.

You couldn't ask for better friends than these guys.
The last time I posted a stupid ride, my birthday, 25 of them turned out. Dick Bregstein was the guy who got me into the ambulance and who sorted through the wreckage during my bad crash in 2007.

I hope some day you come east so I can introduce you around.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Shannon T. Baker (My Son):

I'm sorry you don't live closer so we could do a good pub ride together, when it gets cooler, of course -- like in December.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear ConchScooter:

You are an enemy of every marque... And it isn't the water pump, you fathead. It's a $20 relay that takes 2 minutes to put in. Wait until you get here in October. No only will you wish you had a tach, but seatbelts too.

You British twit.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Colin:

There are days when those measurements seem like half of me. I an 71 inches tall and 56 inches wide.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Bill Fin said...

Dear Mr Riepe,
sometimes it takes a fright to shift the mind into the right gear to square up to the long haul of losing weight,I find the struggle never ends.

Thank you very much for your most entertaining and honest writing, I wish you all the best in breaking up and scraping the stove.

billfin Scotland