One a month, Twisted Roads will present "Dispatches From The Front," a collection of letters from our readers, many of whom are writing from the road, the halls of government, pool halls, the Witness Protection Program, and fully accredited mental institutions. Whenever possible, the Twisted Roads Editorial staff will attempt to answer readers' questions or provide some measure of resolution.
Dear Twisted Roads:
As so many of your stories begin, the day was hotter than a college cheerleader’s shaved quim and I pulled into a gin mill just outside Winslow, Arizona to grab a cool sarsaparilla. My Victory Vision was tethered to the zeppelin moorings outside, attracting the usual crowd of the curious and idle. This bike was the closest thing I could get to Judge Dredd’s motorcycle in the movie of the same name. I even had my riding gear designed to look like Judge Dredd’s uniform.
Now I was just sitting there, striking dramatic poses for the señiorita’s at a nearby table, when some guy pulls up on an old red BMW K75 combo blender and sewing machine. The friggin’ thing must have stealth mode. One second there was a void in the atmosphere, and in the next the ugliest motorcycle in the world is parked to the Judge Dredd Sexual Street Justice Machine. The rider swaggered up to the bar like it was assumed he was going to get laid and drink for free.
He orders drinks for the house, roses for the señioritas, and “destiny” for himself. This turns out to be a double Jameson’s Irish whiskey, served in a woman’s navel. (And three bar hotties volunteered!) Well he ends up ordering four or five rounds on a tab that is almost as big as my bike, when he makes a bet with the bartender. The wager is that we got five balls between the two of us. It is apparently common for BMW riders to grow a third testicle with all the riding they do and the exposure to the power transfer between the saddle and the man-pillows. Not vibration, which is the reason most Sportster riders are women, but a solid connection between the soul of the motorcycle and a man’s sense of character.
So this K75 rider bets the bartender double or nothing for the existing tab, plus one of equal value, that he and I have five balls. You should have seen the look on this guy’s face when I leaned over and said, “Hey buddy, I hope you’ve got 4 balls.” Not one person heard that K75 start up and pull away at 85 mph. My tab came to $264.
So put the word on the street... I’m looking for the BMW rider whose got some balls.
Eddie “One Ball” Sturottio
Above: The Victory Vision is as distinctive a bike as any rider cold ever hope to own. Photo from the internet.
Dear Eddie “One Ball” Sturottio:
That would be all of us, including the women.
Dear Twisted Roads:
The last episode you wrote — Daylights Savings Time — was so fucking lame that I was embarrassed to read it aloud in my therapy group. But I didn’t know that until I actually volunteered to go first, stood up, and got into page three of the painful printout without getting a laugh. Could you please install a suck-meter on your blog so I could be spared this kind of humiliation in the future? What does Daylight Savings Time have to with riding a motorcycle, getting laid, or partying on a weekend? Absolutely nothing, that’s what. Please don’t let this happen again.
However, you might want to look into the wild tire-changing parties we have up here in Keene, NY. There’s hilarious story material there, like the time we spilled the Dyna-Beads into the oatmeal for a “balanced breakfast.” Get it?
Chris “Both Coasts” Westboffen
President/The Yellow Honda Riding and Farting Society
(Both coasts being both shores of Lake Champlain)
Dear Twisted Roads:
She was beautiful. I met her in a Key West bar, where the setting sun turned her hair into spun gold. She had the kind of seamless tan that suggested clothing was always optional on her stretch of beach. When she smiled, the air in the room turned thin, and I found myself spinning out of control whenever she looked in my direction. She moved across he dance floor like a lobbyist through congress, touching everyone but staying beyond everyone’s reach. There would be no fingerprints on her ass.
I knew she wasn’t for the likes of me, but was shocked to find myself talking to her at the end of the night. I mentioned I ride a “discount” Triumph Bonneville, without a tach. She whispered she had a thing for austere British iron and asked if I’d take her for a ride to a quiet place, “where the moonlight meets the water.” We left the bar and rode to a deserted spot by the Blue Hole on Big Pine Key. Gently pushing me down on the sand, she said she wanted to ride me like I was a 1970’s Triumph.
“Go ahead,” I said.
“Okay,” she whispered. She stood up with the moon behind her, looked down at me, and yelled, “Start, you old British Fuck.” Then she kick-started me in the balls three times.
When I came to, the blond, the bike, and my wallet were gone. I was in the fetal position on the sand, almost face-to-face with that puny alligator the Chamber of Commerce dropped in the Blue Hole. How much longer should I wait here for her? It’s been three days and I’ve eaten every one of those stupid chickens that have wandered within reach. You know, they’re not bad. They taste a little like iguana.
Lutsey Baravelli (Not My Real Name)
Key West, Florida (Where body paint hides European Cruise Ship Breast Sag)
Dear Twisted Roads:
There are 13 covered bridges in and around my town in Pennsylvania that are no longer safe for standard vehicular traffic or even those cute buggies. My plan is to put a fresh coat of paint on these and convert each into an “Amish House of Rolling Pleasure” for bikers. Motorcycles could slowly troll through, while Amish maidens conferred upon the riders such delights as “The Dutch Taffy Pull, the “Your Shu-Fly Is Open,” and “The Dutch Egg Noodle Special.” Not only would this promote the preservation of these structures, but it would offer riders the opportunity to spend money in these little communities where feed corn is still king. I think this would be a much better alternative than Amish Casino Gambling.
The “Covered Bridge Real Estate Elder”
Dear Twisted Roads:
I’m tired of reading all this bullshit about BMW riders having supernatural powers and pile-driving sexual capabilities. I ride a Kawasaki Vulcan and most of the BMW riders I’ve met are average, every-day douches. I was on a ride through West Virginia (where I originally met my wife, who is 20 years my junior and a former runner-up in the Miss Sizzling Breakfast Sausage Pageant), when this guy pulls up to the hotel, and proceeds to dismount by pulling a step out of his top case.
So I chime in with, “Maybe you’re too old for this young man’s game!”
And he answers with, “Life is challenging for me now that I’ve grown this third testicle.” But he doesn’t say this to me... He says it to my wife!
So I came back with “Balls just walk a man in baseball.”
And he turned to my wife and said, “Whether you walk or run, it makes no difference how a man gets past third base.” My wife is a very religious person. She must have been praying at the time because I heard her sigh and utter, “Amen to that.”
Then this bastard stares her right in the eye, and if he didn’t look like something that would climb onto the ice in Canada, only to be clubbed to death by real men. He was gone in the morning. Them “K” bikes make less noise than flushing a toilet on the Niagara River. No one at the hotel heard him go. And no one heard my wife slip out to go shopping or something either. But she’s gone too, probably scared to death by the memory of the BMW rider with the three testicles.
Truth-In-Advertising, West Virginia
Dear Twisted Roads:
I hate it when people greet me with a fucking 'aloha' --especially when it's 40 degrees and your balls are aching... Anyway... What you are suffering from is the result of either a very mistaken indulgence in some badly seasoned 'soixante-neuf' OR a case of the Creeping Cruds. Either way, the cure is the same .
This is not some macho posturing-- this actually works, i have done it.
The Hat Cure: lie down in your bed, take off your hat, and put it at the at the foot of the bed. Be careful here-- make sure it is the foot. Open a bottle of decent Scottish or Irish whiskey, no corn mash. Start to drink. When you see 2 hats at the foot of the bed, get all the blankets you have and get underneath them. Sweat like a bastard, as if you just received a subpoena and your bike won't start.
You have nothing to lose except the toxin that put you into this condition. Alcohol is a powerful diuretic. You can drain the dragon without it, but it's a lot less fun.
Anyway, be well, go forth and try to multiply. If you can't, then go fifth and divide.
Somewhere in Friggin’ NJ,
r1200GS, triumph Scrambler,
age 62, 3 ex's and a current girl friend who is a goddess
I am feeling somewhat better now as I went to a "natural healer," who made a poultice for my chest, and who bled me periodically. Also, leech therapy worked too. It appears I may have had cholera or yellow fever. I am now feeling well enough to walk to the bathroom to take piss, as opposed to relying on the nearest open window.
Jack • reep • Toad
The Twisted Roads Editorial Team will accept and consider any reader letter regarding motorcycles, riding technique, gear, personal relationships, Constitutional law, hygiene, or bizarre sexual practices. Published letters do not represent the official position of Twisted Roads, nor the personal opinions of its editorial staff. Twisted Roads does not offer counseling from licensed practitioners nor should one assume any answer will not be anything but the biased opinion of a guy who drinks beer, smokes cigars, and looks to get a little every now and again. Send letters to firstname.lastname@example.org
©Copyright Jack Riepe 2011 -- All rights reserved.