There is a great little Mexican joint just off the corner of Downingtown Pike and East Lancaster Avenue, in Downingtown, PA. It takes 25 minutes to get anything on the menu because the folks who run the place make everything from scratch. And while there are two or three things listed that anyone would recognize from a Mexican chain restaurant, there is no comparison with the bill of fare here. “Rincon Tarasco” has the best Mexican food I have tasted north of Acapulco. You could almost make a meal of their Guacamole and fresh corn chips.
The kitchen is an open book. You can look over the counter and watch your entree crafted from the freshest ingredients in the most authentic way. If I had a complaint, it is that this place is “dry” and you cannot get a great Mexican beer — like Negra Modelo. They serve those fruity Mexican sodas and I am partial to the pineapple and lime flavors.
The restaurant is intimate (small) but biker casual. The bikers that had just casually left this place were Breg Dickstein (not his real name), Clyde Trotsky (not his real name), Gerry Cavanaugh (his real name), and me. The bikes were strung out in a line as we headed north to Strasburg. I was in the lead with Dickstein not more than 3 seconds behind me. It was a warm spring day and paving cutbacks gave the run a bumpy aspect. The gentle up and down motion of the bikes, coupled with the afternoon heat, set the Mexican meal to percolating.
Riding a motorcycle is the ultimate freedom. You can talk to yourself or even sing as the thrum of the road and snarl of the engine drown out everything else. All incriminating sound evaporates in the celebration of forward motion. I raised myself in the saddle and let fly with a mighty anal bellow. Had we been in a closed environment, like a zeppelin hanger, the resulting noise would have been the equivalent of material ripping. And not ordinary material, like a bed sheet... but something far more substantial, such as the tarp used to cover the outfield at a ball park.
I counted “One second... two seconds...” and glanced in the mirror.
Dickstein has the personality and reflexes of a cobra. He’d seen me rise up in the saddle and guessed what was coming. Before I could reach “three seconds” in the count, he swerved to avoid an invisible obstacle. Unfortunately, the subtlety of the moment was lost on Clyde, who rode into the vapor barrier with total oblivion. The humor of the moment was almost lost in the horror of his expression. Trapped in the confines of a full-face helmet, his eyeballs popped out and pounded against the face shield like two little fists.
Dickstein and I kept going. What else could we have done?
Seasoned rider Gerry Cavanaugh claims to be above these puerile antics. Getting the bloated feeling common to politicians about to give a campaign speech, he dismounted by a lake, bent slightly, and brought down a flock of low-flying Canada geese. “Once you get the range and windage right, the rest is easy,” said Cavanaugh.
While accredited studies of biker flatulence are rare, many anecdotal observations are attributed to “meat loaf night,” hosted by various riding clubs. There are always one or two stories of “R” bike seats bursting into flames or Harley’s accelerating to the speed of light, leaving comet-like trails behind them. Yet there is very little statistical analysis or scientific data to support these claims. Consensus acknowledges that biker flatulence increases in potency and frequency as age advances. According to one medical expert, it takes less than 15 minutes for a 58-year-old man to convert the mass of two chili dogs into 200 cubic yards of nerve gas. A 68-year-old man can convert a dish of apple sauce (or anything else on a diner’s “early bird special” salad bar) into an explosive vapor capable of causing a mine disaster. Worse in both cases is the sudden change of atmosphere which can make a feed lot seem positively aromatic.
Nor is this condition restricted to men. Women are not only capable of breaking the vapor barrier but many do so without suspicion, relying on their feminine guile to shed guilt. One flawlessly beautiful woman I know stepped into the shower with a hulking Harley pilot who rode under the name of “Kevlar.” The shower stall simmered with the steam of the hot water obscuring this woman’s toxic release. She bolted, then applied her dainty bulk to holding the shower stall door shut.
“Kevlar” trumpeted like a mastodon caught in the tar pits. His screams became hollow gasps, followed by a thud seconds later. “That gnarly son of a bitch has been doing this to me for years,” said his wife. “See how he likes it.”
A dainty morsel of a rider I adore buzzes through the Pennsylvania countryside on a bike painted a distinctly feminine color. She seeks out a German Frau Brau Haus, where she can get a Limburger cheese sandwich, with sliced Bermuda onion, on pumpernickel. Within minutes this lethal combination is whipped into the equivalent of diazinon. She does Pilates and has developed the kind of muscle control which will sustain a build-up of 168 psi. On one ride, a cager got too close to her bike and she let fly with a backdoor thunderclap, blowing the windshield out of his car.
Moto gear manufacturers have been aware of this problem for years. It has been said that attempts to mask the discharge of personal methane led to the development of mesh pants. Yet you cannot wear mesh in autumn. Solid ballistic pants would generally blow out on the third or fourth release. Special valves, once common to steam locomotives in the 19th century, were bulky and took up pocket room. A company in Minnesota developed an airtight product line called “Gastro Bloomers,” which were airtight ballistic pants guaranteed to sustain a shotgun blast at close range. The company dissolved in lawsuits. It seems riders would tuck the pants into their footgear. The integrity of the pants actually magnified the effect of the release and the soles would blow clean off the rider’s boots.
This unique aspect of rider behavior has changed the way some bikers travel. When my shrinking circle of riding buddies rents a cabin for a long trip, we now look for a place with a ventilation system that would do justice to the Lincoln Tunnel. This wasn’t possible on one trip. An engineer in the crowd suggested we all buy little wooden toy train whistles and insert them to the point where they could issue adequate warning, like a kind of air raid system. This proved impractical as the sounds coming out of Dickstein’s room at 5am were reminiscent of Union Station in 1865.
©Copyright Jack Riepe 2013
All rights reserved
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Above: Doug Vavrick (Washngton), on "Helga," his expensive German mistress, a 2002 R1150RT-P. While the photo gives the impression of snow, Vavrick has just been tarred and feathered by "K" bike extremists.
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Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Kiss No Asses...
A buddy of mine from a misspent corporate affiliation had joined a division of the federal government. He rides a cost efficient, chrome efficient, and noise efficient Harley Davidson. It was his suggestion that we meet in the Oyster Bar of the “Old Ebbitt Grill,” and bestow sneers upon those who wear red ties and kiss asses. I winced. I wore a red tie the last time I was in the “Old Ebbitt Grill,” as I kissed the ass of a potential client who would hire me to write congressional testimony.
Ass kissing is an important part of the daily business ritual in the nation’s capitol and I was good at it. I would apply ChapStick to my lips with a paint roller, often going as far as three coats (but only in the center to conceal telltale wax build up). The ritual entailed springing for lunch, laughing at tedious jokes, and shrewdly implying that I too hoped to be a cockroach when I grew up.
The client would then present his, or her, ass, and I would kiss it. Sometimes I did this with a loud noise but etiquette generally required a quiet bullseye on the buttocks. The lip balm would form an instant bond and I would be attached like a lamprey. It should be noted that it was a point of honor to be attached to an ass of some consequence. Washington, D.C. is a target-rich opportunity for thousands of inconsequential asses.
Above: This is the newest feature at the US Capitol Building. It is called the "Speed Connect." US citizens can now enter the little white booth and leave a message for the elected official of their choice. It allows the average American to give back to Congress what Congress so liberally bestows on the rest of the country. The warning light indicates when Congress is in session. "Red" means the dome is filled with scalding hot gases.
The “Old Ebbitt Grill” is an extraordinary place. It has been the source of great dining, potent drinks, fresh oysters, political schemes, conspiracies, and scandals since 1820. The decor is manly, with mounted trophies on the walls, some alleged to have been shot by Teddy Roosevelt. It is intensely popular with the eloi of Washington society and some 800 diners are turned away daily.
Above: "Old Ebbitt Grill" —on the corner of 15th Street and "G," with the blue awnings.
It was my thought that we could meet on the high ground outside the city, tour the monuments, then eat a couple of dozen oysters, washed down by a couple of Bourbons. (Yes, I know what some of you are thinking. Get your ChapStick out.) I wanted to have my 1986 K75, known as “BlueBalls,” photographed against the Lincoln Memorial and the Jefferson Memorial. These are two of my favorite Presidents. Jefferson believed that the federal government was a necessary evil, to be limited in its authority over citizens. Lincoln believed there should only be one necessary evil in North America and that he was running it.
Both men were incredible political manipulators with their respective character cast in stone. One doubled the size of the country. The other held it together and managed to get a train running through it. Politicians today can’t chew gum and scratch their asses at the same time.
But this run was not to be. My friend was called away and the grim reality of this ride began to sink in. Old Ebbitt Grill is close to the White House and parking can be a challenge. You can get oysters in places with a nicer view. Traffic in Washington, D.C. is based on the logic of most legislation, which is to say it is maddening. And Washington itself is a squalid city, with elite neighborhoods surrounded by those that are less so. There was no guarantee I’d get a decent picture of a monument with my bike in the foreground either.
So I went anyway.
The most direct way to Washington, D.C. is Interstate 95. This route winds its way through hell. In some places, each side of the road is six lanes of bellowing trucks and careening cages pounding by like asteroids. Cops are as thick as ticks on a deer’s hide and the view ahead is limited to your escape points. But I know another way that eliminates almost half of this, bypassing Delaware completely and putting me in Maryland at the Susquehanna River.
This ride took me through horse country and Amish farms on a day when the predominant color of the weather was slate gray. I like gray days in early fall when the tinted light in the world seems to rise from the leaves on the trees. The air is cool and sometimes crisp, making the wearing of ballistic gear a delight. My 21-year-old BMW ran like it had just left the assembly line and made the sound of a Messerschmidt on a mating flight. There was a perceptible buzz in the handlebars but nothing that would have qualified as vibration.
I stopped every now and again to drop my feet, alleviating arthritis misery. At one place, I watched an Amish farmer handle a team of six horses dragging some kind of harvester. He stood ramrod straight on the yoke, pivoting the team like it was a Vespa. He didn’t have arthritis. On the other side of the field, two women in bonnets watched him put the horses through their paces. I could almost hear one of them say, “Hans ist goot. Hans se haben a grosse schwanstucker.” (This is Pennsylvania Dutch for, “Hans has a big hat, I bet.”)
There were hedge rows lining the last field where I stopped. I poured coffee from a battered Nissan bottle in my top case and savored the bite of the steaming brown liquid. A Chinese ringneck pheasant, an enormous cock bird, stepped out of the bushes and regarded me with utter disdain. Since I wasn’t hunting, I could appreciate the expression on this bird’s face. It was like he knew I was headed to Washington and he wanted me to kiss his ass too.
The country road aspect of this trip was soon to peter out and I was in no hurry to break the spell. A little planked church sat on the other side of the pavement, accompanied by a churchyard full of satisfied customers, the majority of whom had moved in during the late 1800’s. I like old cemeteries. The sentiment is honest and the artistry is sometimes surprising. This one was pretty modest, even for the country. The oldest of stones were grouped under an enormous oak tree. The name on the largest of these was Enoch Borders, a husband, a farmer, and good man, apparently. He was in his seventies when he died. I could almost hear Enoch telling his wife, “You can bury me under that little tree. It won’t amount to much.”
This cemetery gave me an idea and I pulled my atlas out of the top case. On the outskirts of the nation’s capitol sits a huge cemetery that was apparently the place to call it quits for the most prestigious families in government, back in the years following the Civil War. The headstones and mausoleums are some of the most resplendent and unusual in the nation. I could go there.
It was about two and a half hours from where I stood though it would seem longer to my knees. Twice, I nearly came back. But I had it in my head to ride someplace that appealed to me on one level, and yet was challenging on another. I am not giving the name nor the specific address of the cemetery, though anyone looking just beyond this story will figure it out. My reasons for not giving the actual name and address are simple. The atmosphere in this place is fragile. I don’t think hoards of bikes should descend on it. Certainly not those with deep-throated growls audible at more than three feet from the engine. But I do think this cemetery has museum status for architecture, artistry, and personal expression. The place does have library-type rules, which should be respected.
The cemetery is a series of interconnecting roads that skirt ponds and meadows that sooth the mind, and presumably the soul, as so many of them are resident there. The mausoleums run the gamut from stark to unbelievably classic, complete with attending angels, statues, and exquisite stained glass windows, visible through clear panes in bronze doors. But other grave sites use a variety of artistic techniques to achieve a high level of personal statement, or a family’s regard for their deceased.
My BMW made no noise as I rode in from one of the side streets. Yet while I intended no disrespect, I felt the bike was out of place here and I rode back to the street and parked at the curb. This was seven years ago, when the arthritis was more manageable than it is now. I planned to walk for a bit. Some of the mausoleums were in the style of temples or little palaces for the dead. They must have cost hundreds of thousands in the 1880’s, when money used to be worth something. There were a couple that would have made nice Bilbo Baggins-sized houses in different settings. Yet some of the most haunting graves were among the simplest. One was a granite slab that had a bronze figure of a reclining man on it. He was raised on one arm with a hand pressed to his forehead. The carving on the slab read, “Don’t forget me.” The look on the statue’s face was unnerving. Though I never knew this man in life, it is impossible for me to forget him in death.
I spent an hour gimping around on my cane and I walked too far. My knees started to creak in keeping with the atmosphere and I looked to get off my legs. One grave had a carved marble chair as a tribute to the deceased. A few fallen leaves had collected in it. Glancing around, I saw the cemetery was deserted and I sat in it. The stone was cool against my riding gear and I closed my eyes for a minute. You could hear the breeze starting rumors in the trees as the day turned even grayer. I found myself wondering if I was the first person to ever sit here, and I thought that unlikely. Then I wondered about the purpose of this marble seat. It was actually on the grave facing outward, not on the edge looking in. Was it to accommodate the spirit of the deceased? Was it there so he could pass judgement on the living? Or was it to provide the living with a perspective from the grave? Such were the thoughts that drifted through the holes in my head.
I fell asleep before I could come to a conclusion.
The minute for which I closed my eyes grew into an hour. The afternoon cooled as the gray day progressed and a slight chill passed from the seat into my butt. While the seat part of the marble chair was actually sculpted in the smooth shape of buttocks, it was still hard stone. I couldn’t help but notice that this marble seat and stock seat on my BMW had a lot in common.
I awakened grateful for the snooze but really stiff. The day had darkened considerably and my black riding jacket blended in with the shadow of hundred-year-old trees. I lurched to my feet and stretched. I cannot tell you the effect this had on the Japanese tourists 50 yards away. They were taking their time and taking pictures of the more intriguing graves. They may have been in my vicinity a full 10 minutes without realizing I was not part of the scenery.
One woman let out a half scream and the whole crowd, about a dozen, stampeded up the little road. I felt like Godzilla.
I do not know the penalty for stampeding Japanese tourists in a cemetery, but this was Washington, DC, the home of politically correct and politically motivated regulation. It would either be life in prison or I’d have to kiss the ass of every tourist on the bus. While I have a thing for Asian women, I doubted I’d get the option of kissing their asses selectively. I took one last look at the grave with the carved seat and I swear I heard a muffled laugh. Maybe I’d stumbled on the purpose of the marble chair after all.
The K75 started with the subtle whine that is the bike’s trademark and I headed north. The pain in my knees was considerable and I didn’t make it all the way home. There is a nice little motel on the border between Maryland and Pennsylvania and I called it a day. In my kit there was a toothbrush, a cigar, and a pint of rum; enough for a night’s survival. My room looked out into a little court, and across the way I saw a Mennonite woman flick on a light and remove her bonnet. A cascade of red hair flowed over her shoulders. Then she drew the shade.
“Damn,” I thought. “Are they all like that?”
To be continued...
Future Blog Postings
March 23 -- Dispatches From The Front
March 28th -- The Redhead Episode
Who Reads Twisted Roads?
Above: Amelia Gazzana reads Twisted Roads all the way from Australia, where she uses this beautiful powder blue "F" bike to herd wombats. Amelia contends that this "F" model makes a more peculiar noise than the legendary K75. She says, "It sounds exactly like the futuristic car the Jetson's used tp drive." She included a reference. Click here.
Above: Ken Bruce, life-sized action figure on the right, recently showed up at the last Mac-Pac winter breakfast of 2013 with his new Ural. Ken has now joined those riders currently surfing the hack rig wave of nostalgia. For those wondering, that is the natural shape and texture of his head.
Above: Bud Wilkinson is the moto correspondent for The Republican-American, the most significant daily newspsper in Waterbury, CT. He is also the publisher of RIDE-CT.comhttp://www.ride-ct.com/, a progressive website on the cutting edge of moto news and developments. Bud just sent me an urgent notice on the availability of Jamison's Irish Whiskey's newest and most exclusive label — Select Reserve Black Barrel. His heart is in the right place. (Wilkinson's website is the newest addition to my growing list of "Destinations," posted on the right. Check it out.) He is seen here on a 1974 Honda CB 750.
Above: Wayne DeWaay, of Minnesota, sent us this photo of a classic K75 loaded for bear and the long haul. I love the authority bars on this rig. From what we can see of it, the paint on this bike appears to be cherry, though it is blue.
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Posted by Jack Riepe at Thursday, March 21, 2013 24 comments:
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