My First Poker Run

Author’s note: This story was written in 2005, a full year before I met anyone at the Mac-Pac (my primary riding club). I didn’t know one other person with a BMW.

I am a middle-aged train wreck of a man with the muscular definition of Wonder Bread. Deep inside, however, I am a nomadic biker, with a steel blue Clint Eastwood-like gaze, reflexes like lightening, and the mating instincts (and ethics) of a mink. There are days when the nomadic biker in me insists on taking control, and I am compelled to seek out my own kind.

When my inner biker-nomad is at the controls, I ride to catch some fleeting moment of my youth... To con myself into thinking I am still an alpha male... To get to a destination in my mind defined by the arc of banked curves. Since this is my mind we are talking about, this same place is populated by topless tattooed women who beg to do my bidding, and Viking-like men who fear me.

In the spring of my first season as a re-entry rider (2005), I came across a notice for something called a "poker run." According to the flyer, hundreds of bikers would be converging on a nearby town to raise money for a worthy cause. Structured around a beautiful ride through 5 covered bridges in Chester County, PA, I thought this would be a great opportunity to meet others of my kind and to ride with bikers united in a common cause.

Five covered bridges like this one were the excuse to ride, drink, and play cards

during the first and only poker run that I ever attended.

Between rendezvous points at the bridges, the flyer claimed we'd muster at a few saloons, play a few hands of poker, and shoot the breeze before launching ourselves into it. The concept appealed to me. While I had no idea how to play poker, I did know how to get the most out of a saloon. The ride was to followed by a barbecue and a raging party for anyone who wanted to camp on the grounds of the fraternal organization hosting the event.

But best the best aspect to participating in this ride was that I'd be with bikers. I could ride with folks who really knew what they were doing. Guys who twisted adventure from their throttles. And women who could twist a man's DNA with a smile. There was bound to be a few riders on Beemers. I was sure they'd welcome me as a new disciple in the true religion. Registration started at 9 am. I was up at 6 am, wiping down the Beemer, checking the air in the tires and the level of the engine oil, brushing my teeth with the stub of a cigar to give me that "rake-hell" air, and taking my Celebrex so I wouldn't fall over at the first "stop" sign.

"I didn't know how to play poker, but I knew how to get the most out of a saloon."

Note the author is drinking a bourbon Manhattan in a biker bar, where beer is 

typically served in plastic cups. (Click to enlarge)

(Photo courtesy of Pete Buchheit, who insists on getting full credit, whenever he takes one

of these things as people tend to ignore him under other circumstances .)

The directions to the rally point weren't quite clear. I got within a mile or two of the place and got passed by a guy on a great vintage Beemer. He was headed in the same general direction, and I naturally concluded he'd be a participant. So I just followed him. Twenty minutes and ten miles later, I realized I'd been shadowing some guy just passing through the county. I turned back and found the poker run the same way Columbus discovered America -- by mistake.

At 8:55 am, there were 28 bikes in various lines waiting for the run to begin. Twenty-seven of them were Harley Davidsons.

I can say with absolute certainty that my first hump wasn't as sexy as the motorcycles in that parking lot. The studded leather, the gleaming chrome, and the paint jobs that rivaled the richness of the Sistine Chapel threatened to overcome my senses. There was every form of customized expression on two wheels. One machine had a license plate held in the jaws of a laughing skull. Another had grips like the lugged handles on a bayonet. A stunning flawless paint job of a third was beautifully reflected in pool of oil slowly spreading out underneath it.

This was the bug-eyed image I presented to the Harley crowd at my first poker run.

Jack Riepe on a 1986 K75 With A Sprint fairing.

Twenty-four of the riders were men, averaging six foot, seven inches of taut muscle and 94-octane testosterone. They appeared to be encased in leather. The other three riders were women, all of whom were wearing chaps taken directly from my adolescent fantasies. (I would have lent my own skin to any of these ladies for the same purpose provided my sense of touch would work via remote.)

One of the Harley's started with a barrage of exhaust that blew the roof off a garden shed across the street.

I whined into this mix on my Beemer. (I originally wrote that I "roared in" on my Beemer, but this would be a gross exaggeration of the sound my old Luftmeister muffler actually made.) My former K75 was unique in that it had a Sprint fairing, originally designed for a Triumph -- but bearing a BMW roundel molded into the windshield. These fairings are rather rare. This bike looked like a futuristic teutonic touring machine from 1986. Nevertheless, I felt like the guy who showed up at a cockfight carrying a rabbit.

I registered, and stood by my machine in silence for about 20 minutes. If anyone asked, I intended to tell them I was there to enter the "quietest pipes but largest dick contest." The other riders sort of looked at me sideways, like they suspected I was a bus-station faggot.

"Screw this," I thought, and began walking around, slowly and deliberately looking at the Harleys. I acknowledged the visual perfection of each bike with a sage nod and a tight smile.

I cannot deny that I also slowly and deliberately checked out the chap-framed butts of the three ladies in attendance. I wisely refrained from any display of acknowledgment (visual perfection not withstanding), remembering advice my father once gave me. "Shitbird," my dad said, using his special name for me, "Never flirt with nor antagonize a woman who gives the impression she can kick the living shit out of you either in anger or foreplay."

About this time the poker run got under way. Riders got their directions and starting heading out in groups of three and four. That was when I realized I'd be riding alone. I didn't know anybody and the BMW crowd failed to materialize. Furthermore, the run's directions spanned two typewritten pages.

"How the hell am I going to read these and ride at the same time," I thought. My tank bag was equipped with a clear plastic sleeve for directions, and I remembered how great it looked on the workbench back in the garage.

"Excuse me," said a voice. "My name is Ray, and I was just admiring your bike."

The speaker was a soft-spoken gentleman, wearing a striped sport shirt and blue shop pants. He asked a few questions about the K75's fairing then shook my hand. His bike was the 28th in my count, and stood off by itself. It was 1978 Honda Goldwing with a sidecar, which at the moment was filled to overflowing with a human-sized plush replica of the Warner Brothers' cartoon character Yosemite Sam. A fluttering American flag completed the sidecar's look.

“Great,” I thought to myself. “The two confirmed douches at this event are now talking to each other.”

With no small degree of pride, Ray explained how he'd built the sidecar and mount from boxes of parts he bought "here and there." He showed me some little personal touches he'd added to the bike (other than Sam) and asked if I was familiar with the route. I learned he didn't know anyone either at this poker run but knew how poker runs worked in general. Suddenly, I was delighted for this gentleman’s hospitality.

"Would you mind very much if I rode with you today," I asked.

Here in an instant, the ruins of my expectations were about to be salvaged by a total stranger. (And I learned my first lesson about real bikers.) Ray said "yes," and, in gratitude, I appointed him navigator. My reasoning was simple. He had three wheels and I had two. This numerical advantage allowed him to look at his set of directions without falling over.

I trailed Ray into the first little town center. Rolling down Main Street, he switched on a recording of carousel music (which poured out of hidden speakers) and did a gentle weave within his lane. The effect was positively astounding! Everybody around us stopped to look. Had I been on the loudest Harley with a naked Angelina Jolie sitting on my handlebars -- no one would have noticed. (If you are Angelina Jolie and you are reading this, I would like to propose a little experiment in the interest of science.)

Ray was an absolute pisser to ride with. As an re-entry rider, my skills were brutally basic. Ray set a great pace though gentle wooded curves, along the banks of the Brandywine river and other assorted streams. We found the bridges and the bars. At one stop, the poker game was incredibly vicious, with the losers taking off their clothes and hurling them in a pile. (It was here Ray pointed out we were in the wrong bar.) The carousel music came on whenever the traffic slowed or we passed through a town center. The effect was always the same. I have never had the opportunity to ride in a circus parade, but I can say I've done the next best thing!

My arthritis started to get the best of me 5 hours into the run. That, plus the thrill of hitting a bridge with an open steel deck coming out of a blind curve, led me to believe I'd had enough for one day. (At the time, bridges with steel floors scared the shit out of me.) Neither Ray nor I had a pen. We shook hands and split. I haven't heard from him since. If anybody knows this guy, drop me a line. I'd really like to ride with him again.

"So did you find your own kind today," said my squeeze upon my return.

"I found someone who was exactly like me," I replied. "Only more so."

"I can't believe there was a bigger douche than you at this thing," she said.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2005
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac-Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With A Shrug)

Damned Computer

I have no idea how I managed to screw things up so that the last post ran twice. But I did. I guess the devil really is in the details.

I regret the error.

©Copyright Jack Riepe2008
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac-Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With a Shrug)

The Devil Is In The Details...

Not every detail makes it into print, particularly in my stories. There are a number of good reasons for this. Some explanations are too complicated for the purpose of the piece. Others lead to tangents which can breed distracting opinions on the part of the reader. And finally, a certain percentage are either too boring or too unbelievable to be incorporated into the text.

The previous posting dealt with an unusual situation in which my girlfriend of the day, and pillion rider at that moment, helped me resolve a mechanical problem in the dark, by using an illuminated adult lovemaking toy, as I had no reliable flashlight. That was absolutely true... But not quite accurate. There was one detail that I left out of the story because it fit each of the reasons I have just outlined. As such,this fact normally would have been lost to posterity as it is unlikely either the lady, myself, nor the police would have cause to revisit the tale on national television.

But I had lunch last Friday with the self-appointed Mac-Pac* Editorial Review Board, and one subject under discussion was the credibility of motorcycle blogs. As far as the truth goes, several of my stories were thrown under the bus of suspicion. The chief prosecutor was “Big Jim” Ellenberg, who is on crutches after falling off his motorcycle (which was traveling at a low rate of speed, in a straight line, on a clear day, with no perceived obstacles in sight).

Not only did I insist that I wrote the truth, but I decided to reveal the missing detail of the last story. “Big Jim” thought it should have been included, so I have decided to present it here, as a kind of addendum.

Presuming you have read the previous post...

Thirty seconds before the engine quit on my 1975 Kawasaki 750 triple, my thoughts were of arriving at my destination, having a couple of drinks, and getting laid. Quite frankly, this was my weekend agenda for 6 or 7 years; and looking back, it would be hard to improve upon it, even today.

The night in question was warm and sticky. Most folks don’t realize how humid it can get in New York’s Catskills and Adirondacks in the summer. But this was of no concern to me as the breeze was cool enough at 50 mph on a naked bike. In a split second, the lights went out and the engine died on the only straight stretch of road I’d been on in an hour. This was so unexpected that I had no idea what to think. While the power was off, the engine continued to rumble but started slowing the bike down dramatically. It got quiet fast when I pulled in the clutch. Dismounted and considering the situation, I started to sweat. I popped up the seat and poured droplets of perspiration on the electrical component of the bike. And then the mosquitoes and the “No-See-Ums” got the range.

I had a temper like a rattle snake caught in car door in those days. My first reaction was to say “Fuck,” at least 240 times. Those of you familiar with my writing will understand that my mechanical abilities are a standing joke among three motorcycle clubs. A screwdriver in my hands becomes a deadly weapon.

The cheap flashlight failed (as described previously) early in the game. My girlfriend was a smoker (and a saint), who offered to light matches. As I recall, I responded to this offer in a rather unkindly way, probably with my “fuck” mantra. This was long before the cell phone was invented and we were way out in the boonies. I don’t think I had seen a light or another vehicle in almost an hour.

The fact that the bike’s lights had failed at the same time the engine quit was a dead giveaway the problem was electrical. That much I could figure out. I didn’t think it was a battery nor alternator failure as the lights went from brilliant to off. I had no idea if the machine had fuses, where they were, or if there was a spare. My first thought was that a cable had come off the battery.

It was at this point that this beautiful and patient girl unveiled the lovemaking toy with the light in it. Now some men would be a bit concerned that their partner had brought along a huge rubber, pulsating, self-illuminated dick on a weekend date. Not me. I was intrigued. In fact, I was trying to imagine how she looked buying it. I found the whole proposition rather stimulating.

I remember saying, “Aside from the fact it lights up, it’s just like mine.”

This device was a forerunner of the now famous vibrator known as “The Rabbit,” of Sex in the City fame. Not nearly as sophisticated as they are today, this unit had one function and it was necessary to switch it on to get the light to work. So there I was, bent over the bike, sweating like hell, trying to read a manual, by the faint light of a penis that made a noise like a coffee grinder, while describing slow circles above my head.

And that is how the police found me when they pulled up.

This was the missing detail. Please let me know if it was worth telling.

* The Mac-Pac Eating and Wrenching Society is the Euro-Tech motorcycle club based in south east Pennsylvania that I ride with. Members ride many different and exotic marques but the predominant badge is BMW.

©Copyright Jack Riepe2008
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac-Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With A Shrug)