Thoughtless Father's Day Gifts Lead To Chainsaw Massacres

• To read a comprehensive ride report dealing with the images that haunt the mind of moto-writer Jack Riepe, while rocketing along on a fine BMW motorcycle, please click here. While the story is humorous, it is also the tragic history of how beautiful women torture sensitive men in general, and Riepe in particular.

• To read a critical analysis of how thoughtlessly cheap Father’s Day Gifts will plunge thousands of hard-working, focused dads into a murderous depression, please read on. 

Disappointing Father’s Day Gifts Associated With Depression and Chainsaw Murders

Wilmington, NY, June 6 — A new study by the Wilmington Institute of Holistic Dry Cleaning (WIHDC) has determined that disappointing Father’s Day Gifts will plunge thousands of sensitive, normally focused men into the kind of depression that can easily lead to chainsaw massacres. According to a statement issued today by DR. Albert Hissingaz, Pfd., Fu, Chief Behavioralist for the renown WIHDC, ill-conceived Father’s Day gifts can easily push dads over the edge, compelling then to start up the chainsaw, especially where older teenagers are concerned.

“Shitty ties, stupid mugs, uselessly cheap tools, flatulence cushions, and $5 gift certificates toward the purchase of a Bentley are the kinds of Father’s Day tribute that inspire dad’s to chase the kids around the house with a growling chainsaw,” said Hissingaz. “Yet these are the gifts high-school and college-age adolescents can buy pre-wrapped,  within ten feet of a department store entrance, for $10 or $12. Their logic is that dad will be so grateful to get anything, he’ll be delighted with something that will end up in the trash less than two hours later.”

But dads are more sophisticated today, claims Hissingaz, responding best to gifts that display genuine forethought, while reacting savagely to a minimalist expressions of affection. The behavioralist cited a dad in upstate New York who continued to make tuition payments, service three cars, and cheerfully fork over the occasional cash advance just because he got a Father’s Day Gift that made him laugh. In contrast, a dad in Jersey City sold his two kids into slavery after receiving a hat that read, “World’s Greatest Dad,” for the third year in a row. 

Cheap Father's Day Insurance 

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Experts claim the safest bet for a Father’s Day gift is an autographed copy of Jack Riepe’s Politically Correct Smoking For Social Terrorists. Personally inscribed by the author, these first edition, tightly bound, 30-chapter books are the essence of laughter and a sound Father’s Day investment. In fact, smart dads simply order a copy for themselves, and bill the kids later. (Studies show that a majority of kids are employed by the time they are 34-years-old, and eventually have $35.)



Attention Moms: Don't let your kids give your husband one more reason for selling them into slavery, walling them up in the basement, or signing them up for a cult. Please follow the directions below...

Books ordered for Father’s Day will be shipped by Monday, June 11th, first class mail (Priority) USPS. To order:

Email me at jack.riepe@gmail.com
• Just indicate “Cigar Book Order” in the subject line!

• Tell me if the book is for you or for a Father’s Day recipient
• If a gift, tell me the first and last name of the recipient, plus something about them... (i.e. If they ride a motorcycle, play golf, fly fish, or paint by numbers)
• Include your name, address, and telephone number.
• Send no money... Books will be sent with a post-paid envelope and an invoice.
• Order as soon as your read this... Autographed, authorized copies are about to pass out of print. 

Testimonials:

• Mucca Fignotti (North Bergen, NJ) Giving my dad this book last year bought me 12 months of peace and quiet about getting a job, and sneaking my girlfriend into my room.


• Steve LaDoucher (Feed Lot, IA) I gave my dad a pre-wrapped tool for $6 bucks last Father's Day. Two days later, I woke up chained to a post in fucking Sudan. Don't let this happen to you.


• Cheri Pie Debris (Brass Pole, NM) I didn't even know my husband owned a chainsaw.... Should have bought the book.


• Brian "Stooey" Bastage (Willaby, NY) I bought my dad this cigar book, and he bought me a BMW S100RR. What a sweet deal!


Results are not typical... You are likely to experience something similar to an appreciative dad or husband, however.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2012
All rights reserved

The Second Day Of A Summer Ride in 2006... Uncensored

The next best thing to waking up in a hotel room alongside a simmering beauty on a motorcycle trip is waking up alone. I was alone on this trip. The crisp sheets on the bed and the muted hum of the air conditioner conspired to keep me horizontal longer than I had planned. Then again, I had no plans. No one knew I was here and the luxury of being out on a motorcycle, without a single demand on my time, coddled by a deluxe-class hotel, was intoxicating. And yet, one is compelled to get on with the ride. Thinking of the maxim that causes so many BMW riders to do 100 miles before the first meal of the day, I dialed room service and ordered breakfast — with a full pot of coffee.

Room service is the apex of civilization, requiring nothing more then to slip into a robe and to sign a chit for the privilege of extending the morning’s “Ka” through the first meal of the day. There are times when quiet reflection is worth about $2 grand a second, and “in-room dining” provides the perfect aura for enjoying breakfast on the American plan, in your underwear. The fragrant aroma of eggs, sausage, pancakes, and  coffee filled the room like incense in a pagan temple, where I was the oracle.  I pulled the drapes aside, letting in the light of a flawless Adirondack morning, along with a view of the mountains and Mirror Lake, in the center of town.

My 1986 BMW K75 with the Rare Sprint Fairing

And yet the focal point of the view was my blue 1986 BMW K75 (with the rare Sprint fairing). It’s headlight stared blankly up at the window, reminding me  that my life was not entirely without purpose. In many regards, life is about limits. The average room service coffee pot is limited to about four large cups of java. I bolted the first cup to jump-start my soul. The second and third cups accompanied breakfast. The final cup washed down a handful pills (celebrex and pain killers) to numb the arthritis raging in my knees and hips. This pharmaceutical dessert would enable me to stagger around in a mockery of mobility, but it would also permit my knees and hips to bend enough to let me ride.

I buzzed out of the hotel driveway an hour later.

This was the second day of a week on the road, and the first time I had ever ridden a motorcycle through the Adirondack Mountains of New York. I love the town of Lake Placid, nestled in the center of the High Peaks region. The inaccessibility of this place (hours away from anywhere by car and without a viable option for a public airport) has kept it as pristine as possible. Coupled with visionary “Forever Wild” legislation now over 100 years old, the integrity of these mountains is preserved in the state’s constitution. The Adirondacks occasionally get crowded... And they have their honky tonk touristy attractions... But they are home to moose, deer, bear, wolves, mink, fisher, martin, trout, bass, and splake — all within an eight-hour drive from Manhattan. And they offer some of the best motorctycle riding to be found anywhere.

That simple sentence — “I buzzed out of the hotel driveway an hour later.” — is a lie. (I tell a lot of them.) It took me twenty minutes to get my boots on and ten minutes to mount the bike. That means I took my time swinging my leg over the seat, bending my knees, and flexing my hips. Then I studied the situation. The driveway of the Crowne Plaza Resort is a steep drop to a curve on Main Street. I would be bringing my feet to the pegs two or three times in 300 feet, which can be a tough trick for me, just starting off. (I like to ride two or three miles with my legs up right out of the gate, to stretch the joints.) As usual, the thought of getting my feet up and down was much worse than the actual effort, and I found myself cruising along the Main Street in Lake Placid a few seconds later.

The gentle (or savage, or indifferent) reader should know that I used to live 18 miles away from this town, in a log cabin, on a dirt road. It was the only log cabin around with three phone lines into it, serving two computers and a fax machine. I ran a business in New Jersey from here, writing speeches for clients in Washington, Paris, Berlin, and Singapore; and placing stories in major newspapers regarding every aspect of the business travel industry. It had been my life’s ambition to live in the Adirondacks, deriving a decent income from someplace else. I pulled it off for twenty years. And then circumstances changed. My life’s focus evaporated in four simple words... And they are the same four words that have changed my life so many times: “I met a woman...”

There are three compelling forces in my life that continually bring me to the brink of salvation or utter ruin. They are my love of writing... My love of motorcycles... And my love of women. I would be forced to write if I had to read my work aloud to statues. For me, life exists solely for interpretation and retelling.  And there is nothing like hurtling down a road on the back of a motorcycle. Twisting the throttle morphs the rider intro a half-human/half-machine god, who sizzles through molecules of air like an electric charge, arriving at another reality, in a cloud of spent ions. There is no other way to describe it and debating me on this is pointless. Simply stated, motorcycle riders have more orgasms, taste more of life, experience more highs, and spend more time in traffic court and emergency rooms than other mortals. (I don’t make the rules, I just play the game.)

And then there are women.

I generally prefer one at a time... So I can lose my mind, heart, and soul without distraction. Woody Allen once said, “In life, there are the horrible and the miserable. The horrible are the deformed. The miserable are everyone else.” Women are the precious elements that elevate man above the “miserable...” Unless, of course, they have pitched him into the quicksand misery of failed romance in the first place. There is nothing in the world to compare with the first turbocharged kiss from the captain of the college equestrian team, as she presses your hands against her jodhpured ass... Unless it is having a coworker you’ve had a crush on for years, pulling off her shirt and nailing you in the office... Or a newspaper reporter who’s busted your balls for years, jumping you on the city desk (after midnight on a Saturday)... And then there is having the most bewitching woman you have ever held in your arms taking your soul in the most enchanting Adirondack places: along streams in the mist, in glades where wild strawberries (the size of buttons) flavored her bare skin, and on a bear skin rug — before a roaring fire.

It was the memories of this last woman that were haunting me as I careened through a right angle turn onto Route 73, retracing my steps from the night before. (Please read previous blog). I was as stiff as a board and the turn has some wobble in it as I coasted to a stop at the last traffic light in town. (If one were headed straight south, the next stoplight would be 150 miles away.) The tide had long since gone out on that Adirondack love story, yet it is my firm belief that passion is like energy, and that it never really goes away, but comes back time and again for those who believe in quarks, quasars, black holes, and the black magic of motorcycles. It is the memory of the few women that I would have preferred not gotten away, however, that gnaws at my soul on cold, moonless nights. And I might have kept them all, but one, if I hadn’t been a total prick. (Naturally, I'd like another shot at "the one" that was destined to get away.)

The light changed, and the K75 spoke to me in  German accent one normally associates with Marlene Dietrich. It said, “Wake the fuck up and pay attention. Your chances of getting laid on this trip are about the same as Congress coming up with enlightened legislation. However, your chances of blowing through a curve and going off a cliff are excellent.” 

Above: Silver-screen star Marlene Dietrich

The K75 sounded like Marlene Dietrich, but took on the image of Milla Jovovich when it appeared in my mind. (It is astounding how often images of Milla Jovovich have appeared in my mind.) The bike whined as the clutch bit into the friction zone, and I shot past the two towering Olympic ski jumps. Skiers in training were barreling down these inclined ramps (one 270 feet high) despite the fact it was July. The ski jumps and the landing strips on the sides of the mountain were covered in green brushes. (You read that correctly: “green brushes” with the bristles pointed upwards.) The skiers must hit 62 miles per hour before they can become airborne. I pulled over and watched as a 17-year-old with a death-wish briefly became a human clay pigeon, falling at least 12 stories through thin air, to land upright, on slightly bent knees, before making a perfect stop — on brushes.

“He may get laid tonight,” said the K75.

“Kiss my ass,” I thought, snicking it into gear. I launched myself into a 62-mile-per-hour start and began the descent into the Cascades. As  previously mentioned, the Cascades are three stepped lakes piled into a narrow valley, lined with aspens. The road drops like a stone, with a few sweeping curves to the right and left.  The pavement is good, wide, and steep enough to make a rider think the bike only has a front wheel. A light tap on the brakes causes the forks to dip like investments on Wall Street following a jobs report.

The Cascade Lakes are always pretty, but become incredibly so at dawn and twilight. (I married the second former Mrs. Riepe on the shores of Middle Cascade Lake, in a secret sunrise ceremony, conducted by the Honorable Judge Arnold Rothman, who sold me a fishing license the day before. She was Russian, blond, intensely pretty, focused, and under the impression that I could be fashioned into something useful.) It was no challenge to hold the bike on the hill with its flawless German brakes, but I preferred to let it build up a head of steam, before dropping down a gear. My reason for this was simple: I love the sound the engine makes when the RPM suddenly jumps, and I am addicted to the “grab you by the balls” feeling the bike imparts when it suddenly drops 25 miles-per-hour. Let’s face it... These are two of the reasons we all ride.

I wanted the descent through the Cascades to go on forever.

The breeze was cool... The road was mine... The challenge was minimal... And the satisfaction of the ride was vast. The bike responded to each of my slight handlebar inputs with Bavarian precision. Yet the sign announcing the 30-mph speed limit in town popped up fast enough, and you ignore these at your peril.  I looked for people I knew as I rode through the towns of Keene and Keene Valley, to no avail. (This is the drawback to being able to ride on a day when everyone else is stuck in work.) I passed the now empty “Cozy Bear Bookstore,” where more than 400 people attended my first book-signing (Politically Correct Cigar Smoking For Social Terrorists). The event made the 6 O’clock news in Plattsburgh. The bookstore is something else now. (It is across from the Noonmark Diner, in  Keene Valley, which is the best breakfast in the Adirondacks. Not only do they bake their own bread, but they make their own jam and maple syrup too. There are three kinds of breakfast served in heaven: Southern Breakfasts... New Jersey Diner Breakfasts... And the Noonmark Diner Breakfast. Riders should enjoy the triple crown of breakfast dining now, in the event they don’t qualify for heaven later.)

The K75 snarled into the incline leading up to Chapel Pond, and I took these curves at 60 miles-per-hour. There is a sheer drop-off on the left, framed by a vertical cliff, from which a glass-like waterfall tumbles into a ravine. Careless motorists are saved from plunging to certain death by a three-foot thick native rock wall guaranteed to cause certain death at point of impact. It is all very picturesque.

Once, passing this waterfall with my six-year-old daughter on the front seat of the Suburban, I pointed it out to her, explaining that a rock climber had fallen to his death there just the day before. She looked at the site through huge solemn eyes, before asking me, “What was his name?”

Details like that were always important to her.

I had no idea, but I didn’t believe that a dad should ever look like a dope in front of his little girl. I never hesitated and replied, “His name was Lefty.” For the next 16 years, my daughter would tell people, “That’s where Lefty fell off the cliff.” She was astonished to finally learn I had just made that name up. (His real name was Mucca Fignotti.)

Route 73 gives the impression it was laid out by the Chamber of Commerce. It passes by three or four natural wonders, winds through the kind of towns Bilbo Baggins would prefer, and offers proximity to a great breakfast (the Noonmark Diner) and a legendary saloon, called the Baxter Mountain Tavern. (Technically, this is on Rt. 9N in Keene, just off Rt. 73.)

I pulled into a clearing by Chapel Pond, and dropped my feet.

Chapel Pond sits in a depression at the foot of another vertical rock wall, surrounded by conifers and hardwoods, with three or four campsites accessible by car. I have been admiring this place for 40 years. It was here that the most beautiful woman I have ever known gave me the adolescence I never had, in the back of an SUV, when the rain fell like a curse. And just stopping here, in that same spot, I could feel my DNA tying itself into a square knot.

“Fuck it,” I thought. “You’re only making yourself crazy.”

I snicked the bike into gear, and continued on. There is another change in elevation on the other side of Chapel Pond, as the road drops into a valley as tight as my riding pants. A rock-lined trail peels off to the left, following a stream. The same blond scorched my soul in the same SUV as the moon rose above the trees here too. I remembered the moonlight in her eyes, the scent of her hair, the quickness of her breath, and mellow richness of her laugh. And I remembered how I wanted that night to go on forever, like the road through the Cascades: with minimal challenge and thrills without immediate consequences. And I remember thinking, “This one will last forever.”

“Is there any place in this 7-million-acre state park and forest preserve where this blond, or some other wet dream, didn’t honk your horn?” asked the K75. “Because if there is, I’d like to get there at 110 fucking miles-per-hour.”

It is impossible to argue with a motorcycle, especially one that takes on the image of Milla Jovovich,  in her heartwarming role as the clone next door —  “Alice” — in Resident Evil. We took a left on US-9 and the motorcycle changed the tune playing in my head. It went from “She’s My Girl” by the Turtles, to “Everything Louder than Everything Else” by Meatloaf, emphasizing the line, “If the thrill is gone than it’s time to take it back.”

Riding to a different tune occasionally causes you to sing one. I found myself tearing through the back end of Essex County, NY, thinking of nothing but the road. Two hours later, I saw a sign outside a little bistro, promoting “Meatloaf” sandwiches. I thought this was prophetic and decided to stop. The joint was on the corner, and I swung around to the side street, hoping to park in the shade. It was here I encountered a purple Harley-Davidson Sportster, from which a firecracker of a redhead was in the process of dismounting. The Harley had a New Jersey tag on it. The rider was as thin as  braided leather and as hot as Satan’s kiss.

The firecracker was already seated at one of three tables when I sashayed in. I sat at an adjacent table and fired off my best “battered baby seal” look. The Harley rider appeared to be searching for a spittoon. I ordered the meatloaf sandwich, subconsciously humming “Paradise By The Dashboard Light.” The redhead suddenly took her meal outside.

Oddly enough, we both ended up mounting our bikes at the same time. (I decided that I only wanted a few bites from my sandwich.) “Headed to the BMW rally in Vermont?” I asked her with a smile.

She responded with a long pause, before asking, “Is there something about my bike, my gear, or my demeanor that suggests I could possibly give a shit about anything you might have to say?”

Stunned, I stuttered, “What part of Jersey City are you from?”

Her bike answered with a thunder clap from the pipes, and a slight fishtail of the back tire as it pulled away.

I tried to re-inflate my dignity in the silence that followed. 

“Well you haven’t lost your touch,” said my K75. “At least you didn’t get laid here, which is good as the meatloaf was pretty decent and we can come back tomorrow without you feeling like shit.”

I really loved that K75... I must have. I wouldn’t take shit like that from Milla Jovovich, unless she gave me the opportunity, of course.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2012
All rights reserved.

On A Summer Day, in 2006

“How far do you think we’ll ride today?”

That question was posed to me by the late Mack Harrell, who was strapping the last of his camping gear to the back of a bright yellow BMW GS.

“Not as far as you’re accustomed to going,” I replied, with a grimace.

I’d been home less than 24 hours from a week on the road — via the BuRP Rally in Maggie Valley, NC — and had made a horrible discovery: my arthritis was no longer resetting to “zero” after a decent night’s sleep and a hot shower. Here it was, at the beginning of a run to Montreal for Mack and Lake Placid, NY for me, and my knees would barely bend. I struggled to get my side cases out to the bike and mounted to the frame. (According to the manual, each case could hold a maximum of 25 pounds. Mine were certainly heavier than that, but I knew the system was up to it.) Yet a loud creaking and popping sound accompanied the maneuvering to get each pannier on the frame. (There is a trick to mounting the bags, and knowing it guarantees the panniers will attach in two seconds or less, and stay attached throughout a nuclear attack. Not knowing it will cause the rider to say, “Fuck,” no less than 7,000 times, as nothing will get the bags on the frame.)

“Are your side bags creaking like that?” asked Mack.

“No,” I replied honestly. “That noise is coming from my knees.”

Later, when I started the engine, Mack cocked his head in amazement as the legendary whine from the K75 filled the air. “Is that sound coming from your engine?”

“No... My dick,” I lied, for variation.

Our ultimate destination was the BMW Rally in Burlington, VT (2006). But Mack had a romantic liaison planned for Montreal and I had always wanted to ride a motorcycle in the Adirondack Mountains of New York. His bike, the Trojan workhorse of the BMW line, was set up for a week of camping. It looked like he was out to discover the source of a strange river. My machine was a 1986 BMW K75 (with the rare Sprint fairing), carefully loaded to get the most out of a first class hotel with superb room service. The plan was to head north a few days before the rally, enabling each of us to pursue our own objectives, before meeting at the rally in Burlington.

Lake Placid was about 400 miles from the driveway and Montreal was another 90 minutes north of that. Most BMW riders would cover that distance before lunch, and Mack had made the run to Montreal, Canada from Essex County, NJ in one shot many times. But my longest day’s run (as a middle-aged male destined for the La Brea Tar Pits) was just around 300 miles, and it nearly killed me. (That ride was on a scalding hot day, and between the heat and my arthritis, riding buddy Wayne Whitlock  suggested replacing my helmet with a plastic bag.)

It’s not that I don’t like riding long distances. But the pain in my knees gets to the point where I start grinding my teeth, and that’s after taking the really strong medication. I would try to make the most of a day’s run by choosing a mixture of direct side roads and picturesque slabs, thereby squeezing 60 to 80 miles out of each hour. Hence my love of the interstates. I have been driving to the Adirondacks for over 35 years and knew the fastest routing — which ran through New Jersey. But Mack had just come from there, so I chose a scenic route up to I-84, that would bring us into New York without having to pass through the Garden State again.

Under the circumstances, that was probably the stupidest thing I could have done.

We took PA Route 100 up to US-22, and grabbed the Pennsylvania Turnpike (Northeast Extension) at Allentown. We followed that to Scranton, and got on I-84 (which misses New Jersey by about 8 feet), which we then traced to the New York State Thruway.
Except it wasn’t quite that smooth nor automatic.

The demons in my knees started hammering before I left the driveway. Pennsylvania Route 100 (heading north) has stretches that delight the eye and refresh the soul. I found myself chewing through my lower lip  with every imperfection in the pavement. There are traffic lights, little farm communities, and the occasional tractor pulling a load of shit. We were delayed by all of them, as the temperature steadily climbed into the mid-90s. While the routing I chose seemed to offer an abundance of high-speed slabs, it wasn’t the most direct route by far. Three hours into the ride brought us to a rest area on I-84 (in New York State), which wasn’t even the introduction to the ride that lay ahead.

We were both wearing mesh ballistic gear that enabled the hellish breeze to evaporate the moisture from our bodies. I was so dehydrated that I didn’t have to take a piss in 8 hours. (I tried, only to release a puff of steam and a whistling sound from “Thor’s Hammer.”.)

“How are you doing?” asked Mack.

“I’m having the time of my life, but don’t really know how far I can get today,” I replied. “I might have to call a halt in Albany.” Albany is the State Capital of New York and was only a little more than halfway. But the truth was that I was starting to think of one of the cheap, run-down hotel properties that one can find for $60 or $70 off the toll road in the vicinity of the Catskills, fifty or sixty miles before Albany.

“Whatever you want to do,” said Mack. The stink of defeat was in the air.

We pulled through the tollbooth of the New York State Thruway 20 minutes later, and moved out into traffic. That was when the real demon made his presence known.

I have always love to see things by car, and the New York State Thruway has been my gateway to freedom since I was 17-years-old. It was the fastest way to get a dramatic change in scenery for a kid who was raised in a city of flat roofs, broken glass, and dog shit. You can’t really see the Hudson Valley to the right, but the foothills of the Catskills open on the left, and all this open, wooded, uncrowded space boggled my adolescent mind. Once again, I found myself lost in reverie on this road.

Now, at age 52 (astride this near vintage Beemer), I stated thinking of the thousands of times I had driven this road in both directions. Twice with new brides... Eight times with new lovers... Dozens of times with hunting and fishing buddies... Hundreds of times on visitation weekends with my daughter (starting at age five)... And many more times by myself (as I owned a business in New Jersey yet lived in Lake Placid, a scant 7 hours distant). Yet this was only the second time I’d traversed this road by motorcycle. (The first was in 1976, when I rode a Kawasaki H2 to Niagara Falls, turning west at Albany.)

Despite the fact that only 11 years separated the issue date of that Kawasaki H2 (1975) and that BMW K75 (1986), there was no comparison between the two machines. The Kawi was primitive, rough riding, and buzzy in the extreme, complete with an odd engine sound. The Beemer was as smooth as 20-year-old single malt, far more responsive on the lower end, immeasurably better in the curves, a lot more reliable on the brakes, and marginally better sounding. What a difference a decade makes!

Then I thought of the comparison between the riders... With more than 34 years difference, the Kawasaki rider had the knees of a varsity fencer, the reticence of a Kamikaze pilot, the commitment of a serial killer and the sense of a doorknob. That rider’s throttle knew two positions: “balls to the wall” and “guilty as charged.”  The H2 rider got a erection once in 1975, and that lasted from April 3rd to December 22nd.

The BMW rider was a shadow of that kid. Rotten knees and an outlook stained by two failed marriages, a mad compulsion to eventually write down every thought and inflict it on unsuspecting readers, and a desire to cling to the one link that forever kept him 19-years-old (at least in his mind), conspired to keep him in the saddle, always waiting for the other boot to drop.

The demon began to seep into my hand through the throttle, and I felt a tingling in my fingers. Looking down at the speedo, I realized I was clipping along at 93 miles per hour, with Mack in hot pursuit. (Some things never change.) I opted not to slow down, but pulled into the first fuel stop to tank up.

“You seem to be feeling a bit better,” noted Mack. “How’s it going?”

It was going worse than I wanted him to know. It hurt taking my left left off the peg almost as much as it hurt to get it up there... And the pain was gravitating toward my hip.

“These rest areas are spaced about every 20 or 30 miles all the way to Albany,” I said. “Would you mind if I pulled into each one just to drop my legs?”

Mack didn’t mind at all, suspecting that we’d have another 40 miles to go before I got off the bike for the day. But the demon had begun to possess me now... And he was feeding on the pain. We covered the distance between rest areas like errant bullets, running speed traps twice. The Catskill Mountains reared up on the left, where we could see a thunderstorm  loose among the peaks, with lightning arcing from crown to crown. The temperature dropped a bit, which was reflected by another jump on  my tach. We ripped past the exits for the cheap hotels, hurtling beyond a picturesque valley housing a maximum security prison.

I carried my own prison in my knees.

There are three beautiful streams crossed by the Thruway and I have always wondered what it would be like to hike along them, casting a fly here and there... But not that day. Hiking and fishing are for the damned when you can be riding a motorcycle. I clung to the far right lane crossing these bridges, so I could see over the side, knowing that they’d be behind me in a second or two. I pointed out waterfalls, mountains, rivers and landmarks to Mack. One of these was the first covered bridge I ever saw in my life, though they would be common enough where I would come to live in Pennsylvania. Mack was a technical rider, who was all business. He never took his eyes from the road and would later confess he had no idea why I was gesturing and waving.

I pulled into every rest area, and got another hour’s leeway in the saddle for every twenty minutes I stretched my legs (without getting off the bike). We were burning up daylight, but covering the miles too. Albany, the center of government in New York State, is but the heart of a metropolis formed by the sister cities of Troy and Schnectady. It is here that the New York State Thruway heads west, and we continued up the Hudson, carving through the interchange that put us on the Adirondack Northway. Imagine what this road first looked like to me when I was 17, a guttersnipe from Jersey City, encountering my first highway signs in another language: French! This is to accommodate the hoards of French-speaking Canadians headed north.  (The second time I’d see highway signs in French, I’d be driving a Citroen SM from Geneva to Chamonix in the French Alps, in the company of a sizzling brunette. I’d be 35. I used to get away with fucking murder when I was alive.)

Passing through Albany, Mack Harrell got his first surprise... “Let’s go as far as Glens Falls,” I said, “about 45 miles further north.”

The Northway crosses the Erie Canal, which is about as wide as most waterways in states that do not support a legendary river (like the Mississippi). Then just before Glens Falls, it crosses the mighty Hudson. At this point, the Hudson is not as wide as one of the cruise ships it floats 140 miles to the south. It has a lake-like quality as it disappears into mist and mystery, en route to the Blue Ledges. (Again when I was 17, I’d hiked to the headwaters of the Hudson — Lake Tear Of The Clouds – and stood with one foot on each bank.)

I informed Mack that we wouldn’t be stopping at Glens Falls nor Lake George, but going straight through to Lake Placid, another 86 miles to the north... And he could see the madness in my eyes. The pain was coursing throughout my body by this time, but it was a different kind of pain. It was the pain that accompanies the desire to accomplish one more ride — just like I was 19- or 20-years-old again. My soul thirsted for the wonder and the thrill of yet “another” first time feeling on a motorcycle.

We crossed the imaginary “blue line” of the Adirondack Park, one of the most amazing reserves anywhere in the world, in the honky-tonk resort of Lake George. There should be a “blue line” painted across the road, but there’s just a sign. I blew my horn like I always do, and did a swerve of celebration. The Adirondack Park is the largest state park of its kind anyplace in the United States. With 1200 lakes and hundreds of miles of rivers, it spans 7 million acres, and is larger than any three national parks combined (in the “Lower 48”). I couldn’t help thinking of all the circumstances under which I’d driven this road before. The best of these adventures were spent in a red GMC Suburban, with a 5-year-old marvel on the bench seat next to me. My daughter and I played every game, sang every song, made up every kind of story, and ate lots of ice cream and Chinese food in that truck. And we did it every other weekend for the next 7 years. (I put 50,000 miles on a new Suburban in the first year I owned it.)

But something different was happening now. There was electricity flowing from the throttle into my hand and the effect on me was amazing. The interstate (I-87) is sweeping turns, marshes, dense forests, and views of open water north of Lake George, which itself is 44 miles long, and I would have run it wide open, had I not been sure I’d have been arrested. I pointed at every landmark I knew, laughing like an idiot, knowing that Mack Harrell had no idea what was running through my mind. The Beemer (Blueballs) was 20 years old that summer, and I rode it like it was new. Sparing neither the horses nor the emotion, I routinely pushed that machine to the red line, only to discover that it used no oil after cruising at sustained speeds in excess of 85 and 90 mph. It barely burned 3 ounces that whole summer.

Our exit was a hundred miles north of Albany, and I pulled over on the shoulder of US-9 (the same US-9 that runs through Jersey City), to catch my breath. Dusk was settling in and the sky was scarlet, against “honest-to-God” purple mountain’s majesty. With the bikes switched off, we could hear a stream tumbling into a ravine, scented with the fragrance of a million balsams.

“How much farther?” asked Mack, amazed that we were pulled over in a place where there was nothing but solitude.

“Another 50 miles, or so.”

“What the fuck got into you today?”

“A sense of who I wanted to be, and what I wanted to feel like,” I replied.

“Well who do you feel like now?”

“I felt like Charles Lindbergh earlier. Now I feel like the Lindbergh baby,” I replied, thumbing the starter for the final time that day.


Have you ever noticed how the last light of the day disappears in the blink of an eye? We weren’t stopped 10 minutes when the shadows matured into a tangible darkness. Pulling in, our headlights had been a suggestion in the gathering dusk. Now they punched a hole in the night, fifty feet ahead of the motorcycles. And while it was night on the pavement, the last vestiges of daylight bled through  the openings in the trees above us, and in the wide expanse of Keene Valley, through which the AuSable River flows.

The road gracefully climbed past Chapel Pond, with the granite cliff rising straight out of the water, before plunging into Keene Valley. Mack only saw the pavement of Route 73, framed in the headlights. I saw the road in my mind, as I have seen it a thousand times. I found myself carving into one “S” curve after another, feeling each turn as I remembered it — but in a truck. I was leaning into them for the first time after all these years. And there was something ethereal about doing it in the dark. All of you have experienced the thrill of riding into a cold pocket, where cooler temperatures envelop bike and rider like a specter. We rode through a dozen of them, as the river pooled alongside the road in unseen recesses, home to trout and wild mink.

The Hobbit-town lights of Saint Huberts, Keene Valley and Keene, winked before we started the final ascent, through the Cascade Lakes, into Lake Placid. The solitary beam of a motorcycle headlamp is like looking through a keyhole in reality... The  bike is cradled by the same invisible forces that hold it at an angle to the ground during the day, but they are positively cult-like in the dark.

The Cascade Lakes are a ribbon of water that span different elevations parallel to the road on the final climb into Lake Placid. Route 73 is gentle in this stretch, but twisty and steep leading in and out of it. I flicked on the MotoLights, mounted to the K75’s brake calipers, and the front of the bike was wrapped in a basket of light. The bike glowed like an ember, rising upward. I knew this entire stepped valley was walled by granite, softened by millions of Aspens, all deep green this weekend... But my world was the golden ring of light, and in that moment, it was all the world any rider could ask.

Two stunning vistas lay before us, but we flashed by them in the dark. (It is unlikely Mack would have seen them in broad daylight.) These were the cluster of high peaks visible at the open field  (where Adirondack Loj Road joins Route 73), with the Olympic ski jumps just beyond. Minutes later, we entered the soft, elegant light that is the resort of Lake Placid, home to two Winter Olympic Games; neither of which succeeded in compromising the charm of this exquisite village.

We pulled up under the marquee of the Crowne Plaza Hotel, one of the nicest places to stay in town. I put my feet down with an audible sigh, and switched off the bike.

“You must be hurting,” said Mack.

I was... But it was the kind of hurt that accompanies the realization one cannot hurtle through space forever. There reaches a point where the ride is over. Hopefully, the bar is open at that point.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2012
All rights reserved

Shango Rider At Americade!

June 5th to June 9th, 2012 

Lake George, NY

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