Woke up to the excruciating pain usually associated with drinking way too many fluids the night before containing large amounts of alcohol and diminishing amounts of soda. My head was pounding and my throat was dry as a popcorn fart. I tried to lick my lips, but felt it impossible to separate my tongue from the roof of my mouth. I am not sure what it tastes like, but I feel as if a cat shit in my mouth. Jesus, what happened yesterday?
I slowly crawled out of bed to feel the comfort of the carpet on my bare feet. I couldn’t see much, but the room seemed light enough to tell me it was well past dawn. My God, how late is it? I vaguely remembered leaving the house yesterday morning to get a quart of oil from the dealership. What the hell happened yesterday?
Suddenly my inner ear exploded with the sound of my vibrating pager. I thought I was having a heart attack at first, but realized it was my pager by the third buzz. I tried to see the number, but my vision was blurred. I don’t wear glasses, why is everything blurred and light…brown? I walked to the bathroom mirror to discover a pair of pantyhose pulled over my head. Now I really wondered what happened last night. I looked down at my pager to see the number of my voicemail. Looking at the times called, it appeared, whoever was paging me, had been doing so since 8 am. Damn, who the hell would be calling me on a Tuesday? They all know I only work Thursday through Saturday.
I plodded into the kitchen wishing there were a way I could flip back in time to drink a gallon of water last night. Yeah, I might have pissed my pants, but I wouldn’t feel like crap today. I grabbed the blender and began making my morning hangover/breakfast concoction. Starting with a can of coke, half a pint of Jack Daniel’s, a packet of protein powder, a tablespoon of ground coffee, and a handful of ice, I blended it all together while dialing my voicemail.
Message 1-“ Hey, its Bandit. Where’s that review, Goddamnit!”
Message 2-“Hey, where are you at? I need that review!”
Message 3-“I am coming to see you, motherfucker! You have ten minutes to call me back! I want to know about that Springer.”
Message 4-“Hey Honey, can you please take the clothes out of the washer and put them in the dryer? Thanks.”
Message 5-“Ok, kid. I don’t know what you’re doing, but if this is some game…”
Shit it was Bandit. How did he get my pager number? I need to drink this protein before I talk to him. He always gets me when I am brain dead.
I dialed the phone with a feeling of suspense similar to calling home when I am hanging with the bros. I knew he was pissed, but wasn’t really sure why. I haven’t had an assignment in weeks, not since the big smuggling fiasco at the Ivory Towers. I don’t know how I escaped that one, but I’ve been laying low since. My head hasn’t totally cleared from Sturgis yet.
“Quick! What do you want?”
“Hey Boss, its Johnny. I was…”
“Where the Hell have you been? I need that review on the new Springer.”
“Springer, what Springer?”
“The Goddamn Springer you bought yesterday!” What the Hell’s the matter with you?”
“Dude, I’m not sure. Are you saying I bought a Springer,” I asked feeling like I had just been kicked in the stomach? I could barely afford the Fatboy, how could I afford a Springer?
“Are you hung over?” he asked, but I think he already knew the answer. I hate it when he does that, my dad used to do that shit to me when I was in school.
“Of course not! Dude, I told you I don’t drink…” I was pouring it on thick.
“What’s that noise? Are you making that damn rancid hangover shake again?”
Shit!! How did he remember that crap? As I turned the blender off, I tried to play it off, “No, man. It’s my wife making something for the kids.”
“Your wife? You lying bastard, how do you think I got your pager number? I just talked to her this morning. She said you came in last night yammering on and on about your new bike and you passed out on the couch. Did you realize you had panties on your head yet?”
“It was pantyhose.”Fucker, 2000 miles away and he still screws with me. I should have known he was behind that shit. “I should have known you had something to do with that. Man, my head is pounding and my eyes hurt. What the hell are you talking about with a Springer? You know I ride the Fatboy with bars to the stars.”
“Kid, you better go look in your garage. Your wife sent me some images of it this morning, and she is a beauty.”
“What the…. Are you kidding me? What happened yesterday?”
He began laughing that baritone banter few have heard, “Call me this evening. Ride her this afternoon and give me a full report for Bikernet. Tell Salena I said hello.”He continued laughing as he hung up the phone.
I stood there with a feeling comparable to getting kicked in the nuts. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I would surely find out. I grabbed the blender and downed 16-ounces of fix-me-up. Damn it tasted like ass, but it sure wakes up the central nervous system.
I walked to the garage door still expecting to see my trusty Fatboy parked in her spot. Instead, as the door opened, I saw a bike reminiscent of the pictures I have seen of the historical Panheads and Knuckleheads in the ‘40s and ‘50s.
A low slung, black, Springer front end preceded by chrome springs and nostalgic horn stared at me in the face. She had a beautiful tank badge proudly bearing the name, Harley-Davidson, followed by lines which brought me to the shark fin tail pipes and chrome ‘40s style bumper on the rear. What a thing of beauty! I walked to her as if seeing her for the first time (basically due to the fact I had fried an enormous amount of brain cells the day before). I had to see how she ran!
Reminiscent of my days in the Army, I shit, showered, and shaved in a time span of approximately 7 minutes. I threw on a fresh pair of jeans and t-shirt from the dirty clothes. I grabbed my wallet and keys from the desk, only half noticing the crumpled bill of sale on the desk. I couldn’t have traded in my bike for this Grandpa Garbage Wagon, could I? I’ll figure it out when I get back. There’s a fresh motorcycle in my garage that needs to be experimented with.
I pushed her in the sunlight and thumbed the ignition switch. I reached for the petcock to discover there was none! What?!! Fuel injected? Oh, I know I’ve lost my mind. I hate fuel injection! It’s against The Code.
I started her up and was pleasantly surprised by the low rumble provided by the performance exhaust. It had a comfortable exhaust note without popping my eardrums and giving the neighbors more to complain about. They already had enough to bitch about with the 3-foot high grass in my yard. I don’t do bushes either, well unless there are legs attached.
I closed the garage and stood back with my mouth agape. This bike was truly a thing of beauty!The way the sun gleamed off her, I wasn’t sure if I should ride her or store her. Anything that pretty shouldn’t be abused by the rigors of the highway. I would try to remember that while I was on her later.
I pulled out of the driveway taking particular note to the feel of the front end. The top of the Springer is narrower than hydraulic forks. This difference in width allows you to make sharper turns while trying to park or back out of your girlfriend’s apartment house. The head felt light, yet I wasn’t used to the bars. I am used to holding my hands above my head, so I felt like my hands were resting on my knees. I would find out a little later, that this position allows me to ride for a much longer stretch without the normal neck, shoulder, and back pain I suffered from recently.
I started down the street and immediately felt the difference between carburetor and fuel injection. For one, the response was much quicker. Secondly, I noticed the throttle response was more even across the band. I liked it. I liked it A LOT!
I began cruising towards downtown. Cruising is really the best word to describe the way you ride this bike. The way you sit in the saddle is similar to relaxing in your recliner at home.
Now, don’t expect more than a stock Harley here. It is well known that The Factory bikes are notoriously lame from the showroom floor. Luckily for me, this bike was equipped with a Stage 1-injection kit and performance muffler for the crossover pipes. While it didn’t rip my face off when I twisted the wick, it did have plenty of pull left at 75mph. This isn’t a bike to buy if you are looking to race Suzuki’s anyway.
I couldn’t help but notice the considerable attention I was getting form drivers along the road. I was constantly getting thumbs up and waves from motorists. The looks of the bike seemed to attract people like bugs to a light. I have never gotten so much attention while riding a stock bike.
While riding this bike, I couldn’t get the image of the hill-jumping rider on the ‘40s style bobber I had seen on Bikernet out of my head. This bike it so similar to that bike, it’s almost eerie. How is it, a style so old and used, can still be popular today? I guess it goes to show you that once something rocks, it always rocks. The best analogy I can make is to sex. It never gets old, and I enjoy it every time I get it. The same can be said for this bike, it never gets old or boring to look at.
I also quickly noticed the difference between the spoke wheels and the solid wheels. I had always been asked about the wind, but never gave it much thought. I just rode. Well, when passing between two 53-foot trailers I was greeted with a smooth pass rather than the usual wrestling match between my body and the bike I had grown accustomed to.
They let me know they appreciated my ride by giving me a few short blasts from their horn. Then again, they could have been pissed because I passed between them on a two-lane road. Who Knows, or better yet cares?
I decided to take her through a few turns to see how she handled. Surprisingly, I seemed to be able to lean a little further than my Fatboy in the turns. On the Fatboy, I scraped my boards much more than I liked. On the Springer, I seemed to get a much tighter turn.
I also noticed the suspension on the Springer seemed tighter, but more comfortable to ride. I didn’t feel every bump in the road and my body didn’t jump with the bike while cruising over each bump. The Springer seemed to absorb the bumps rather than slapping against them. I really liked the ride.
I still couldn’t remember buying the bike, but I was pleased with the decision. Overall, this is a much nicer bike. Even though it is also a Softail, it rides different from the other Softails I have messed with. The steering is smooth in the turns and straight-aways. I did notice a little “buzzing” while exiting a 30mph turn at 80, but that can be expected. The seat is fairly comfortable and the hand controls are stable. I did like the old barrel style nostalgic grips this bike was equipped with, but the stock ones feel good just the same. I was really enjoying my reflection in the back window of the bus I was tailgating, but soon had to wisp out from her back end. Just what I need–run into a school bus.
I decided to take a break at the neighborhood watering hole on my way home. I walked in to be greeted by Knucks, the bartender.
“Hey Johnny, how you enjoying that new bike?”
“Oh, how do you know about it?
“You came in here last night. You got really tanked and was bragging how you traded in your piece of shit Fatboy for that Cadillac out front.“
“What else happened?”
“Oh, you were flirting with every skirt in the place, including Norma the barfly.”
“Great, is that all?”
“No, you started three fights and bought three rounds of drinks.”
“Please tell me that’s all.”
“No, sorry it’s not. You ended the night paying with this credit card. You said you stole it from some dumb-ass in Sturgis. You said you paid for the bike with it.”
“What card?”
He handed me a Wells Fargo card. I almost shit when I read the name on the card. It was registered to Bikernet.com. Under that read the initials and last name, K.R.Ball. As I started to pass out, the words from that R.E.M. song started playing in my head,” It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine…”
