The brisk autumn air whistled across the forest as I made my way towards the last set of curves in my weekly “forest run.” There’s a stretch of highway just west of the interstate that holds 25 miles of curves and dips directly through part of the Sam Houston National Forest. I love to carve through there at least once a week to clear my head. The midnight black Night Rod Special seemed to have been built for roads such as this. Between the roar of the black D & D exhaust and the svelte silhouette of this street legal dragster nags the heart of the meanest engine Harley-Davidson has ever created, The Revolution. While it seems the whole world has gone bagger crazy, decorating their bikes with DVD players, radio amplifiers, and even neon lights; these bikes seem to resemble a Christmas tree more than a motorcycle to me…. But who the hell am I? I prefer a bike stripped down and mean, black as death and screaming for more roads to devour. I have heard of guys referring to their bikes as faithful steeds or beautiful women. Me… I refer to my bike simply as “The Dragon.”
While pulling into a new icehouse, Drifters, I caught sight of a sparkling blue gem in the middle of a pack of hoodlums, typically seen at the Limpnickie Lot. You know the type, Dickie shorts, black socks, Chuck Taylor’s, skater shirts, and backwards caps. These are usually the yahoos spouting drivel about rigids rule and kick only. While looking past the seven dwarves, I saw this beautiful blue beast adorned by one of the most gorgeous women I had ever laid eyes on. I had to take a closer look and try to hide the fact that I was staring at this goddess.
“Hey, no rice rockets here! If you don’t ride a Harley, then you don’t ride shit!” I didn’t even make eye contact with the mob, I already could care less what they were saying. Ever since I started riding the V-Rod, I have to endure ribbing from the “Harley guys.” To be quite honest, I’m glad they don’t like these bikes…I never have to look for mine in the parking lot and I never have to ride behind anyone that I don’t want to.
As soon as I approached the mob, half the crowd started towards me like a group of jealous husbands who’ve just discovered I’ve been visiting their wives during the day. “What the fuck’s wrong with you assholes?”
The stupidest looking cretin began to spew his nonsense, “Y-Y-You need to keep riding, this is a private party. We are celebrating with a few friends and don’t need no faggot on a crotch rocket here.” He was at least 30 years old, heavy up top, with a grizzled red goatee that touched his chest. Although the weather wasn’t quite in the 60s, he was sporting the customary beanie pulled tight. His strut told me he was Alpha around here. Sadly, I was ready to introduce him to the heel of my Red Wings. I began to smirk as I realized the rest of his crew had stopped yet he was walking directly at me.
“Look buddy, I don’t want any trouble, but I sure ain’t the guy to fuck with.” His eyes widened as I stepped back with my right foot giving the appearance I was getting ready to back away. This movement only sped his approach, as he almost seemed to be skipping towards me now while drawing back his ham-sized right hand. It was obviously not going to be a smooth conversation with this one.
“Trust me, Peckerhead, you found trouble!” He stepped directly into my range and cocked his right hand back as if he was getting ready to throw a shot put; I don’t think he saw the spin hook kick that landed square on his temple until the lights went out. I backed away a few steps and waited to see what the rest of his crew would do. Just as I had suspected, they weren’t prepared to do anything but cry like bitches. My would-be assailant laid face first at my feet, occasionally jerking as if he was epileptic. I knew it was the nerve impulses characteristic with a knockout!
“Hey man, what’d you do that for? He wasn’t gonna do nuthin to ya…” A couple of wanna-be tough guys sporting their Affliction fight shirts came over to check on their downed buddy. Thankfully, they didn’t seem too interested in me anymore. For a split second, I considered walking into the bar just to prove I wasn’t worried about them, but after a second, I realized I really was. Six guys to one are never good odds, and I wasn’t sure how many more were inside. I decided it was time to leave.
I heard their sniveling as I walked away, having lost interest in them, the bike, even the gorgeous woman who was now standing with her jaw agape. I wasn’t hanging around to find out how anyone felt about my “self defense,” and I just wanted to get outta there. Luckily, I ride the fastest Harley-Davidson in production today! With a flick of the wrist, she sends 115 RWHP directly to the pavement and I rocketed away leaving all the day’s bullshit behind.
Ten miles up the road I pulled into a Shell station to get some gas. A portly woman was busy pumping gas into her minivan as I pulled to the pump behind her. She smiled at me, as if trying to flirt, but sadly, she never realized you can’t polish a turd. Her young son came from behind the pump and watched me as I dismounted and lifted the seat to gain access to the gas tank.
“Wow, that’s such a cool bike. Is she fast?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. I remember the first Harley I’d ever seen and I swear I asked the exact same question. “Yeah Kid, she’s pretty quick.” I positioned the nozzle into he tank and started filling her with Premium when he continued his query.
“How fast does she go?” By now, his mother had finished refueling and looked hesitant to approach me, even if it was to retrieve her son. She fiddled with some crap in her purse and kept peeking out of the corner of her eye waiting for him to come over. I swear she was praying.
“She goes fast enough, and you better go with your Momma. She looks to be waiting on you.” He looked back and saw her staring at him with an agitated expression. He wheeled around as quickly as he came and was gone, slamming the door on the passenger side.
I could feel my phone buzzing and realized it was Mike, wondering where I was. Considering I promised to meet him at the Nowhere Bar at 4 pm, I could understand his agitation as I realized it was closer to 6 pm than 4.
“What up, Bro?” I knew damn well what he would say.
“Dude, where the fuck are you? I’ve got two smoking hot bitches here and they are dying to hook up. Where are you?”
Never one to turn down the chance for a romantic evening with a lady, I hung up with no response needed. I quickly jumped back on the long black V-Rod and hit ballistic velocities getting to the bar. As soon as I pulled into one of our favorite hangouts, I noticed the blue Knucklehead parked in a far away corner of the lot. Among the gaggle of garage jewelry choppers, rolling jukebox baggers, and stock Harley-Davidsons, the Knuckle stood out like a diamond in a steaming pile of cow dung.
I walked into the bar and immediately spotted Mike, sitting alone, at a booth in the back. I hate sitting in the back because we eventually end up having to fight our way out again. Just another night with Mike I guess.
“Hey Bro, what’s up? Where’s these ‘hot bitches’ you was referring to?” He got up as I approached and we grabbed arms, a cross between a handshake and a hug, but about as close as we’d ever get to a hug. Mike stands about 6’2” and weighs closer to 250 than 200. Shaved head and nasty, scraggly goatee sprinkled with salt and pepper, he appeared older than his 40 years.
“You know women, gotta go to the can in pairs.” He sat down and slammed the rest of his Blue Moon. Wiping his face muff, he smiled a toothy Mike grin before declaring, “You buy the next round!”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. How long you been here?”
“Since 3 fucking 30 asshole!”
“You’re such a Godamned liar, what time really?” I motioned to the barmaid as I started to sit. Looking around the bar, I didn’t see much to be interested or concerned with; several trailer park beauty queens and several truck stop troubadours, nothing special in the whole joint.
Like a teenager busted in a lie, I saw the mischievous smile creep across his mug, “Yeah, I didn’t get here till almost 5.”
“Jerk, did you at least order me a drink yet?”
“Yeah, we got a round of Jaagerbombs coming now. They should be here by the time the girls come back.”
The waitress came to our table and looked to be exhausted. She looked way too tired for this early in a shift, I figured she must be at her second job. “I got your shots coming, boys.”
“Yes Ma’am, I also wanted to order a pitcher and maybe some peppers.” I love the jalapeno peppers at this bar. I handed her a $20 bill, knowing damn well I wasn’t getting any change. She gave me a half smile and I noticed her cute figure for the first time.
I looked around the bar and laughed inside at the diversity of the “Harley crowd.” I think Mike and I were among the youngest in the room, as it seemed the average age of today’s rider seems to be creeping upwards. I wondered where the party was, as this place seemed to be dead. I was trying to figure out who was riding the Knuckle when I saw the gorgeous girl from today’s fracas walking towards our table. Immediately I began scanning the room for her buddies, as I smelled an ambush.
“No, don’t worry, I am not with those guys,” she could see my eyes scanning as I steadily searched for the Limp-dickies.
Mike knew me well enough to see I was a bit rattled by the surprise. “Hey bro, they’re here alone…what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, it’s cool. I’m just a little jumpy is all, and I told you I don’t like to sit in the back.”
“You’re such a bitch. Quit worryin’, you sound like a woman.”
The waitress walked over with the shots and pitcher, setting them down on the table with 4 frosted mugs. “The peppers will be about 10 minutes.”
“Thanks Ma’am, you can keep the change.” She shot back a glare as if she was questioning if I was joking or not. I wasn’t sure if she had already expected to keep the change or if she was happy to be getting a tip, but her demeanor was closer to, “Who gives a shit?” rather than a, “Thank-you very much”.
Taking my first drink, I looked back to Mike, “Whatever dude, I just had a wicked rough afternoon and needed to stay on my toes.”
The blond from the lot started laughing as her girlfriend looked as puzzled as Mike. “Girl, this is the guy I was telling you about, the one from this afternoon.” She waved her hand towards me. Her girlfriend and Mike seemed to have practiced the move as they both swung their eyes my way with matching surprised looks on their faces.
“You’re the guy she was talking about?” Mike seemed as surprised to hear I was the guy. He’s been in enough scrapes with me to know what’s up.
“Wow, you don’t look like a Karate expert,” the lovely brunette stated. In response to an obviously aphrodisiac-like effect of their new discovery, the women seemed to melt immediately. I was soon to discover that Stacy and Monica are huge fans of the now-defunct WEC, and happen to love cage-fighting, and more importantly cage-fighters!
“Look ladies, I assure you I know little more than the average Joe on the street, I just happen to be flexible and have a horseshoe in my back pocket.”
“Well you can bullshit the rest of us, but I have been watching my ex-boyfriend fight professionally for the last three years, and I never saw him go down like he did today.” Stacy seemed to swell as she explained the way he fell like a sack of shit.
“Ok, well if you girls are here alone, who rode the Knuckle?”
Stacy smiled and pointed to a couple of guys sitting at a table near the front of the bar. “The guy at the end who looks like a skater is the owner. He has a couple of friends with him and the nerdy fat guy on the other side is the photographer.”
I looked over and sized them up. They obviously weren’t the Paul’s since there wasn’t a line of yahoos waiting to get to their table. The photographer looked a bit on the brainy side, but who could tell anymore. Hell, if artistic ability was dependant upon how beautiful someone was, then Jon Towle wouldn’t be able to draw shit. Oh wait, unless it’s a directly inverse relationship between looks and ability. Who knows, or yet, gives a shit, right?
“Well, what were you ladies doing today with those yahoos?” I slammed the shot and began sucking down a couple of the jalapeno poppers that suddenly appeared at the table. I noticed the little greedy beacon of hope didn’t stick around for another order or cash installment.
Monica seemed to be interested in heading back to the table with the builder and his friends as she flatly seethed, “We’re models Einstein.” She was clearly the bitch of the group.
“What’s with you?” Stacy looked surprised at her friend’s sudden rude demeanor.
“Nothing Stace…. You always hook up with these thugs and all we get is a great lay and then we have to chase them all over town afterwards. I’m tired of one night stands with these jack-a-loons.” She obviously began drinking much earlier in the day, as I wasn’t the only one taken back by her brazenness.
“Look bitch, you can go hang out with your little faggot friends if you want, but I came here to hang with my boy. I don’t remember inviting your uptight ass over here,” Mike pointed towards the “builder” at the far table. He never did have the stomach for rude women.
“C’mon Stacy, let’s leave these two losers. They’re probably fags.” Monica stood up and stood with her hands on her hips waiting on her friend.
“I don’t think so. You can go have fun with those guys, but I think I’m gonna hang with these boys tonight.”
Pouting her lips and blowing an exasperated gasp from her lips, she slowly turned and walked to her new table of suckers. Good riddance…bitch needs to learn her role!
Stacy turns towards Mike and I before whispering, “And as for you two, I plan on finding out how exactly how queer you are tonight.”
Mike and I just smiled as we quickly realized where this evening was headed. After several more rounds, I said goodbye to Mike and Stacy, as they had become very friendly with one another as the night wore on. I laughed as I had witnessed a similar pattern play out so many times before. I fight, Mike gets the chick, and I go home riding my bike…alone.
Walking towards my bike, I saw a figure to the left of my bike. I could tell by the shape that it was a woman, but was surprised to see the waitress from earlier standing there. I wasn’t sure if it was the night sky, the parking lot lights, or the beer, but she actually looked cute.
“Hey, what’s up?” Not the coolest line I had, but it was all that came to mind.
“Nothing, I just wanted to give you this,” she reached towards my hand and placed six wrinkled dollar bills in my palm.
“What’s this for?” I was puzzled, and starting to get a little concerned.
She flashed one of the most amazing smiles I had ever seen in my life, “For being decent. Have a good night.” She spun on her heels and walked to her car. I stood speechless and watched as she pulled out of the parking lot and drove away, giving me a sly little wave as she pulled out.
I made my way to my bike and had to laugh at the turn of events when I noticed something on my tank. A bar napkin, folded twice and placed in between my airbox and seat, proudly bore lips with fresh lipstick applied. Opening the napkin, I was surprised to find the simple statement, “You better hurry if you want to catch up.” Signed, Kerry the Waitress.
Once again, I’m glad I ride the fastest Harley-Davidson in production today. I barely had time to get my helmet on when I spun out of the lot looking to catch the two amber lights that looked to be cresting the horizon ahead…
