It was the summertime and the living wasn’t easy. Nothing seemed to work, the internet was down, the e-mail system quit, and we had Department of Water and Power journeymen crawling all over the poles adjacent to the vast Bikernet Interplanetary Headquarters. They explained that as the street widening moved forward, the various agencies argued over project deadlines. All the poles were coming down and systems were being laced in concrete trenches underground.
There are several agencies involved for just the poles, including AT&T for telephone systems and their poles, city officials for the street lighting and intersection signals, and the Department of Water and Power was responsible for old treated wooden poles carrying 36,000 volts, down to the three-phase 440 running to Bandit’s building. That’s when I received a call from Palm Springs. Her words poured like warm syrup over steaming hot pancakes.
“What are you doing, handsome?” she purred.
“Wishing I was licking your leg,” I responded as Bandit stormed passed my desk bitchin’ about the internet and all his fuckin’ self-induced deadlines.
Just then, the power went out and I discovered a sun shining window of opportunity I desperately needed. I was horny as a lost goat, and she was the tempting ticket.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“I want to get naked in my pappy’s wheat field,” she muttered like an engraved invitation. “Will you come and take care of me?”
“You’re goddamn right,” I said, snatching my Shovelhead keys off my milk crate desk. I had a mere 75 miles to slice through to get close enough to gaze into her twinkling baby-blue eyes, unbutton her diaphanous summer top and touched her milky soft tits. I tingled at the thought, threw on my brown Lil’ Joe leather vest, grabbed my soft deerskin gauntlet Lee Parks gloves and scrambled down the ship’s stairs to my stretched Paughco rigid with the 93-inch S&S power plant. It’s a kick-only bastard, but with the Mikuni carb and Compu-fire kick ignition, it fires to life instantly, usually.
It popped, sputtered to life and I looked at the truck-filled LA Harbor street whizzing beside me. LA freeway traffic is like spitting in the palm of your hand and rolling the dice, while the rest of the players spin the polished cylinders in their 45s. It’s a hair-raising blast and a competition daily to see how many cars I can pass from Long Beach to the Port. This time I had 75 miles of crowded suburbs to slice through to reach the desert, and a slight break from city squalor. I dropped it in gear and my BDL clutch caught like a circuit breaker on a 220 outlet. I was gone through the construction zone 45 mph area, down-shifted to a 25 mph construction zone. Poised, blue-light blinking motorcops waited on every corner.
The DWP guys gave me high-5s all the way to the freeway, where I set the Shovel free to carve through traffic. That puppy was built for Los Angeles, splitting lanes, and narrow, crowded bumper-to-bumper traffic. The bars were narrowed and the pipes tucked in tight. I could split lanes like I owned a HOV strip. I slammed it into 5th and quickly rolled over 75 mph, although I had no speedometer. I slithered through traffic, like a metal snake on steroids. I cut to the 91 freeway, rolled onto the 605 where between 150 and 300 cars pass a given spot in five minutes during rush hour, and I hit the HOV lane to the 10, and peeled east into the desert. I clicked through cars like a Las Vegas dealer shuffling cards.
Only a time or two did one of the car people fuck with me. One bumbling family in a SUV tried to take over my lane and I slapped their side view mirror and it spun against its safety hinges. Another time a chick on a cell phone in a sports car shifted into my lane. I snapped my throttle for a safety sound blast from loud pipes, and jarred the illegal, annoying phone out of her delicate paw. She snapped back to reality and into her god-given lane. I was free once more until two bicycles fell out of a slow-rolling pick-up truck bed.
Every time I spied a truck full of belongings, I imagined another family blowing up, scattering relatives across the city. I pondered another drunken bastard losing his home, or a cheating wife losing her faithful man, to find new digs, a new girl and a new adventure. Or once in a positive while, it could be love drawing folks together. But two loose bicycles spinning and hurtling down a freeway are not good signs for the horny rider seeking his prey in a wheat field behind Palm Springs.
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My icy grip on the powder-coated bars hardened as my eyes watched every giggling move and flying component. A spindly 10-speed wheel cut loose and gained its own freedom for the open road. The terror didn’t emanate solely from the light fragile bicycle parts, but the erratic reactions from unfocused motorists surrounding me. I watched every move while gently twisting my throttle to put me as far from the action as possible, as quickly as possible. As the station wagon driver beside me locked up his brakes and went into an errant slide, I held fast, peeled between bouncing metal fragments, and cut a dusty trail.
I split through 75 miles in less than 75 minutes, crossed the open desert plain to the base of the San Bernardino National Forest and Lilac Lane, the home of Angie, those giggling tits and perfect nipples. I was like a kid preparing for a complimentary birthday breakfast at Bob’s Big Boy, with steaming pancakes topped with mounds of soft butter, brilliant crimson strawberries and snow white whipped cream. She had lips to die for, a warm smiling openness that had me peeling out of my threads as if I was on fire. Damn, there’s nothing like a ride to anywhere just to meet and touch a willing woman. Any excuse and I’ll slice across any town, any time, to touch her open thigh. I’m beginning to shake.
Later,
–Renegade
