Song of the Dumb Biker
I used to wonder why the words "dumb" and "biker" were almost always used in the same sentence. I mean, I know that some words are independently exclusive, and are never used in the same sentence, like "smart" and "woman" but why is it always "dumb biker?" Just like that. Together.
As I say, I used to wonder. Now I know. It's because all bikers is dumb, I know because I are one.
The first time I realized just how dumb I really am was when a friend, another dumb biker named Billy Jack, and I decided to take a trip. We were sitting in a semi-stupor, after having devouring a few small six packs of Colorado Kool-Aid, when spontaneously, the idea to take a trip came up. Afterward, I remembered what brought the whole idea up in the first place was both of our bikes had managed to make it to the liquor store and back without breaking down. This was a major feat since I live almost three blocks from the store.
"A scoot that trusty is good for lots of miles," I told Billy Jack. We decided it was a great idea, and we should load up our trusty steeds and hook it across the country. There was only one small thing standing in our way. It was December.
But what the hell, we're bikers, and we can stand up to any weather. Besides, all we have to do is take along a few extra things to keep us warm, and we would have no trouble at all.
During the planning, I remember, we decided the bikes we were riding might be the wrong type to take. After all, a rigid frame for 10,000 miles might be kinda hard on the old tail. (Maybe that's why they are called hard tails?)
After checking out a few costs to convert to a soft tail, we decided to take a chance the way we were.
Yes folks, bikers are dumb, there is no doubt about it.
Before the Coors wore off, we made a list of all the things we would need for this big trip. We covered everything we could think of-clothing, food, stoves, tents, sleeping bags, even an extra set of gloves. It was a very complete list.
The second thing we did was take the list and cross out things we couldn't afford.
Left was the following!
2 sleeping bags
4 helmets
2 changes of clothes each
1 three-man tenet
1 small propane stove
2 pairs of long johns
2 pairs of sweat pants
2 flat face shields
2 sweat shirts
2 pairs of snow gloves
2 pairs snowmobile boots
4 pairs of Arctic socks
2 pairs regular boots
1 instamatic camera & film
2 dumb bikers
Keep in mind that we started with a list three times longer, but when we looked at the packing area on our bikes we knew it couldn't all fit. The fact that I am 6'4" and weight 300 pounds, and Billy Jack is 5'5" and weights 150, made things a little difficult, also, because we both had to have complete sets of clothing. There wouldn't be too much swapping.
Since this was all before the trip, when we were still under the delusion that bikers were relatively smart, we thought the real smart thing would be to go someplace nice and cold as an official test run. You see living in Southern California tends to spoil you for estimating the rigors of the outside world.
We decided Yosemite Park was a nice cold place to go in December, so we packed up our bikes and headed northward.
We were right. It was cold.
By the time we got close to the summit at the eastern approach to Yosemite the snow was coming down so hard we couldn't believe it was still California.
We pulled into the place with a "camping" sign in front and asked what the rates were. All the dude did was stare at us. I wondered why?
He finally managed to stutter, "If you really wanted to sleep out in this weather, you can set up for nothing." So we picked out a campsite, which was kind of easy since they were all vacant, and set up camp.
Then we made a big discovery. In winter the sun goes down really early after which it gets boring.
Around 7 o'clock we tired of playing "Hiroshima" with the gasoline which we has been squirting on the fire, and we crashed for the night.
The next morning found two dumb bikers frozen in a couple of sleeping bags. We waited for what seemed like an eternity, and then decided it wasn't getting any warmer, so we got up.
After we limbered up with some more "Hiroshima", we scraped the snow off the tent and rolled it up. We packed our bikes and it was time to try and make it into the Yosemite basin.
As we headed up the pass toward the summit we noticed there were fewer cars. Soon we hit an area where a sprinkling of diehards were pulled over, putting on chains. We kept going.
We got an elevation with so much snow we had to put our feet down to keep from falling over. We were actually using our feet like skis. And it was working.
We did it. We made the summit at 9941 feet and down into the park. If we could get through that we figured we could get through that we figured we could get through just about anything.
We headed back to our home base and made a few corrections. First of all, we added a sleeping bag each to the list. This would eliminate any more of those foolish frozen nights. We also added a couple of cans of sterno to heat the morning tent.
We were set. We were in command of long range wintertime bombing and the North American Continent was our cup of hot soup.
Then the idea hit us. Since we were going across the country in the dead of winter, why not try for a new transcontinental record. It sounded like a great idea. We looked up the record and found out we had to beat 36 hours.
Ya know, bikers are really dumb sometimes.
The big day finally came. The night before Billy Jack and I had made our way down to San Diego as official kickoff point, and got a room where we could be close to Interstate 8, which was the short cut across the country. We had gotten into town early, and decided to get to sleep early so we would get up around 6 a.m. for the start. After dousing a couple of bottles of tequila, we made it to sleep. We woke up at 3 a.m., all hungover but ready to go.
The sun came up as we headed into Yuma, Arizona, land of nothing. We stopped to dump some 90 weight down our throats, and started the coast-to-coast boogie one more time.
That day we made our way along Interstate 8 to Casa Grande, then picked up I-10 through Tucson, Lordsburg and Las Cruces. As the sun was setting behind us we were headed to El Paso. In one day we managed to make it through California, Arizona, New Mexico, and into Texas. We knew we would make it now.
Boy bikers are dumb.
By the time we hit Fort Worth it was early the second morning, and still very dark. I'm not going to say were tired, but we missed our turnoff and it took almost 45 minutes for us to find our way back onto the track.
Billy Jack fell asleep a couple of time. I had a hell of a time trying to get him to wake up.
About 50 miles out of Dallas, heading toward the Louisiana border on the Interstate 20, we decided to stop and have breakfast. It had been a long day and night, and we had covered almost 1,700 miles.
We wolfed down our food and hopped back into the saddle. Surprisingly enough, our butts weren't even too sore, but I think a lot of that was due to the numbness setting in.
We had been lucky also, the weather was just like summer. It was about 60 degrees at noon. At night it dropped down to about 25. Wonderful, just plain wonderful.
As we hooked it east through Louisiana we started to wake up again. We crossed the mighty Mississippi actually feeling good. We really thought we were going to make it into Savannah under the 36-hour limit.
Bikers are the dumbest people on earth.
As we kissed off Mississippi the sun was setting behind us, and we were working on night number two with no sleep.
Then came our downfall. A road called the George Wallace Highway, also known as Alabama 80, looked like a short cut on the map, so we decided to take it. That was a mistake.
This road is used by all of the big eighteen wheelers to go around the weight scales and they do it at less than 80 miles an hour, curves and things that no sane man would try at 60 are included.
We dodged the big trucks and tried to stay awake. After 34 nonstop hours we were starting to weaken. Then we hit this foolish drawbridge and almost lost the game. I figure the designing engineers must have hated bikes and know the width of motorcycle tires. They put steel girders just far enough apart to catch bike wheels and hold them. We had to go over almost at a crawl speed, with 18-wheelers disputing our right to be there. I recall this to be the most trick riding required in the entire 10,000 miles.
Bad Craziness in Europe
"This is your captain speaking. We will be touching down at Frankfurt-Main in two minutes. Please extinguish all cigarettes and put your seat in the upright position."
I looked at the joint I had been frantically smoking and dabbed it out in the ashtray. Wouldn't want to break any rules, you know. But it was the last drugs I had brought with me, and I hated to see it go.
I was about to touch down in Germany and I had never been to Europe, so a few minor sacrifices just might be worth it.
After making like a bunch of cattle, being prodded through baggage claim, then making like sheep as we waited for the Gestapo to cheek the luggage for massive shipments of goodies, I finally struggled out the door of the quarantine area and was greeted by Hans, Verkaufsrepasentant for Harley-Davidson at the Tyrolia division. It was he who would guide me through the pitfalls of Frankfurt's big airport and get me to where my 1980 Fatbob was waiting for me.
First observations of Europe: The drivers over there are berserkoid. Nuts. Out of their flippin gourds. They drive on the bumper of the car in front of them at 100 miles an hour, and that's in the friggin parking lot. By the time we got to the old hotel where I had a room waiting I was a wreck, and had no drugs to alter my ego.
Hans stuck around and had dinner with me, which was a god send since I couldn't even start to make head nor tails out of what the menu said, and after drowning a few warm, thick glasses of what they call bier (beer) we supped upon a meal of what looked like baked dog with meadow muffins on the sides.
After Hans dropped me at the hotel and left I settled down to kill time until the morn, when I could get out on the road.
The room I had consisted of a very squeaky bed, and a dresser that was new when God was just a wee tad. The bathroom was down at the end of the hall, and there wasn't even a radio. After listening to the bed squeak for awhile I wandered outside to kill some time looking around town, but after a few minutes I found that I was the main attraction. Everywhere I walked folks would stop and stare at me. Kinda erie, ya know?
Anyway, after a few minutes of that I walked back to my room and crashed, for a couple of hours. Then my eyes opened like a couple of clams at a feeding frenzy.
After laying there for a few hours it finally hit me that my mind (alleging that I have one) was running on Pacific Standard Time, while my body was in European time, 9 hours later. It was 3 in the morning here, but back at home it was 6 in the afternoon, and no time to be asleep.
After laying there for what seemed like an eternity, listening to my bed squeak whenever I would turn over, it was finally time to get out of that miniature cell.
By the time Hans showed up to give me a ride to AMF Headquarters in Wicker (just outside Frankfurt) I had munched down two stale rolls they call breakfast, and gone to the bank to turn good American dollars into what looked like monopoly money.
It took about an hour to get the bike rolled out of the building, loaded with camera gear, and filled with gas. Finally I was going to begin my trek through Europe.
I wound through a couple of small country roads, keeping my eyes glued for road signs, and soon I was making a turn onto the world famous Autobahn. For years I had heard of this famous road system, but this was to be a first for me. I had about 250 kilometers to go on the Autobahn before I pulled into France.
I cranked the throttle pretty hard as I made my entrance, and I remembered what Hans had told me. Keep to the right all the time, except to pass, and then watch your ass. Hell it didn't sound any different then the American Freeway system, except it was just a two lane version.
I was coming up behind a slow truck and checked my mirror. Nothing behind me, so I turned out into the fast lane and wicked on the throttle, taking it up to about 80 miles per hour. Before I passed the truck I heard the blaring of a horn and looked into my rear view mirror, only to see the grill and hood ornament of a Mercedes 220 Sedan sitting on my rear fender.
I cursed under my breath and wished I had my piece with me. The asshole shouldn't have gotten that close, or so I thought. After I pulled in front of the big truck the driver of the Mercedes didn't even give me a look. He just dropped the sucker down one gear (at 85 miles per hour?!) and floored it, and was followed almost sixes inches behind by another Mercedes, which was followed at an equally crazy distance by a red Porsche. In a matter of seconds they were out of sight.
I kept up my "snails pace" of about 85 miles per, only to be whizzed by like I was standing still. Caravans of five and six cars, traveling in excess of 125 miles per hour, just inches off each others bumpers, would pass like one.
And I never saw one accident on the Autobahn.
Just after I passed through Muelheim I turned off the Autobahn and headed west, through the city of Meulhous, and crossed the Rhine River, entering France.
I expected to have all kinds of hassles crossing the border, so naturally I hadn't brought any drugs along. As it turned out, the whole damn trip went without a search. I could have brought bushel baskets overflowing with Panama Red and Acapulco Gold and never been apprehended.
Oh well, anyway, I came upon the frontier, pulled up to the guard expected to be hassled, and sat there looking like a dummy as he started to spout off something in French.
I had no idea what he wanted and just kinda shrugged my shoulder and held my hands in the air, like saying I didn't know what the hell he was talking about.
He muttered something about "Paassapoorta" and I whipped out my genuine, official US of A Passport, and sure enough, that was all he wanted. He checked it out, looked me up and down, shook his head slowly, like he had just met his first idiot, and waved me on my way.
The rest of the day was spent cruising the very well marked roads of eastern France, and checking out the old bunkers built back during good ol' W.W.II. They were still standing, and being used to hold posters announcing the upcoming BeeGee's concert.
Now folks, how many of you out there reading this shit have heard all about how English is a universal language? Come on, hold up your hands.
A bunch of ya, right?
Well, I had heard the same dull shit. All you have to do is speak English and you will get along just fine. Even in the back country.
Well folks, that is a bunch of horsehockie. Where I was the only one speaking English was me, and I wasn't a whole lot sure of what I was saying.
After managing to get a room in the first "real" (read: American looking) motel , I wandered into the dining room. Getting a room wasn't too difficult. I just looked lost, flashed a roll of French Francs and was given a key.
But once into the dining room, you are on your own.
The waitress walked over, hesitantly (guess she had never saw a 6'4", 300 pound biker wearing a skull and crossbones T-shirt before. Least ways not with tattoos all over his body) and gave me the menu.
Guess what?
It was in French.
I gulped hard. This was the moment of truth. I had thought about it plenty, and now the time was near. Could I get through it.
She walked over and smiled.
"Uh, lemme have dis" I pointed to something that looked reasonably priced, "and some of dis here" pointing to the listing under "Boisons" that said "Bier".
She looked confused for a second, and then scurried off, without writing down anything.
My first thought was that I had just ordered the owner or something, when she came back with the guy who had given me the room. Guess they had figured since he could understand me enough to give me a room, he could figure out what I wanted to eat.
After about fifteen minutes we finally all had our heads bobbing up and down in the same directions, and I waited to see what gastronomical delights I would be confronted with.
In a few minutes the waitress came out, with a confused look on her face, and place a plate in front of me. It held one slightly sick looking omelet. I don't know what was in the fool thing, but the last time I saw anything like it was back in Junior High at a cooking class I broke into.
I managed to choke it down, wondering if the little slimy bits in the omelet were snail or frog eyes. Just as I managed to get the final piece down, the main course was brought out. I don't know what they call it in French, but I could call it fillet of uncooked Muskox.
After turning down the "Frommage" ( which I found out later was cheese, and I wished I had taken it) I promptly paid the tab of 60 ff. (about 15 dollars) and wandered off to my room, to see if I could keep the drek down for the night.
That night was a repeat of the previous night, passing out as my head hit the pillow at sundown, and waking at 3 in the morning. At least here the bed didn't squeak.
In the a.m. I found that the room price included "breakfast", so after loading the bike I walked into the dining area and downed the two hockey pucks they called rolls, and drank the brackish black vile liquid they kept calling "caffee." It no more resembled coffee than I resembled Farah Fawcett's undergarments.
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