It was a Saturday evening with the sun slowly giving way to a star-filled sky, the moon shining brightly, and many an adventure waiting for ol' Bulldog out in the bowels of the city. I was young, single and ready to feel the wind of that crisp evening in my face. I rolled the old Panhead out (freshly rebuilt and painted after an unfortunate accident) and proceeded to head out in search of a memory. (Found one, too!).

On the night in question, I made the rounds stopping in and seeing some buddies. Finding nobody either willing or sober enough to accompany me on my grand evening out I ventured forth alone. I hit the road with a young man's sense of vivid anticipation. My mental picture of the evening ahead was one complete with cold beers and long-legged, leather-clad blondes. The evening breeze didn't disappoint me, as it hit me full in the face and piqued my interest, in the coming evening's potential. As I was heading down the street I caught the image of a motorcycle in my rear-view mirror. It was coming up on me real fast. Within a few beats of a whore's heart the rider pulled up beside me. He rode a new Shovel (This was 1979), with chrome galore and various parts strategically gold-plated. It was a gawdawful machine. My soon-to-be new riding partner yelled out "Hey Bro', What's Happening?". Observing proper biker etiquette I returned the greeting.

The guy yells out "Come on man, I'll buy ya a beer!". He proceeded to blast off at break-neck speeds. Being born to have adventure and not presently encumbered with any specific plans etched in granite I figured "What the Hell!" and followed him. I didn't match speeds with him but caught up at the stop lights, being content just to keep him in sight. He introduced himself as Kenny, at one of our traffic light induced pit stops. He informed me that we were heading out to the Matador.

The Matador was a neighborhood/biker bar in a section of town known as Ellet. It was owned by a dip-shit camel jockey who used to own a car wash in my part of town. I didn't like the bastard much because in High School, when my old lady Suzy Q and I would go through the car wash, this moron would be waiting at the exit. He stood there with this goofy shit-eating grin on his face, waved and salivated over my old lady. I suggested to Suzy Q that she blow up a paper bag, hand it to him and tell him it was a "Blow Job to Go!". Not seeing the humor in this approach Suzy Q declined my suggestion. Suffice it to say, I thought the guy was a geek.

I normally wouldn't have patronized the Matador but my new found bro' was calling the shots. At one of the lights Kenny complimented me on my bike. I returned the jesture, although I wondered about the gold trim. We proceeded to "replay the tape" of him blasting off from every light like a bat outta hell. I kept him in sight, and eventually caught up at the red lights.

At one of the lights my "amigo", who I noticed was just shy of three sheets to the wind, inquired rather sarcastically, "Doesn't that old Pan run?". That friggin did it. He was dangerously close to insulting my main bitch. Biker chivalry was in need of being upheld, and my baby's honor was at stake. (In case you didn't catch it I'm talking about my Panhead). As I reached slowly down and advanced the distributor on my engine (the auto advance didn't work that well). I calmly replied "Oh yeah, she'll run" (It just so happened that my old Pan was an 86-inch S&S engine with various other high performance enhancements). When the light changed we (my pan and I ) decided to "take young Kenneth to school".

I blasted off the line, as I knew he would, and immediately jumped out ahead of him. As I hit second gear and accelerated, I saw him falling back in my mirror. By third gear he was toast. Fourth gear saw the gap widening and the deal, as they say, was done. Honor being satisfied, my male ego was pumped fed by the victory. I looked ahead and prepared to back off. It was then that I saw the police cruiser coming towards us. Instinctively, I began to slow down. My "buddy" however, blew by me as I slowed. He continued to scream ahead totally oblivious to the cop car going the other direction, passing us.

I glanced in the rear view mirror, instinctively, and saw the cop brake lights glisten in the evening light. I knew we were nailed. My compadre either wasn't aware or didn't give a rat's ass because he was heading out. I followed his lead. I caught up with him. I spun on my Bates solo and noticed the cop jammed trying to turn around, due creeping old ladies in a station wagon . I yelled at Kenny that we needed to get off the main road, and I pulled in behind a closed gas station, as soon as I was sure we were out of sight of the cop. "Einstein" of course, pulled in right behind me. We shut down the bikes and listened as the siren went past. We waited for what seemed like an eternity.

During this little break we engaged in "stimulating" conversation on various topics including "The meaning of life according to Kenny". He eventually made the assertion that his bike had more top-end speed than mine. He made this scientific assumption as he blew by me, while I slowed. Not being one to burst anyone's bubble, I declined to dispute his observation.

We sweated it out behind the corrugated steel building until the time was right to venture forth again. After the coast was clear we fired our scooters and rumbled away. Kenny pulled around to the front of the gas station. He was having trouble shifting his bike out of first. He smacked his shifter lever against one of the concrete gas pump islands in the station. He violently kicked the shifter in a fit of rage, carrying on like a crack whore, who didn't get paid. The plaintiff cry of a siren approaching convinced me that expediting our departure was a damn good move. I yelled at Kenny to split. He jammed his bike into gear and took off. His shift lever was tweaked as a result of his "field-expedient" repair job. As he peeled away, his shifter and his foot got caught on a pump gas hose. He narrowly avoided going down, but the drag on the hose ripped the thin gauge sheet metal right off the gas pump. I looked on in disbelief as gasoline began spewing up from the pump like a geyser.

Realizing what he'd done, screaming with anger, he extricated himself from the hose and launched himself out on to the street. (The siren in the distance proved to be headed somewhere else, fortunately). Sticking around was not a good idea, so w got the hell outta Dodge. We were rapidly approaching the Matador bar. I was glad to see this "Oasis in the desert". I figured I could slip off the road and plot my strategic exit from my new pal's company before his recent "handiwork" was discovered and attributed to us.

We parked the bikes next to a dozen Harleys (in a closed-down gas station, no less). As he ranted about the goddamn gas pump, he walked across the street to the bar. The light was green and an oncoming car had to stop quickly to keep from hitting him. The driver honked and Kenny proceeded to beat on the hood of the car with his fists as he, tactfully, educated the driver on the questionable state of his sanity (the driver's, that is), parentage, and various other aspects of his family heritage (all of which, I must admit, I was finding rather amusing). The stunned driver looked at him, disbelievingly, then looked at me with a "Whatdafuk" expression on his face.

Not obtaining any sympathy from my bemused smirk the driver apparently decided that discretion was the better part of valor and went on about his business, quickly, I might add. Having dispensed with this minor distraction Kenny continued on into the bar.

We entered the bar and I met Kenny's older brother and several other bikers. Good dudes one and all. We had a beer (I figured I'd damned sure earned it by this time). It turned out that Kenny also had a younger brother, who I went to high school with, (small world, huh?). Kenny's older brother later told me to be careful of Kenny because he wasn't always "wrapped real tight" (No Shit!). I had a couple of drinks and decided I didn't want to contribute to Abdul's (the bar owner) kids college fund or feed his camel anymore. so I split. Grateful to be back on the road again, by myself, I took a different circuitous route home and decided that I had seen enough excitement for one evening, (no long-legged blondes tonight).

I bumped into the brothers one other time. I saw them at a greasy spoon diner frequented by bikers several weeks later, right across the street from the gas station Kenny "remodeled" that evening. Kenny was sober and slightly more congenial than the last time. That was the last time I saw them.

Ride Safe

--Bulldog