I like butts and I like riding, so I went to Buttzville for lunch. There’s nothing like having no place to go, and all the time in the world to get there, so I shot out onto the interstate, blasted into the left lane and stifled a scream of joy while the heavy 88 inch motor pulsed along, rolling past lesser traffic. Relaxing into the backroads of New Jersey, I wandered route 94, and took a quick pass through the pet cemetery amid monumental statues of giant animals. Route 519 had swooping curves and little roller coaster hills; flocks of turkeys scooted towards the woods. Buttzville lay on route 46, and I rode through twice looking for an interesting place to eat. The most crowded place in town, no doubt, was an old time hot dog joint, outdoors fast food with lunch lines at three windows. I stood in the slow line, discreetly checking butts. I saw a lot of average butts and several good ones. There were a couple I would consider “fine,” but there was one, only one that I would ...