Bad Ass Bob and the Bean Burrito Boost

A motorcycle race was the only way to settle it, and young Bob knew that his clapped out, oil burning, Ironhead Sportster, was not up to the task. But it was a warm September day in the Poconos when the fast-talking stranger rolled up and parked his flat black touring bike next to Nellie's Burrito wagon. The stranger looked like he had some miles on him, tough wrinkled, greybeard miles.  And unlike the Sportster, the flat black touring bike, looked to be well maintained and fast. Oh, it was grimy, but you could just tell, it was fast.

So, sitting in the white plastic lawn chairs alongside the two lane highway, next to the burrito wagon, Bob struck up a conversation about motorcycles, which eventually led to talk about his upcoming race, and he subtly inquired: "Well, how can I make my bike go faster?"

So Bob and the stranger went over for a closer look at the hopeless looking iron head.  Bob started the bike, and revved her a few times, and they both watched as thick, blue smoke clouds, poured out the straight piped exhaust.  "Well," said the stranger, "first thing I'd do is seal up those piston rings. Get yourself a tube of High Performance Piston Paste, and shoot about a half a tube down each cylinder. It has to be High Performance, and do it while the bike is running, one cylinder at a time, otherwise it wonít work. It'll smoke for a while, but just keep revving it, and eventually the smoking will stop."  The stranger paused, "And if you really want a quick blast of speed, make yourself a methane generator, and harness the power of the burrito."  Bob looked over at Nellie who was watching from the burrito truck, full ripe cleavage resting on the sill, straining like the fabric of her sweater, to hear every word of the bikers conversation.

After telling Bob the details, the stranger fired up the powerful sounding touring bike, and sped off down the highway, never to be seen again.  But Bob knew what he had to do. He had to win the race against Slade, and win the attention of Nellie, and maybe even get into the back of her burrito truck.

Slade rode an old Japanese commuter with a peeling luggage rack. It was a 750 Honda, pretty much stock and a little rusty, but WAY faster than Bob's leaky iron head. Slade hung around Nellie's eating burritos, but mostly just sweet talking  Nellie, looking down her sweater, and trying to get her to go for a ride. After Slade left one time, Bob asked Nellie, "What do you see in that dude?"  "Well," said Nellie, "he's got a real fast motorcycle...and I like his beard."  Slade didn't just have a good beard, he had a great beard. A thick red, pirate beard.  Bob had long ago given up on beards; all he had was scraggly peach fuzz.

The Methane Generator, as the stranger told it, would tap into the natural methane produced in the human body, farts, if you will, and blend it with the gasoline/air mixture in the carburetor, for a quick boost, not unlike a turbo-charger. A hole had to be cut in the driver's seat. A short length of tubing secured to the seat bottom, would carry the "boost" to the carburetor.  "Of course," explained the stranger, "you must remain seated or the bike'll run lean.  And don't be afraid the first time you feel that carburetor vacuum pulling on your ass!"  Bob and the stranger both thought it'd be for the best, if he cut a small hole in the back of his pants.  "Might as well get as much boost as you can," he said.

The race was to take place on the straight stretch of county route 13, late at night, when there was little or no traffic, and the local constable was taking a squad-car snooze behind the Dairy Queen. It was probably about an eighth of a mile from the traffic light to where Nellie parked her burrito wagon.  When the light turned green, the men would race, and Nellie would judge the winner.  Slade prepared for the event at the local tavern, bragging to the boys, and drinking beer. "C'mon out and watch the race," he said to the small crowd, "Bob's Sportster's probably going to blow up."  And they all knew it was true. "Those straight pipes can make a lot of noise," Slade said, "but that bike can't get out of its own way."

Nellie was not quite 30, and already recently divorced. The burrito wagon was all she wanted from the short lived marriage. She sold dirty water hot dogs, and grilled an occasional hamburger patty, but her specialty was the burritos. There were three kinds:  meat, egg, and bean, all wrapped up nice in a soft flour tortilla, with just the right amount of hot pepper and green chili, and snugged up inside an aluminum foil wrapper. "Bob," she said, "do you really think you can beat Slade?" Bob slowly peeled back the aluminum foil from his fifth bean burrito. "I've made a some modifications to my bike," he said.  ìI haven't tested it yet, but I'm running a Methane Generator." Nellie, Bob could tell, was impressed with the technical sounding name.  "I'm harnessing the power of the burrito," he said. He looked at his watch. "We'll see how she runs in about an hour." And then he asked Nellie for one more bean burrito.

The night was clear and cool; there was no wind. A bright, crescent moon hung like a fingernail clipping, and the echo of a distant train could be heard clacking the rails on the other side of the valley.  A few of the folks from the tavern followed Slade up to the highway, and took positions near the start and finish lines.  Nellie sat in a white plastic chair that would be the at finish line, off to the side of the road.  The two motorcycles moved into position and waited for the green.  Slade looked over at Bob.  "You feel okay?" he asked. "You look a little bloated." Bob, in fact was more than a little bloated.  Heíd been holding in farts now, for the last half hour, but he kept his butt pressed tight to the seat, and waited for the green.  Both men revved their bikes in anticipation.  The local auto parts store didnít have High Performance Piston Paste and the iron head was still blowing smoke.

As soon as the light turned green, Slade got the jump, and began speed-shifting and quickly pulling away from the rattling Sportster.  Bob had her wide open when he began to let loose some of the gas that had been building up inside of him.  The vacuum sucked his ass tight to the seat, and the bike took off as if propelled from a sling shot.  He blew by Slade, handlebars just inches away, crossed the finish line, and stood on the pegs in victory.  He released some more of the pent up gas, just as the lean running bike backfired, igniting a huge cloud of excess methane, lighting up the night, and burning off most of one side of Slade's thick red beard.

The whole area smelled of farts and burning hair.  The spectators on the side could see Bob's taillight slow, and pull to the side.  Slade, they saw, kept right on going down highway 13.  When Bob turned around, came back to the burrito wagon and dismounted, the folks there couldn't help but notice that his white ass was shining through where the back of his smoldering jeans had burned out.  Nellie gestured towards the burrito wagon and said, "Come around the back, Bob, and I'll see if I can patch those jeans for you."

The night was still clear and cool; there was no wind. The moon was down and no trains ran on the other side of the valley.  The lights were off in the burrito wagon, and an old Sportster with a hole in the seat sat nearby, gathering dew. It was pre-dawn quiet in the Pocono Mountains.  But if you listened real close, you could almost hear Bob and Nellie giggling inside, and once in a while, the occasional toot of burrito power.