Motorcycles Bartenders F-Bombs

  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 ...

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 thi...

  $500 Spider The spider, it appears that he's building a web around my speedometer needle. Think of the possibilities:  "I didn't know I was speeding officer…oh, look, there's a spider web in my speedometer." Or this:  "…one hundred miles per hour…No Way. My speedometer only said fifty-five." Well, there's a little hole in the back, and I hooked a tiny hose onto a can of Raid, and gave him a little shot. There's really no way to get the little fucker out of there; I don't think the speedo comes apart. So for now, I'll just wait and see if the Raid will take its toll. And think of more excuses… So…the spider was living in the speedometer, and I figured, “…live and let live,” that is, until she started building a web to the needle.  So a little Raid applied around the holes  in the bottom, where the wires go in, and a dose of heat from the heat gun, to spread the fumes, and the spider lay down at a spot between 90 and 95 MPH, on the glass....

 Riding backroads, the last mile before home, I make the right at the stop sign, let out the clutch and, zip, nothing. Engine’s running, no power to the wheel. Another gear, same thing, no power to the wheel. I’m at the bottom of the hill, and she ain’t moving.  Neighbor comes by in his truck, and we fasten a strap around the top of my fork, attached to his bumper, and he tows me to the bottom of my driveway, where, with much effort, we push the dead 650 lb. machine up the hill to the garage. What could cause such a vulnerability? I’d had the tranny rebuilt only 23,000 miles ago. So I drained the tranny. There were no metal chips on the drain plug magnet: a good sign. So I dug into the primary, and the clutch, considering the high mileage of 148,000, looked good. When I took off the inner primary, the problem was readily apparent: a loose mainshaft sprocket nut. Aluminum shavings littered the recess of the sprocket from where the spinning nut gouged the area around the mainsha...

  George had been working on a project that involved rusty wheels from old railroad cars, a Sportster engine, and a makeshift drive train. It was actually a small, working railroad vehicle, big enough to comfortably fit three people, and the planks smelled like creosote. We got ahold of Hank, and the three of us rode our bikes to the railroad spur, where George had his project. He'd called the railroad, and got permission to use the tracks on Sunday, as there was no other usage that day. We secured our bikes near the siding, behind an old station, and went to look at George's masterpiece. And there it stood: rusted metal and oily oak planks, with dual chrome pipes and megaphone mufflers. He set the choke to fire that bitch up, and when she was ready, George worked the throttle while me and Hank pushed her out onto the main line. We all jumped on, and putted down the rails towards Meridale. I thought that George or the railroad made a mistake, and that we'd come around some ...

  Lackawack, NY, was destroyed and "relocated", including graves, so New York City could have ample reservoir water. Its tannery employed 350 men.

  Hank loved his shovelhead, but it leaked like the Exxon Valdez, and he became frustrated. He’d try to fix one leak, then get another. So, a few years back, he bought a brand new Victory motorcycle, hoping newer technology, would make it leak free. So I found a small dropper bottle and filled it with clean 20w/50, and carried it in my pocket, so that when Hank wasn’t looking, I could put a few drops under his bike, adding to his frustration. We’d go out by his brand new parked bike, and I’d say, “Hank, what’s that under yer bike?” And he’d bend down, put his finger in the oil, and say, “What the fuck!:” Eventually, he caught on, and he called me a mutherfucker. Hank died a couple of years ago, but I still have the dropper bottle.