James Burleigh
Well-known member
Silent and I rode three shanties and two mongrel dogs farther up the street to the edge of town, hung a U-turn, and headed back toward the Long Branch to park the bikes, preferably in a spot of shade.
I followed Silent off the pavement onto the baked earth that served as sidewalk, curb, and parking area for this restaurant we rode 250 miles to EAT at. Our bikes kicked up clouds of dust as we gingerly brought them to a stop in the shade of a tree. This was a good spot: There would be plenty of space and shade to accommodate all the SoCal bikes.
Removing our gloves and helmets, we studied the surrounding landscape. Subconsciously, my gaze searched for a short, black-haired man in a dark suit smoking a cigarette, standing with his back to us in front of an invisible television camera, while uttering in a kind of staccato something like, “Two men on motorbikes. Apart from the exceptional good looks of the tall fellow in the very cool-looking FJR-blue leather jacket, there is nothing particularly exceptional about them. They have just pulled into a dank, dusty, dingy, dirty, desperate little hamlet. Never mind it’s name or location. Let’s call it Creston. But the name doesn’t really matter (though it really is Creston). What does matter is that they think they are going to meet some fellow motorbike enthusiasts for a pleasant lunch of burgers and fries. But that’s where they are badly mistaken. Because what they are about to discover is that….”
“What! What are we about to discover! Help! Help! We’re in the Twilight Zone!”
“Something the matter, JB?” asked Silent.
“Huh? Oh. Did I say that in my out-loud voice? Nothing. My mind was just wandering a bit. Probably the heat.”
“You really should get yourself a Camelback,” he said, turning and dipping his knees while moving his arms outward like a magician’s assistant to demonstrate the convenience and utility of the bladder clinging to his back like some hideous alien pod. “Without one of these babies you can get heat stroke and DIE.”
My eyes narrowed: “Hmmm…. So I’ve heard. And are you sure you’re getting enough water?”
With no sign of the other FJRs, and wanting to give the SoCal group another few minutes to arrive before we ventured into the restaurant, we decided to snap some pictures. First we got a picture of me and my FJR, then one of Silent and his FJR. Then we got a picture of my FJR and me, and one of Silent’s FJR and him. And then one of both our FJRs and both of us, and then both of us with both our FJRs. Then we did the whole set again, only this time standing in front of the bikes instead of behind them, just to have a little variety.
It was at about that time that I spotted a cluster of single headlights coming toward us from the south about a mile away. My arm shot up, pointing. Silent’s head turned.
That must be our guys! But something was amiss…. Something was in the air. Was it huge alien pods searching for human host slaves? No. That was just a simile. It was more like a sound, a noise….a rumble? Oh yeah. In fact, it was a very familiar rumble. Silent and I turned to each other with disappointment: “Harley’s.”
Yep. It was a group of riders from the fearsome Harley Tribe. As they approached, Silent and I unconsciously stepped further apart and inhaled to puff ourselves up, trying to look fierce and take up as much space as we could of this shaded parking area we wanted to reserve for our own tribe. But it was fruitless: the Harley riders slowed and then turned into the shade, pulling in all around us while blipping their throttles like a gaggle of geese landing on a pond.
Overwhelmed by superior numbers (and some frankly scary-looking guys), Silent and I acquiesced, transforming back from our imposing, bad-ass, don’t-f**k-with-me--but in the end frankly pathetic--personas back into just regular guys, albeit regular guys with broad bright Pat Boone it’s-all-about-two-wheels smiles that said, “Hi! We want to be your friends!”
But in fact my clenched teeth were doing double duty, because like holding back a fart, I struggled not to let escape the tune that pressed against the inner wall of my cranium: “I feel pretty! Oh so pretty! I feel pretty and witty and GAAAAAAAAAY….”
Unfortunately, standing next to a couple of non-black, Jap-crap motorcycles, dressed in nancy-boy Aerostitch on the one hand and matching pastel leathers on the other, and sporting a couple of smiles more suited to the faces of two men trying to lift a heavy rock, Silent and I were hopelessly invisible to them.
But that was okay. Our invisible cloak gave us the unique opportunity to observe this fascinating tribe from just feet away. We were like a couple of anthropologists who could observe the subjects without affecting their natural behavior. Without getting stomped….
And so we observed from up close the Harley Tribe’s studded cosmetic garments and war paint. But most of all we marveled at motorcycling’s greatest enigma: how each member of this particular tribe can be identical to every other member of the tribe, while at the same time not being at all like any other member of the tribe, but rather an individualist who never compromises, only ever going his or her own way. How do they do it! We shook our heads in awe as we watched this homogenous band of individualists walk through us as if we were a couple of ghosts, and disappear into the restaurant.
“Damn,” I said to Silent, shaking my head. “First they get the best parking, and then they go and get the best table.” And we lapsed into reflective silence while instinctively looking southward, searching for our tribe.
I followed Silent off the pavement onto the baked earth that served as sidewalk, curb, and parking area for this restaurant we rode 250 miles to EAT at. Our bikes kicked up clouds of dust as we gingerly brought them to a stop in the shade of a tree. This was a good spot: There would be plenty of space and shade to accommodate all the SoCal bikes.
Removing our gloves and helmets, we studied the surrounding landscape. Subconsciously, my gaze searched for a short, black-haired man in a dark suit smoking a cigarette, standing with his back to us in front of an invisible television camera, while uttering in a kind of staccato something like, “Two men on motorbikes. Apart from the exceptional good looks of the tall fellow in the very cool-looking FJR-blue leather jacket, there is nothing particularly exceptional about them. They have just pulled into a dank, dusty, dingy, dirty, desperate little hamlet. Never mind it’s name or location. Let’s call it Creston. But the name doesn’t really matter (though it really is Creston). What does matter is that they think they are going to meet some fellow motorbike enthusiasts for a pleasant lunch of burgers and fries. But that’s where they are badly mistaken. Because what they are about to discover is that….”
“What! What are we about to discover! Help! Help! We’re in the Twilight Zone!”
“Something the matter, JB?” asked Silent.
“Huh? Oh. Did I say that in my out-loud voice? Nothing. My mind was just wandering a bit. Probably the heat.”
“You really should get yourself a Camelback,” he said, turning and dipping his knees while moving his arms outward like a magician’s assistant to demonstrate the convenience and utility of the bladder clinging to his back like some hideous alien pod. “Without one of these babies you can get heat stroke and DIE.”
My eyes narrowed: “Hmmm…. So I’ve heard. And are you sure you’re getting enough water?”
With no sign of the other FJRs, and wanting to give the SoCal group another few minutes to arrive before we ventured into the restaurant, we decided to snap some pictures. First we got a picture of me and my FJR, then one of Silent and his FJR. Then we got a picture of my FJR and me, and one of Silent’s FJR and him. And then one of both our FJRs and both of us, and then both of us with both our FJRs. Then we did the whole set again, only this time standing in front of the bikes instead of behind them, just to have a little variety.
It was at about that time that I spotted a cluster of single headlights coming toward us from the south about a mile away. My arm shot up, pointing. Silent’s head turned.
That must be our guys! But something was amiss…. Something was in the air. Was it huge alien pods searching for human host slaves? No. That was just a simile. It was more like a sound, a noise….a rumble? Oh yeah. In fact, it was a very familiar rumble. Silent and I turned to each other with disappointment: “Harley’s.”
Yep. It was a group of riders from the fearsome Harley Tribe. As they approached, Silent and I unconsciously stepped further apart and inhaled to puff ourselves up, trying to look fierce and take up as much space as we could of this shaded parking area we wanted to reserve for our own tribe. But it was fruitless: the Harley riders slowed and then turned into the shade, pulling in all around us while blipping their throttles like a gaggle of geese landing on a pond.
Overwhelmed by superior numbers (and some frankly scary-looking guys), Silent and I acquiesced, transforming back from our imposing, bad-ass, don’t-f**k-with-me--but in the end frankly pathetic--personas back into just regular guys, albeit regular guys with broad bright Pat Boone it’s-all-about-two-wheels smiles that said, “Hi! We want to be your friends!”
But in fact my clenched teeth were doing double duty, because like holding back a fart, I struggled not to let escape the tune that pressed against the inner wall of my cranium: “I feel pretty! Oh so pretty! I feel pretty and witty and GAAAAAAAAAY….”
Unfortunately, standing next to a couple of non-black, Jap-crap motorcycles, dressed in nancy-boy Aerostitch on the one hand and matching pastel leathers on the other, and sporting a couple of smiles more suited to the faces of two men trying to lift a heavy rock, Silent and I were hopelessly invisible to them.
But that was okay. Our invisible cloak gave us the unique opportunity to observe this fascinating tribe from just feet away. We were like a couple of anthropologists who could observe the subjects without affecting their natural behavior. Without getting stomped….
And so we observed from up close the Harley Tribe’s studded cosmetic garments and war paint. But most of all we marveled at motorcycling’s greatest enigma: how each member of this particular tribe can be identical to every other member of the tribe, while at the same time not being at all like any other member of the tribe, but rather an individualist who never compromises, only ever going his or her own way. How do they do it! We shook our heads in awe as we watched this homogenous band of individualists walk through us as if we were a couple of ghosts, and disappear into the restaurant.
“Damn,” I said to Silent, shaking my head. “First they get the best parking, and then they go and get the best table.” And we lapsed into reflective silence while instinctively looking southward, searching for our tribe.
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