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Erlkönig: bike.shtmlArticle 5701 of rec.motorcycles: Path: cadillac!milano!cs.utexas.edu!rutgers!att!mtuxo!mtgzz!drutx!druwy!brucer From: brucer@druwy.ATT.COM (RobinsonB) Newsgroups: rec.motorcycles Subject: Re: BMW, Honda, the rat race and sex Summary: Saturday's ride, 3rd assault on Rollins Pass (slobber, drool) Keywords: boring, reaming, stroking Message-ID: <4133@druwy.ATT.COM> Date: 19 Jun 89 20:39:13 GMT References: <27986@tim.UUCP> Organization: AT&T, Denver, CO Lines: 143 jean@tim.com.edu!uunet!ramcy!joe.UUCP (Jean Seipata) writes: >I've been monitoring this group for some time and it's just about >time to come out of my corner and take a wack at some of those >over inflated male egos out there on their Yamabeemskiondarley's. > ... Kiss my ass. Nothing on that bike is >anything but last months lunch. The big deal is the Japanese >took a bunch of old parts and made a very special motorcycle. > >Stop comparing penis's and just get out there and ride, but ride >behind me, I don't think most of you are that good. > >If you ever see a black CBX with clubman bars, honk but don't >wave. 'Cause you'll need to hold on tight as I blow your chavanistic >male asses off the road when I pass. Oh god, Jean, I love it when you talk dirty. Yes, Jean, it's true; men ride big fast motorcycles to compensate for the sense of inadequacy caused by the small size of their penises. It may also be true that women ride motorcycles because of the small size of men's penises. There is nothing like riding a big motorcycle to really feel that you have something substantial between your legs. I know that this is true for me; whenever I see horses in the fields, or large dogs, brazenly waving their abundance in the breeze, I slink to the nearest motorcycle dealership and buy another, larger, faster bike to abate my raging sense of impotence. Well, enough about my penis. The subject has had adequate coverage, and if this discussion about penises goes on much longer, it might tend to degenerate. What I really wanted to talk about was this last Saturday's ride. Tom, Chuck, Paul, and I rally'ed at "Rendezvous Junction", 8:00 AM sharp. The wind was awful, about 40 knots out of the west. We turned west for our second rendezvous, with Ilana. I was in the lead; actually one of the few advantages Norton has over crotch-rockets (sorry Jean) is its small "sail area"; side winds have proportionally smaller impact on me than the others, so I was easily able to stay in the lead. Ilana was waiting for us as we pulled up to the intersection of highway 128 with highway 93. I could see in her eyes what she was thinking as we rode up: "Gee, Bruce got here first, he must have a larger penis than those other guys." We did introductions, shouting over the howling wind, for a couple of minutes, then mounted our hot, throbbing machines and headed for Golden. Now why is it, do you suppose, that whenever I ride with Chuck, sooner or later the opportunity presents itself to demonstrate a panic stop? Two weeks ago, I was hard on (oops) Chuck's behind (ooops) going around a tight sweeper when he suddenly discovered we had arrived at the breakfast restaurant; he grabbed a handful of brakes and screeched to a near stop and I nearly impaled him on the spot, making both of Norton's tires howl. Now this time, on the way to Golden, we were strung out, Chuck firmly (sic) in the lead, Ilana right behind, then came me, Paul, and Tom. Suddenly, a truck approaching from the other direction was being passed by an idiot in a car, right into Chuck's teeth. He grabbed binders, as did Ilana, and I nearly rammed right into her back end. I quickly pulled it off into the dirt at the side of the road, saving Ilana and I both serious injury. Paul and Tom were both far enough behind that they didn't get into the action. After the near tragedy, Chuck demonstrated his grasp of American Sign Language to the idiot driver by signaling the cautionary "eagle" warning, then we rode on into Golden without further incident. At Golden we turned up Highway 6 and allowed our hormones to flow into our throttle hands. About half way to the turn-off, I was attempting to pass one of the relatively stationary cars on the road ahead of me, but shifted down into too low a gear. When I rolled on the throttle, Norton's engine went to red line plus, and the valves floated. Of course I rolled off instantly. (If I hadn't the rods probably would have ejaculated themselves right through the heads. Painful.) As it was, for the rest of the ride, the engine took on a note faintly reminiscent of a vintage sewing machine. We went into Central City for breakfast. Paul and I parked together; his bike is a 1978 Honda 750, and of course Norton was made in 1975. Paul called our parking spot the "vintage bike" section. It was quite a shock for me to realize that his Honda was nearly as old as my Norton; his bike is as clean, as beautiful, and as strong as the day it rolled off the showroom floor. Nortons always were obsolete. It's no wonder the Japanese rule the world. The other three parked down the hill a ways (something about not wanting to get dirt on their tires), and we gathered for the difficult process of deciding where to eat. Tom didn't want to take the advice given by some local guy (based apparently on the fact that the guy must have had an interest in the place he recommended, therefore we should go somewhere else), and as we had no basis for any other selection, we were stymied for some time. Ilana finally solved the whole dilemma by suggesting we eat at the place we were standing in front of, so we went in, wrestled with the complexity of sitting down, parked our helmets and our codpieces, and ordered breakfast. When we got back to our bikes, parked next to the "non-vintage" group sat this beautiful BMW; none of us could guess what year it was made, but it was old. It had leading link front forks, a chrome bar around the headlight, no tachometer, and a big round crankcase thrusting forward like the head of a baleen whale. Wonderful bike. Tom fell instantly in love with it. Yes, really! In fact, the rest of us put on our helmets, saddled up, and rode out of town, leaving Tom behind panting over that BMW. He finally shook it off, caught up with us in Black Hawk, and we rode on up the hill. At Rollinsville we split up. Chuck, Paul, and Ilana all had urgent engagements elsewhere. Leaving Tom and I sitting there in Rollinsville; looking up that old dirt road towards Rollins Pass. Now, Tom has maintained for days that he would never, never, take his bike up that road; that the Hurricane just isn't suitable for that kind of surface. And, of course, I've been saying for weeks how I wanted to ride up there, but though I'm not the dumbest person in the world, I'm certainly not the smartest, and my penis definitely isn't big enough to chance going it alone, especially not on (bucketofbolts) Norton. Finally, after much peer pressure, Tom decided to try the ascent. Ladies and Gentlemen, let me be the first to introduce the GBR1000XS Enduro. BMW devotees, eat your hearts out, Tom's bike has definitely come out of the closet and shown the duality of its nature. We rode up that rough dirt road as far as we could get, over washboards and high-centers; until we were blocked by a wall of snow that even dirt-bikers couldn't negotiate. What a great ride it was, with spectacular views, clean air, and a sense of real accomplishment. And the thrill of having seen sights forever denied to those pobres without dual-purpose bikes. Like ours. Now, let's see a show of hands of those who believe that Brucer is smart enough to have at least 45 miles worth of gas when starting out on a 45 mile side trip. Gong! But thank you for playing the game. Had you been riding North into Nederland about 3:00 Saturday afternoon, you would have seen pieces of Tom's "Jet Stream" scattered all over the side of the road as Tom dismantled his motorcycle attempting to get at the fuel line so that we could drain two pints of gas into a discarded brandy bottle, so as to provide Norton with sufficient fuel to get into town. Then back up the road to Coal Creek Canyon, down the hill smartly, and home at last, three hours late as usual. Thanks, Jean, for your posting. You made my day. 66 > ^ .................. brucer |