TheHighwayman
05-26-2010, 09:34 AM
You're not hangin' with the bros, cuz that's not your cuppa Joe. Instead, you're hangin' off. Your in-line four, liquid cooled 150 out the rear-end horsepower dilly cycle and you are in the moment. You're so into that moment and such a part of your sewing machine that you move as one, except that the graceful side to side shifting of your body makes you appear for all to see like a giant pair of blue whale testis, tightly wrapped in a full leather scrotum.
You're a spurt biker and you're headed for Deal's Gap and the 318 curves in those 11miles are callin' to you purttier than a Nancy-boy at glam-rock concert.
Just ahead, you see 'em and the mere sight of them makes the pre-pubescent hairs on your privates stand at attention. The soul-stirring sound of V-Twin Thunder fills the air and rattles your noggin even though it's encased in a full-face skid-lid. The righteous sound that can only be a Harley-Davidson causes that peach-fuzz soul patch under your lower lip to burn away, until all that's left is the dumb ass look on your squidly countenance.
You sweat so much that your leathers begin to smell like your Uncle Fred's used Depends, and it gets worse once you realize that the only thing standing between you and those 318 curves are about 150 examples of rolling thunder from Milwaukee. But not to worry, you're a regular Walter Shyttie and today is your day in the sun.
You imagine yourself Valentino Rossi at the Assen GP, and each HOG pilot is nothing more than a rolling backmarker, and soon you're weavin' through traffic like Dean Martin at a wine tasting session.
You're not in the wind, you're tucked down out of it with your butt stickin' up like some mutant simian about to stick it to a football. Never mind that you're passin' on the double yeller, you're on a mission from Buddha to show the world that rice ain't just a side dish.
You're through the pack and nearin' the Gap when it suddenly hits you like your boyfriend when you told him you forgot to bring the anal-eaze to the Pride Picnic. That sound.
The soul-stirring sound of 103 cubic inches of torque rich Milwaukee muscle, layin' that power to the pavement as only an American Icon can; with over 100 foot pounds of balls to the walls useable power at the same rpm where your Asian atrocity cycle idles. Your right wrist goes limp at the site of this rolling epiphany of the American way of life in front of you.
And piloting the Milwaukee marvel is a man. Not just any man, but a real man, the road captain of his HOG chapter. A Harley-Davidson man. The site of him, in control of not only the mighty machine beneath him, but of all that surrounds him. Like the machine he rides, a new Screamin' Eagle E-Glide, he is the king of the highway. He's ridin' point, at the top where the cream always rises, unlike you and your ride. You? You're a floater, hopin' to ride the curves like a turd spinnin'down the dilly-cycle bowl of your miserable life. He's riding history, you and your atrocity cycle are just passin' through it.
Your hand stitched full leather ball-sack of a riding suit is turgid with the sweat of your nerves gone amok, and you shrink back in the pack like your testis on a cold January day. You've just been bitch slapped back to reality.
You muster your courage like a sheet-shaker at Motel 6 gathers the dirty laundry. The blood returns to your right wrist and you drop your dilly bike down two gears just like you saw Rossi do at Assen. In an instant, you're up on one wheel, left hand poised to show your biggest digit to the object of both your hatred and envy. You start to zip past the captain when your realize too late that your headin' for the first of 318 turns at the Gap.
You and your dilly-cycle fly off the road, tumbling like tennis shoes in a dryer. Your plastic coated butt-plug is crushed by boulders the size of the Harley mans balls.
You showed 'em. You're a regular Rossi all right. A Martini and Rossi on the rocks.
They call me . . . The Highwayman.
You're a spurt biker and you're headed for Deal's Gap and the 318 curves in those 11miles are callin' to you purttier than a Nancy-boy at glam-rock concert.
Just ahead, you see 'em and the mere sight of them makes the pre-pubescent hairs on your privates stand at attention. The soul-stirring sound of V-Twin Thunder fills the air and rattles your noggin even though it's encased in a full-face skid-lid. The righteous sound that can only be a Harley-Davidson causes that peach-fuzz soul patch under your lower lip to burn away, until all that's left is the dumb ass look on your squidly countenance.
You sweat so much that your leathers begin to smell like your Uncle Fred's used Depends, and it gets worse once you realize that the only thing standing between you and those 318 curves are about 150 examples of rolling thunder from Milwaukee. But not to worry, you're a regular Walter Shyttie and today is your day in the sun.
You imagine yourself Valentino Rossi at the Assen GP, and each HOG pilot is nothing more than a rolling backmarker, and soon you're weavin' through traffic like Dean Martin at a wine tasting session.
You're not in the wind, you're tucked down out of it with your butt stickin' up like some mutant simian about to stick it to a football. Never mind that you're passin' on the double yeller, you're on a mission from Buddha to show the world that rice ain't just a side dish.
You're through the pack and nearin' the Gap when it suddenly hits you like your boyfriend when you told him you forgot to bring the anal-eaze to the Pride Picnic. That sound.
The soul-stirring sound of 103 cubic inches of torque rich Milwaukee muscle, layin' that power to the pavement as only an American Icon can; with over 100 foot pounds of balls to the walls useable power at the same rpm where your Asian atrocity cycle idles. Your right wrist goes limp at the site of this rolling epiphany of the American way of life in front of you.
And piloting the Milwaukee marvel is a man. Not just any man, but a real man, the road captain of his HOG chapter. A Harley-Davidson man. The site of him, in control of not only the mighty machine beneath him, but of all that surrounds him. Like the machine he rides, a new Screamin' Eagle E-Glide, he is the king of the highway. He's ridin' point, at the top where the cream always rises, unlike you and your ride. You? You're a floater, hopin' to ride the curves like a turd spinnin'down the dilly-cycle bowl of your miserable life. He's riding history, you and your atrocity cycle are just passin' through it.
Your hand stitched full leather ball-sack of a riding suit is turgid with the sweat of your nerves gone amok, and you shrink back in the pack like your testis on a cold January day. You've just been bitch slapped back to reality.
You muster your courage like a sheet-shaker at Motel 6 gathers the dirty laundry. The blood returns to your right wrist and you drop your dilly bike down two gears just like you saw Rossi do at Assen. In an instant, you're up on one wheel, left hand poised to show your biggest digit to the object of both your hatred and envy. You start to zip past the captain when your realize too late that your headin' for the first of 318 turns at the Gap.
You and your dilly-cycle fly off the road, tumbling like tennis shoes in a dryer. Your plastic coated butt-plug is crushed by boulders the size of the Harley mans balls.
You showed 'em. You're a regular Rossi all right. A Martini and Rossi on the rocks.
They call me . . . The Highwayman.