Posted: Thu Jan 04, 2007 9:04 am
The events that pulled me back to motorcycling are vague... at best.
Motorcycles were an intense experience of my distant past, but now had become but a dull memory.
They were always on the background, although I rarely paid much attention.
Bikes are habitually cruising the streets of Austin and the sounds are as natural as a cricket in the summertime or as irritating as the whine of a blue-smoke belching chain saw. The Republic of Texas Rally happens every summer and the town becomes jammed with bare-headed, unshaven, leather-clad boys and their hefty, weathered-faced honeys astride overly loud and heavily chromed hogs. I could hear the distant rumbling from my South Austin home as they cruised Congress on the pilgrimage to Beverly's followed by the strutting and posing on 6th St.
On occasion I would see the ninja boyz pulling wheelies at 80+ mph down MoPac weaving in and out of traffic with total disregard for the simple fact that the only thing that stood between them and eternity was a sleeveless t-shirt, a non-armoured pair of cargo shorts and a set of flip-flops flapping in the slipstream.
My wife's uncle is an old time bike fan. He had the bug since the 40's, was wise in the ways of business, and had acquired a nice collection of motorcycles. I recall a few years back seeing an green retro-looking Triumph among a sea of Harley's and getting a rise out of the Triumph. The bikes were all packed into a converted horse trailer ready for the annual hajj to sacred sands of Sturgis.
I have a older cousin biker... old school and a major cranky codger. Loved old Harley Davidsons, had a '49 something Indian w/sidecar, a red-hot Moto Guzzi, BMW w/sidecar, and more old useless dodo than any man ever need. He had a stroke one day and will never ride again. In his garage scattered in various pieces was an early 80's Shovelhead.
My good friend CH made a deal with him and gathered up anything that looked like a Harley and hauled it home. He spent a month or so getting it put back together and another couple of months working all the bugs out. My cuz had a habit of tinkering to a fault, so the bike had a lot of stuff that was out of whack, incorrect, or just plain a** backward. It was a late model AMF-era Harley after all. The story goes that it was a Mexican Highway Patrol engine that got mounted on a California frame. Various drag racing stuff was added by my power addled cuz. Stock it was not.
CH finally got it in rideable shape and began cruising over to my house on the beast. Being a Harley it leaked a lot of oil, so I had to make a Harley litter box to sit under the engine when it was parked in my driveway. CH lovingly referred to it as the "Hardly Ableson". My wife began spotting oily shoe tread tracks across our cream colored carpet.
Motorcycles were once again in my peripheral environment.
Motorcycles were an intense experience of my distant past, but now had become but a dull memory.
They were always on the background, although I rarely paid much attention.
Bikes are habitually cruising the streets of Austin and the sounds are as natural as a cricket in the summertime or as irritating as the whine of a blue-smoke belching chain saw. The Republic of Texas Rally happens every summer and the town becomes jammed with bare-headed, unshaven, leather-clad boys and their hefty, weathered-faced honeys astride overly loud and heavily chromed hogs. I could hear the distant rumbling from my South Austin home as they cruised Congress on the pilgrimage to Beverly's followed by the strutting and posing on 6th St.
On occasion I would see the ninja boyz pulling wheelies at 80+ mph down MoPac weaving in and out of traffic with total disregard for the simple fact that the only thing that stood between them and eternity was a sleeveless t-shirt, a non-armoured pair of cargo shorts and a set of flip-flops flapping in the slipstream.
My wife's uncle is an old time bike fan. He had the bug since the 40's, was wise in the ways of business, and had acquired a nice collection of motorcycles. I recall a few years back seeing an green retro-looking Triumph among a sea of Harley's and getting a rise out of the Triumph. The bikes were all packed into a converted horse trailer ready for the annual hajj to sacred sands of Sturgis.
I have a older cousin biker... old school and a major cranky codger. Loved old Harley Davidsons, had a '49 something Indian w/sidecar, a red-hot Moto Guzzi, BMW w/sidecar, and more old useless dodo than any man ever need. He had a stroke one day and will never ride again. In his garage scattered in various pieces was an early 80's Shovelhead.
My good friend CH made a deal with him and gathered up anything that looked like a Harley and hauled it home. He spent a month or so getting it put back together and another couple of months working all the bugs out. My cuz had a habit of tinkering to a fault, so the bike had a lot of stuff that was out of whack, incorrect, or just plain a** backward. It was a late model AMF-era Harley after all. The story goes that it was a Mexican Highway Patrol engine that got mounted on a California frame. Various drag racing stuff was added by my power addled cuz. Stock it was not.
CH finally got it in rideable shape and began cruising over to my house on the beast. Being a Harley it leaked a lot of oil, so I had to make a Harley litter box to sit under the engine when it was parked in my driveway. CH lovingly referred to it as the "Hardly Ableson". My wife began spotting oily shoe tread tracks across our cream colored carpet.
Motorcycles were once again in my peripheral environment.
