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Article 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


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