Balanced Between My Thighs

I have never been real big on brand new gadgets and over-sized toys. That is how you can tell I am not the guy on your block growing dope in his spare time. Before I became a drooly dog owner I owned just a couple of toys: bicycles and motorcycles. I liked the motorcycles better. Riding a bicycle pissed is just plain impossible.

Back in the holiday season I sat on my first motorcycle since last year's bike show. It was Bjorn's new rocket. It felt nice balanced between my thighs and caused me to sneer menacingly as soon as my ass hit the vinyl seat. But I do not think sitting on it in his garage inspired me to get back motorcycling. I figure sometimes a man has to be content with his memories, or what is left of them.

My best summers ever were spent motorcycling in British Columbia and the American north-west. I am grateful for my young man blue summers. When you are on the road on a motorcycle you are a slightly different person than the fucker you left behind in the city. I do not think it is the motorcycle itself that makes the difference. Travelling light is what makes a man complete. I guess it does the same thing for a woman too. Probably makes her tits feel bigger or something.

Maybe I will dust off the old chopper after all come spring.

One year, before I met Sonja and got my priorities straightened out, I rode through the cool summer nights from one dusty British Columbia town to another making small deliveries. When I reached my destination I headed straight to the fucking bar. After one trip, just as I was about to open the bar door, two wasted biker fuckers I met in the stripper bar in the last town I was in staggered out. I said, "Hey, motherfuckers."

They both slurred, "Beer!" back at me. Then the tall one said, "Let's go drink some more!"

We headed into the bar, which was lit more dimly than any bar I had ever been in before. But before we could pick out a table in the darkness all three of us were kicked out by the bartender. When the door closed behind us I asked what the two biker fuckers had done before I showed up to get us kicked out so fast.

The short one said, "We did not do fuck all, man."

To which the tall one added, "Except call every motherfucker in the joint a dumb cocksucker!"

Then they took turns telling me just what a dumb bunch of cocksuckers the people in the bar were.

"They're all pilots. And they are all pissed."

"When we parked our bikes and sat down to get ourselves good and shitfaced we could not help but notice they were drinking heavily and then flying their planes."

The bar was right beside the shithole little airport in town.

"Then they started buzzing real low over the bar."

The tall fucker stretched out his Joey Ramone arms and made airplane noises until he stopped to vomit in the parking lot.

"We thought it was cool. Those drunk bastards could fly better than I can ride my bike stoned."

The tall fucker cleaned his mouth off with the sleeve of his black leather jacket.

"Then it sounded like one of the plane's wheels rode right on the roof and WHAM! the lights went out in the bar and some chick screams through the bar yelling about her dad or some fucking thing. We just kept drinking but finally our curiousity grabbed us by the balls and we went outside to see what the fuck happened. Cocksuckers were fucking up our bar time."

"So we went out to the parking lot and there's the plane right on top of a van like somebody landed it there on purpose. The chick is still screaming about her dad. That's when we notice there is nobody in the plane. The pilot and his passenger had ran back up to their room like nothing fucking happened."

"When we turned around to go back into the bar we could see one wing of the plane had sheared off the top of a power pole. That's why the lights went out."

And people say bikers are fucked up.

"So we started to hit the booze again. Luckily the bar had back-up power. And slowly all these sheepish looking pilots started filling up the bar."

"That's when you called them all dumb cocksuckers!"

"They are dumb cocksuckers."

They were dumb cocksuckers alright.

"So Beer ... you know any other good bars in this shitpit of a town?"

"As a matter of fact," I told them, "I do."

I ended up drinking a couple hours with the shitfaced duo. They were my kind of people: anybody who gets kicked out of one bar and can shut down another is Beer people.

A couple days later I heard a couple of those same pilots crashed into one another very early the next morning. I think maybe five people died. It did not take a scientist to figure out they were still swacked from the night before when they clipped wings. But it was the bikers who got kicked out of the bar.