Winter is upon us and my riding time is cut down due to the cold. My last ride was to go to the cycle shop in Albuquerque so Chuck and Joseph could pick up chaps. My usual “gay rodeo” comments were made and they were picking out their purchases. I only wish I had mine on during our ride home. I froze parts I didn’t know I had.
During these slow times, I get out the calendar and start deciding which motorcycle rallies to go to. I don’t know why I go it’s always the same. Bad bands, $50,000 bikes with 300 miles on them, 20 year old boobs on 50 year old women and leather vendors are ever present.
Some rallies are better than others. It is surprising, after my early experiences, that I attend at all.
Right after I started riding, I decided to take my bike up to the Red River Rally. Marlena was getting out of county lock up, so I dropped her a line and invited her to go with me. Since she’s been in jail for the last eighteen months, I sized up the possibilities of getting some action as slightly better than average.
I picked Marlena up Friday afternoon, right after the bus dropped her off in front of the county courthouse. She was a lovely sight. I noticed she had some new prison ink. The old English lettering across her throat was very stylish.
We headed north, ready for some fun and probation violations.
I was excited to go the local weatherman, Stuart Stuckerman was having a charity ride on Saturday morning It benefitted the Humane Society. Everybody who went on the ride received a free spaying or neutering. Since my health insurance was so bad, I was looking forward to gratis medical procedures.
My VTX purred as me made our way through the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. I had just bought upgraded the seats. The bike had more leather and metal studs than a gay porn. I had had problems with my exhaust, but so far so good.
We arrived in Red River. It’s a lovely little mining town about a mile and a half from city limit to city limit. I joined the row of bikes making our way through town at three miles an hour. Of course, I had to constantly rev my engine in a testosterone filled expression of manhood.
As I rode past a group of Bandidos, I hit the throttle, heard a “ping”, and turned my head to see my baffle shoot out of my exhaust toward the dozens of Bandido bikes parked on the curb.
It skipped across the asphault, bounding toward a Sportster like a Japanese torpedo. About half way there, the baffle hit a rock and changed it’s trajectory. It immediately headed for a pink flamed Road King parked on the corner. It leapt up, hit the fender and left a huge scar across the rear fender.
Suddenly a wave of women began heading towards me. I had damaged the bike of the Nutcrackers Riding and Tea Society’s president. Leading the pack was Big Sharon. She was a blonde WalMart version of Xena, Warrior Princess.
In my terror, I looked towards the Bandidos for help. They glanced back, shrugged their shoulders as if to say, “You’re on your own, buddy.”
The banshee like screams stunned me momentarily. The thing I knew, they began beating me to the ground. I curled into a fetal position as they began kicking me relentlessly. Eventually, they lost interest and began wandering off. I picked myself up, wiped the blood from my lip and proceeded to inform them that I’d had worse ass kickings from cowboys.
Their attention renewed, Sharon kneed me in gonads. The world went black, I dropped to the pavement and began dry heaving.
I finally gathered my composure and drug myself to my knees. My eyes focused enough to see Marlena riding off on the back of Sharon’s hog. She promptly gave me the finger and informed me she’d finally found a real man.
