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Date:         Sun, 27 Sep 1992 07:51:30 -0500
From:         Anne Burton Harwell <harwell@TENET.EDU>
Subject:      Another Motorcycle Story
Comments: To: English Language Discussion Group <WORDS-L@uga.cc.uga.edu>

On Sat, 26 Sep 1992, Entropy Warrior wrote:

> I sure would like to have seen you at 100 on two carrying your
> trough.


That's what bungee cords are for! Actually, no trough, just a badass
GPz550, matching Bell helmet, leathers, and a lean hungry look...what else
did you expect me to say...

Here's another motorcycle story since I'm feeling expansive...there are
drug checkpoints on all the major roads north from the border, and a look
at the activity in DuPont Circle in DC will show you just how effective
they have been. Anyway, I digress...I was out with a bunch of guys,
squidding around the backroads one Sunday. As we approached a particular
curve I rolled off the throttle because I remembered there was always a
checkpoint on the other side. Sure enough, a green trailer anchored to the
ground, air conditioned buzzing, and two Border patrol cars parked
alongside appeared around the curve. The BP guys looked bored, and as our
little pack rolled up to the station and killed the engines (all of us
were on k-rAd sportbikes, BTW, No Hogs Allowed), the agents sauntered out
from the shade to look us over. (In South Texas Parlance, they, and all
cops, are sometimes referred to as "chota," or "pigs," but since they know
what it means too, we elected not to toss this term of affection around
within hearing range.)

We all knew of stories where sportbikes had been ridiculously stripped
down at border checkpoints, riders being forced to remove tiny sidecovers
and intricate fairings at roadside with the inadequate toolsets in MC
emergency kits, as the agents made thoroughly sure that the rider was not
transporting even miniscule quantities of contraband. None of us wanted to
face that scenario, so it was helmets open, lots of smiles, proffering of
leather-gloved hands to the agents, in the hopes that they'll shake those
and not shake down the bike.

Turns out these guys are motorcycle freaks! they start pawing over the
bikes, all right, but they're trying to see the year and engine
displacement stamp on the front forks. "Hey, man, I had one of these...how
fast you ever had yours up to?" The agent is talking to the rider of a
1986 Honda VFR 750...what Judy Garland would characterize as "The Bike
THAT Got Away." The VFR symbolizes The One Perfect Bike; I still get all
goofy acting when I see one in a parking lot...but I digress again. The
rider answers, "135." "Really?" the agent counters, "I always read they
tested out to 146." "Yeah," says my riding companion, "but my juevos gave
out at 135." They both have a good laugh at that, then the first agent
motions to his buddy to come look at the Honda, pointing out how the
engine cases were sand-cast, how the fairings were fastened with Dzus
fasteners, how robots had done all the major welds on the twin-spine
frame, how he had really loved his until his brother trashed it.

I should note here that it is common for cops to stop a sportbiker
ostensibly for speeding, flashing lights and siren in play, but actually
just want to talk to the rider about his bike. I have many, many friends
who it has happened to. The rider is "released" with a wink and a nudge
and a stern verbal warning which fades into the afternoon air under the
scream of a highly-tuned 4-cylinder as it winds out into the distance.

So anyway, these BP agents were about through looking at the VFR, and face
it, none of us had bikes as wickedly cook and sexy as the Honda, but we
had nice, fast bikes, and they were detail-clean and for the most part
immaculately maintained, so the mother-of-all-sportbikes GPz 1100 to my
left got some attention, as did the Ninja 1000 behind me, and my GPz 500
received a few cursorial glances as well. Remember, now, we were all
still in leathers and helmets.

As the agents are walking back to their trailer, the one who has engaged
the Honda rider is such comradely badinage decides that perhaps the rider
on the little bike (that's me) looks like he might be up to no good, so he
comes over and stands, legs almost astride my front wheel. This overtly
phallic posturing annoys me and perhaps I am a little tart in my reply
when he says, "What have you got inside that jacket?" Well, dear reader,
all there is inside, is me, covered over by a t-shirt and the underwear
conventions of our age. But to him, I suppose it looked like a brick of
dope or something. So I say "Nothing," but I am no longer smiling and
shucking and jiving, and the guys are firing up their engines and the VFR
has already begun to roll off slowly. "I don't think so," he replies,
gesturing at my leather-clad bosom. The beginning of a little smile is
appearing on the corner of his mouth. "It's just me in there," I reply.
He's having none of it. "Why don't we just see. Open that up." Oh, there
IS a God, I think. Fixing his eye, I pull open the collar snap and pull
down the zipper, revealing my contraband. His eyes visibly pop. I give the
jacket a little wiggle, just for good measure. "Er, you can go now," he
hastily says, backing away from the bike. I grin at him from inside the
helmet. There's only a little slit he can see through, but the crinkling
around the eyes communicates everything he needs to know that he has been
caught acting seriously uncool. I turn to face his partner, just so there
is no doubt what a doofy thing he just did. They look at each other, the
expression plainly saying, "Go figure," and retreat to the air-conditioned
safety of their trailer to await the arrival of the next passers-through.
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