Monday, August 20, 2007

Ritual of Honor

David awoke with a throbbing hangover. He staggered out of his room into the kitchen, ran his fingers through his hair, belched, leaned over the coffee pot and lit a cigarette. "That was a helluva party last night," he mused to himself. "I can't get over how many people showed up. I gotta straighten up, I got a lot to do today, and it has to be done right. Having been taught the honor and integrity of brotherhood from them, he knew Gramps and Grammy shouldn't deserve anything less." He shoved a coffee down his throat, reached over and put on the leather riding vest that was hanging neatly on a peg in the hallway and headed out to the garage.

As he entered, he saw the old 1988 1200 Sportster sitting over in the corner. It was in well worn, yet in pristine shape for a 50 year old bike. He ran his hand over the candy-brandywine paint where the color had grown thin from years of polishing. Amazing, he thought to himself, it still shines like new. He glanced the seat, well worn from years of riding, faded in spots, yet still supple and not a tear in it. He then passed his hand lovingly over the script painted on the oil tank that read 'Annabelle' his Grandmothers name. The bike's moniker bestowed years before he was even born. "Can you believe how many people showed up to honor you and Gramps?" he said to the name on the bike. He then checked the straps holding an old Ironhead jug that was sitting on the back seat. Threw a leg over and turned on the ignition, it barely cranked a half second before igniting with a sharp crackle and then setted down to a nice loping idle. He tapped the gear lever down into first and felt the solid "snick" as it went into gear. smiled to himself thinking, "Jesus, what a bike."

He eased the clutch and rolled down the driveway out to the street. He looked down the road to see 30 or 40 bikes and riders lined up along both sides of the road. He rode slowly to the head of the street as all the bikes fell in place behind him and headed out to the highway for the 30 mile trip to Biker mountain. Biker mountain had been purchased and so named by the confederation of bikers who acquired it after the millions of dollars that came in from all over the world in honor of the lifestyle and Brotherhood. So many donations came in that a 10,000 acre parcel of land was bought and had a platinum statue of a Harley. It had been built by some of the finest artisans in the world. The sheer size of it was only matched by the Crazy Horse statue in the Dakotas.

There was a set of steps leading up the side of the mountain. At the top, surrounding the statue was a circular platform surrounded by flags of every MC in clear view .With a promontory looking over the valley below, known as Brotherhood Point. At the very top of the stairs was marble sarcophagus flanked by four brothers wearing colors of various clubs. Behind the sarcophagus was a round marble platform with a small opening that was covered by a sliding solid platinum cover. Down at the base of the stairs off to the right was a marble path that wound up the side of the mountain to the top.

As David came to within a thousand feet of the base he stopped to let the other bikes pass by. They rolled up to the entrance and parked in fluidly smooth motion against the curb lining the road; front wheels out and tires leaning towards the mound. David slid the Sporty into gear and proceeded towards the entrance. He smoothly turned the bike onto the marble pathway and started towards the top. As he rode on it seemed to him 'Annabelle' was hesitating up the hill. To him it seemed the bike didn't want to go.

As he reached the top of the summit, he stopped, got off the bike and undid the straps,removed the Ironhead jug. He walked over to the four bikers who parted and let him pass to the sarcophagus. He set the jug down on the platform and addressed the Tomb in front of him, "I am here to pass the remains of my grandparents to the shelter of this hallowed ground. I respectfully ask that you receive them into your honored protection." After speaking briefly about who and what his grandparents stood for and believed in, he walked to the back of the platform and slid the platinum cover aside and removed his grandfathers leather and placed it in the opening so that it would fall onto the thousands of brothers' vests that came before.

He stepped back and two of the guards came forward and escorted David and the jug over to Brotherhood Point. The remaining two Brothers rolled the bike over to the Point. David reached over and opened up the jug and poured its contents over the side of the Point to the valley below. As the ashes poured forth from the jug, a gentle breeze seemed to catch the ashes in it's path and it seemed as if the tendrils of dust reached down and caressed the bike then passed over to David and lightly brushed on his shoulder. As it did so, he could have sworn he felt a gentle squeeze from a pair of hands in unison and he heard what sounded like the sweetest V -Twin that ever ran, fire up and fade out as the filaments of dust drifted out over the valley below. "I must be hearing things", he thought as he walked over to the Sporty. As he did so he paid tribute to the brothers who stood by him for the ceremony with a hand clasp and brothers' hug.

When he turned to get on the Sporty, he heard one of the brothers say, "That was a sweet sounding bike your grandparents rode to Valhalla."

Saturday, August 11, 2007

Why I Ride

In this day and age of prozac and therapy bills, I ride my bike.

It is the purest form of therapy there is. Many people have remarked to me that I don't seem to get pissed off a lot. Most things that aggravate people just slide off my back, and I just shine it on. Money woes are always there I had 'em when I made too much money [never enough] and I have them when I don't. It's a constant in everybodys life, so why sweat it?

I've got great friends who can help me if I ask. And I'll help them in return anyway I can. It works out. It always does. I have a good friend which we call KRAMER. He's going through some tough financial shit. He'll get past it. He's got friends. And a reasonably good head on his shoulders. And I noticed that when he rides or even just talks bikes, problems are forgotten for the moment.
I look at it this way when I wake up tommorow, I'll figure out a solution...and If I don't wake up again....Well it ain't that big a problem anymore. What do I think about when riding? I look at the countryside, feel the wind rush past me, how proud I am of my kids, how I've got great friends and of course I think of Annebelle. And When she's on the Bike with me....pure Heaven. I don't need to drink, do drugs, etc... there is no high that can compare. And when I ride solo........I think Anabelle.

Friday, August 10, 2007


Boy I got a splitting headache today. Here's how it happened, I was driving along and out of nowhere I get hit with an IDEA. Now the Idea it self is not important. The fact that in order to have a Idea you have to be thinking. I did not intend to think........and didn't really want to.

BUT. I wasn't paying attention and my brain fired up on it's own. {DAMMIT] Now onto the subject of my Idea, They say there are no new Ideas under the sun. Everything that can be thought has been. {Who they?....I don't know and I ain't thinking about it either] So with that in mind...If there are no new Ideas...This must be someone else's loose thought. So I would appreciate You people keeping a tighter rein on your thinking so I don't have to catch your random thought you threw out wiiynilly. { Who you?...I don't frigging know and if I did I wouldn't tell you.

.....There now you gotta do some thinking:] } Enjoy my headache. I gotta go take a nap.

Thursday, August 9, 2007

Hey, Wait A Minute!!!

Eric CANNOT be 22! I'm gonna tell you why: It's simple math.

1st of all, I'm not 43, as rumor has it. And if you factor in my mental age, which is about 13. (The picture above is proof of this - I think that's art!) Even if you take the rumored age of 43 and subtract 13, that makes me 30, nowhere near old enough to have a 22 year old kid!

Now if I had a 22 year old, he would be extremely intelligent, good looking, not willing to take anybody's shit, has a mind of his own, is loyal to his friends and family, loves his wife, and he would know that Daddy needs another Harley!

So while this sounds like Eric...oh, hell, I guess I have to admit you don't get that many gray hairs in your beard at 30. So the little shit must be mine!!!

I couldn't be more proud!

Wednesday, August 8, 2007


Welcome To My Blog

Soon to be off and runnin'!!!