G
GREGFUESS
Guest
It started off innocently enough, far from serious... endless numbers of lawns mowed, saving up money. A used Tecumseh engine on a tubular frame. One gear, one brake; let go of the throttle and it would stop, twist it and it would go, sort of. Fun after school, some laughs with friends. We would ride on flat terrain, empty lots around the neighborhood. OK, it would do a wheelie if you had the arm strength to pull it up, but even the strongest of us could only get the front tire a few inches off the ground. Gasoline from my dadÔÇÖs can in the garage. No one considered, what could be the harm?
None of us were old enough to get a license; we lacked the cojones to talk to our parents about our dreams and what they could mean; a real motorcycle, riding on the road. Tecumseh was our seductress, and we were happy volunteers for her vast charms. Never knew what speed she gave us; enough anyway. Or what the real horsepower was. Most of us could keep up along side her pedaling a bicycle; the Tecumseh decal bragged of 2.5 hp, but much of that seemed to exit the smoky exhaust. On summer days along the bayou, it felt like enough! We were freed from the bondage of human powered locomotion, and god forgive me, but that felt good!
The niggling didnÔÇÖt go away, though. It wrapped and warped my innocence into desire, it... it grew, it continued to grow and all I could think was to feed it. God it continued and I was so, so damn happy about it. I was young, admitting now to knowing no better. Mowing lawns, saving all I could in a 5.25% compounded interest rate on a passbook savings account, still to young to know better... I can now admit to lust, and not only in my heart. There were machines intended for more than lawn care.; there were gears, shock absorbers, wheels with spokes. The lust was vague, but it was there, lurking, waiting for an age at which it could sprout and take root.
And then she appeared. Brand new, a 1971 model; real gears; shock absorbers; eleven, count ÔÇÿem 11 horsepower, her brazen red color made my heart pound, my hot young blood pulse with desire. Made by a motorcycle company, a Suzuki TS 90! She took me to the moon - nights reading, looking at the glossy pictures of sleek lines and shiny chrome and dreaming - ok, even fantasizing, lusting about riding her. She was sleek, smooth and had a real gas tank., and adding oil to the reservoir got her automatically lubricated. God forgive me, but I wanted to lubricate that beauty!
I had no pride, the Tecumseh has stripped me of that without my even realizing it. I pleaded, begged really. Mom was the worst; Dad was sympathetic. I had saved my own money, wasnÔÇÖt threatening the family financial situation. After time, continual pleading wore down the opposition and permission was granted. The bank account was emptied of my lifeÔÇÖs saving, all $400. But I had this magnificent red machine with all that horsepower between my legs, and it set me free as I never knew it could!
The old helmet from K-Mart would suffice, so I was set. Seduced really and didnÔÇÖt even know it. I was 14, old enough surely, or so I told myself. No one told me this kind of ecstasy existed, much less that I could participate in it. She and I would fly over the bayous, up and down their sides, through the air as we crested the top of the berms, as we were released from earths pull, we became one: going through the gears on endless wheelies, she was real and she was mine. I removed her speedometer, headlights, etc. She seemed to tease and encourage me to remove them, taunting me with thoughts of lighter weight and more accessible horsepower. We were one.
Then it grew - innocently enough, really. Jim W and I cut class to ride, wanting to know, experience all the speed she could give us. She voiced effort under the additional weight of two immature bodies. Straining, not complaining but striving to fulfill our hearts desire for speed, to sate our octane saturated fantasy. Free for precious moments, illicit in flight and not a cop in sight. I owned State Highway 59 for those precious moments, it was mine at 63 mph! Jim an interloper, my bike and I beginning a glorious exultation to speed. Gasoline gave me freedom, flight from muscle motion. For a little while, anyway. That niggling feeling was always there, though, growing in my young and innocent psyche. Ever in the background the question beckoned, is there more? Mercifully, I was not aware of its increasing hold over me.
The rest is a common story, boring and too often told. Of course, there have been too many others since, so many nameless, shameless others. Green, black, oriental, American, European, with or without chrome - it didnÔÇÖt matter - increase the horsepower and I was hooked- speed, yes that two-wheeled rush, that high octane seductress.
But the thrill wouldnÔÇÖt, couldnÔÇÖt last. Surely all that was needed was a faster, fast enough bike, and the restraint to ride it wisely. But the desire was to ride fast, not wisely! To yield to wanton desire, to experience the excitement of what lay in ever higher miles per hour count!
Each ride became less and less satisfying, each experience demanding more and higher mph numbers. Weather, health and family be damned! This two-wheeled addiction had to be fed, and fed it was. If riding wasnÔÇÖt possible, there were the magazines, shiny muscled machines laid out in all their glistening, immodest glory. Each picture rippling with more horsepower, speed and the throbbing, pulsing excitement of the open road.
Weekend rushes ceased to be enough, though. The open road became a snaky, wanton mistress. Like all the others, it started without care or concern. Innocent appearance is the trademark of the true and gifted seductress. The first was a simple weekend trip through West Texas. A few hundred miles, maybe a thousand. Speeds in the triple digits, but the roads were empty, smooth and beckoning with undulating curves. Fun, laughs, a nice hotel room with a hot blonde on her own R1200R. But she must have suspected something, she with 50k miles on that 2007 model. She could ride that one bike at moderate speeds and be happy. Like so many social riders, several hundred miles a day at less than triple digit speeds satisfied her.
Then a trip to Maine turned into a 14k mile trek through Canada on a new R12R. I panicked - there was no more garage space. What to do? Does this craving stop? Why would I want it to? Another bike would surely make the desires go away. Or would it.....
None of us were old enough to get a license; we lacked the cojones to talk to our parents about our dreams and what they could mean; a real motorcycle, riding on the road. Tecumseh was our seductress, and we were happy volunteers for her vast charms. Never knew what speed she gave us; enough anyway. Or what the real horsepower was. Most of us could keep up along side her pedaling a bicycle; the Tecumseh decal bragged of 2.5 hp, but much of that seemed to exit the smoky exhaust. On summer days along the bayou, it felt like enough! We were freed from the bondage of human powered locomotion, and god forgive me, but that felt good!
The niggling didnÔÇÖt go away, though. It wrapped and warped my innocence into desire, it... it grew, it continued to grow and all I could think was to feed it. God it continued and I was so, so damn happy about it. I was young, admitting now to knowing no better. Mowing lawns, saving all I could in a 5.25% compounded interest rate on a passbook savings account, still to young to know better... I can now admit to lust, and not only in my heart. There were machines intended for more than lawn care.; there were gears, shock absorbers, wheels with spokes. The lust was vague, but it was there, lurking, waiting for an age at which it could sprout and take root.
And then she appeared. Brand new, a 1971 model; real gears; shock absorbers; eleven, count ÔÇÿem 11 horsepower, her brazen red color made my heart pound, my hot young blood pulse with desire. Made by a motorcycle company, a Suzuki TS 90! She took me to the moon - nights reading, looking at the glossy pictures of sleek lines and shiny chrome and dreaming - ok, even fantasizing, lusting about riding her. She was sleek, smooth and had a real gas tank., and adding oil to the reservoir got her automatically lubricated. God forgive me, but I wanted to lubricate that beauty!
I had no pride, the Tecumseh has stripped me of that without my even realizing it. I pleaded, begged really. Mom was the worst; Dad was sympathetic. I had saved my own money, wasnÔÇÖt threatening the family financial situation. After time, continual pleading wore down the opposition and permission was granted. The bank account was emptied of my lifeÔÇÖs saving, all $400. But I had this magnificent red machine with all that horsepower between my legs, and it set me free as I never knew it could!
The old helmet from K-Mart would suffice, so I was set. Seduced really and didnÔÇÖt even know it. I was 14, old enough surely, or so I told myself. No one told me this kind of ecstasy existed, much less that I could participate in it. She and I would fly over the bayous, up and down their sides, through the air as we crested the top of the berms, as we were released from earths pull, we became one: going through the gears on endless wheelies, she was real and she was mine. I removed her speedometer, headlights, etc. She seemed to tease and encourage me to remove them, taunting me with thoughts of lighter weight and more accessible horsepower. We were one.
Then it grew - innocently enough, really. Jim W and I cut class to ride, wanting to know, experience all the speed she could give us. She voiced effort under the additional weight of two immature bodies. Straining, not complaining but striving to fulfill our hearts desire for speed, to sate our octane saturated fantasy. Free for precious moments, illicit in flight and not a cop in sight. I owned State Highway 59 for those precious moments, it was mine at 63 mph! Jim an interloper, my bike and I beginning a glorious exultation to speed. Gasoline gave me freedom, flight from muscle motion. For a little while, anyway. That niggling feeling was always there, though, growing in my young and innocent psyche. Ever in the background the question beckoned, is there more? Mercifully, I was not aware of its increasing hold over me.
The rest is a common story, boring and too often told. Of course, there have been too many others since, so many nameless, shameless others. Green, black, oriental, American, European, with or without chrome - it didnÔÇÖt matter - increase the horsepower and I was hooked- speed, yes that two-wheeled rush, that high octane seductress.
But the thrill wouldnÔÇÖt, couldnÔÇÖt last. Surely all that was needed was a faster, fast enough bike, and the restraint to ride it wisely. But the desire was to ride fast, not wisely! To yield to wanton desire, to experience the excitement of what lay in ever higher miles per hour count!
Each ride became less and less satisfying, each experience demanding more and higher mph numbers. Weather, health and family be damned! This two-wheeled addiction had to be fed, and fed it was. If riding wasnÔÇÖt possible, there were the magazines, shiny muscled machines laid out in all their glistening, immodest glory. Each picture rippling with more horsepower, speed and the throbbing, pulsing excitement of the open road.
Weekend rushes ceased to be enough, though. The open road became a snaky, wanton mistress. Like all the others, it started without care or concern. Innocent appearance is the trademark of the true and gifted seductress. The first was a simple weekend trip through West Texas. A few hundred miles, maybe a thousand. Speeds in the triple digits, but the roads were empty, smooth and beckoning with undulating curves. Fun, laughs, a nice hotel room with a hot blonde on her own R1200R. But she must have suspected something, she with 50k miles on that 2007 model. She could ride that one bike at moderate speeds and be happy. Like so many social riders, several hundred miles a day at less than triple digit speeds satisfied her.
Then a trip to Maine turned into a 14k mile trek through Canada on a new R12R. I panicked - there was no more garage space. What to do? Does this craving stop? Why would I want it to? Another bike would surely make the desires go away. Or would it.....
