by Wango Tango
It had been one of those days where I was out of my comfort zone. Things were stressing me out that normally never did. I was nervous and jittery like I had consumed a pot of coffee. I hadn't of course, I had just woke up and it was 11:30 am. I was wondering if I had some strange affliction like cold Chihuahua syndrome. I carried on and rode on in to my job.
Work was slow and my co-worker didn't show up, so I was elected to cover his area as well (Thanks Dave!). I managed though, taking my ginkgo biloba pills that are supposed to enhance your memory, and washing them down with copious amounts of industrial strength coffee. That may not have been a great idea for soon after that, my mind awoke with the fury and passion of a drunken poet. My thoughts were racing against each other like a mental quarter mile drag strip.
Covering two areas at work caused me to miss lunch, so I ate a Three Musketeers bar with a bag of spicy pigskins. I was sure all these wonderful preservatives and sodium would probably enhance my mood, so I washed them down with another cup of the shop's coffee that resembled used motor oil. I also had to stay over an hour to finish all the extra reports. Mental fatigue had begun to set in accompanied by over caffeinated thoughts pinging around in my head.
Finally I made it to the parking lot and climbed on my Yamaha Stratoliner. What a great bike... (I hope it's listening). I had recently bought a Harley Road King though, and I could feel the rivalry between the two of them, when parked next to one another in the garage. Of course I understand the rivalry was just my imagination, but the thought had snowballed into a complete ideology and repertoire between the Stratoliner and me on the ride home. The Stratoliner was my original bike and does have a larger engine, but hey, cut the Harley a break, he is older and is still acclimating to his new home. Also, while some people prefer to think of their bikes as female, I've always viewed mine as male iron stallions.
It felt good flying down the road at 80 mph on the Yamaha, wind in my face and letting all thoughts blow out of my ears like bubbles out of a soap pipe, I'm feeling better... I'm feeling hungry! There is no place to go this time of the night where you can sit down to eat and still see your bike, except the Waffle House. The one by the airport is always slow after midnight, with only the occasional truck driver or strange people with multi-colored hair and body piercings.
I exit the freeway and turn onto the road leading to the Waffle House. The Stratoliner hesitates and sputters momentarily. I speak to it telepathically "Are we going to do this here? I thought we've been over this... I'm not sure if I'm really going to sell you." "Then why did you let my battery run down?!" the Yamaha seemed to retort. "Do you know what it's like being the original wheels of fire, bad boy motorcycle, and being stuck in that hot, dank garage going nowhere?!" "Do You?!" "Well you know..." I stammered, but my words were cut off by the now enraged bike "You and that stupid Mr. Road King!" he growled. "Don't talk about him like that! I shouted. "He's old school! He's got skills!"
"Skills!" snorted the Stratoliner, now running hot. "Who took you up through the Colorado Rockies with power to spare, and oh let's not forget automatically reset the fuel injected air fuel mixture when we stalled all alone at high altitude?" "You did" I muttered. "And who did a sling shot around a half mile long caravan of 18 wheelers and RV's going to Del Rio at a buck twenty with a big bore roar?!" "You did!" I replied louder. "Who has the aftermarket vibrator in the back, ready to share backseat bunny love at the flip of a switch?!" "You do baby!" I shouted "Cock of the Walk!" "That's right my man! And don't forget it!" said the now thumping Strat, growling menacingly. "Now show me some love, rack my pipes and rack 'em hard!"
"Hell Yeah!" I replied as I pulled the clutch in and rolled back on the throttle hard two times in a quick motion. The Yamaha Stratoliner roared like a nitro fuel burning funny car, sending an adrenalin approval through rider and machine as we sat at the red light. It also caught the attention of three policemen parked across the street at the Exxon gas station. They walked to the ends of their cars and looked at me, like three junkyard dogs staring through a fence at a fat cat who had just meowed too loud. "It's your ass now" muttered the Stratoliner with a low wicked laugh.
