Hot Rides and Cool Nights

(To be read in the style of "Biker Bitch Magazine"...slightly tongue in cheek)



I'd spent all day waiting for the night to come. RaZZor was due home from his job w/ the NASCAR design team, and I hadn't yet put the macaroni and cheese on. The day had been too sizzling to slave over a hot stovetop. There's only one thing this kind of night is good for - the kind of night when you hear high pitched wails in the distance, like toms on the prowl and cats in heat...and low rumbling bursts of thunder. The kind of night when you feel the roar in your teeth and chest, before it ever reaches your ears. The kind of night when men are men and women hold their tongues. Bike Night.

The evening began with a meal out at Denny's. Food with gravy. The Gods would have approved. Unlimited ice tea refills. Attempting to quench a thirst born of anticipation. By the time we left the bright lights and vinyl booths behind, the sky had grown fully black and the air was cool. "Shit...nice night for a ride, babe." All I could do was tilt my head back, feel the breeze on my face, and breathe in the fumes from the Jeep Plant down the road and the rotting husks of the wasted corn field near by.

As we pulled up to the McDonald's parking lot, there were already about 40 bikes gathered. Suzuki's, Kawasakis, Hondas - a gorgeous VMAX. All types, sizes and speeds. What I'd learned was that a lot depended on the rider. RaZZor had told me, "You might be up against a dude with a bigger bike, but if you can create a large enough hole coming out of the bottom, you can win" (or words to that effect). You can see if a bike's "bigger" by looking - but also by listening with a trained ear. At this point, the lot was silent, save for the arrival of new bikes as the minutes ticked by.

RaZZor walked around slowly - cigarette pinched between thumb and index finger - burned down low enough to singe his skin, but his attention was elsewhere.

"It's been two years since I came here. First time without a ride of my own. Wonder if any of the old timers are here." He looked to his left and flicked his smoke to the right - missing by millimeters the group of people milling around and the bikes they'd rode in on. I could almost hear Clint Eastwood music and spurs singing as he strode in a circle around the gathering of steel and chrome horses. Not wanting to interfere with his private reunion with the past, I held back a bit.

RaZZor spotted a friend - another gray hair, wise in the ways of racing. You can spot the pros; they soak in the competition, check out the other rides, and quietly contemplate the evening ahead - sometimes stopping to talk in muted tones with one of their own. The young ones talk loudly and show off for their bitches.

I approached RaZZor and his compadre. "This is John Acres." I'd heard much about him. "This is Rain." Introduction complete, we stood for a while longer; silence a comfort amidst the arrival of more bikes.

It was like hyenas on the savannah - coming from all directions to get their piece of the kill. There was a lone Harley - its rider a Jerry Garcia look alike. He sat on the curb with his legs splayed out. No shame in having a hog - not if you're the real thing.

I spotted his truck before I saw him. Paul, Ray's good friend, had come with one of his fellow computer nerds and the computer nerd's nephew. Wanting to leave RaZZor to his quiet reflections of days gone by (and feeling awkward standing in clogs amidst all those boots), I walked over to the only other person I knew.

Introductions were made and we stood respectfully, watching RaZZor make his rounds. Paul started to talk about my man's glory days - the first time he'd seen RaZZor ride through town on his yellow Suzuki...wheelie bar out almost further than the turns in the road would allow...blue bottle of Nitrous near the back wheel of his ride. I'd heard the story before, but it took on different meaning now. Paul's friends listened closely. I just watched my man - an icon amid ingénues.

RaZZor came over and joined us - motioned for me to come with him and guided me through the army of bikes. He pointed out what made each special, fast, useless. He showed me which kind he'd owned in the past and what modifications he'd made. My education had begun, and I had the feeling I'd never know enough.

At ten past midnight, RaZZor seemed to sense something I'd missed, tapped my arm, and started walking back to our car. At just that moment, all the engines fired. The sound was deafening and exhilarating. For months I'd been hearing about Bike Night and was glad to finally be a spectator, while RaZZor was surely wishing he were a participant.

Bikes, cars, and trucks all drove a mile down the road to a fairly deserted stretch of tarmac in an industrial park. Cops know of the weekly event and keep their distance, as long as neighbors don't complain and nobody gets hurt. Several years back, a local TV station did an expose on Bike Night, compelling the cops to take action where they would rather have kept a respectable distance. Since that time, there's an added danger to the night - keys stay in car ignitions and wheels point in the direction of the fastest escape route.

Bikes group in office driveways, on either side of the street. Cars pull off the road and spectators stand ready for some action. Parents bring children, lovers hold hands, and old timers cross their arms on their chests, rock back on their booted heels, and wait with a critical eye.

Headlights are all off - approach and departure is in the dark. I learn there are rules of etiquette and quickly determine which participants are novices and which have a healthy respect for the event. Every once in a while, a car or semi will travel up the road. Nobody wants to drag in traffic, so we all await the signal a half-mile up the street - a flashing of headlights. I half expect to see Natalie Wood stand in the middle of the street, giving the "go" signal with her arms as James Dean careens down the road.

I hear somebody say, "I went over a nail." The hiss of air coming out of a tire sings through the night. I repeat this to RaZZor and he laughs saying, "That's an old joke. Just a smartass remark. They're letting the air out to prep for racing. It's a cue that they're ready to go." I hoped nobody had heard me and kept my mouth shut until I was sure I knew what I was talking about. Believe me - I was quiet for a long time.

There are two ways to begin the race - one is a "roll-on" where the two racers warm up their tires and psyche each other out - revving and inching up to the designated starting line until they are gone, with engines screaming and bodies crouched low. The other is to start from a dead stop. At first, bikes raced two at a time. Gone in an instant, you needed a trained ear and eye to determine who'd won. It seemed to me as if RaZZor could tell the model of a bike, even the year, just by listening to the way it started up, by seeing the outline of the form riding it. He could almost always judge who would win, even before they took off. Many had "big" bikes but riders unworthy of the machines. I could tell Razzor longed to give them all a ride for their money, but those days were over.

Towards the end of the evening, racers started getting stupid. They drove three abreast rather than two - something that was totally uncool in RaZZor's day - nowhere to go if a car comes up unexpectedly. Then two hot doggers started doing wheelies...not an easy task on a street bike. After several passes, RaZZor pointed out that one dude had his girl on the back as he pulled his stunts. It was amazing to watch, but incredibly reckless. "That girl is either in love or stupid. You couldn't put a needle up her butt with how close she is to scraping pavement. Ahhh...to be young and horney again," RaZZor said. (The man has a way with words - I've cleaned this up somewhat.)

Suddenly he was moving to the car, and all of the trucks, cars, and bikes were on the go. Somebody had spotted cops and the night was over.

"You drive," he told me.

I couldn't help it. Once on the E-Way, I wanted to drive fast -longed to hear my engine roar and feel the power of commanding the road. I brought it up to 70...then 80...then 85...90...

"Girlie Girl...slow down. You're not ready to take off the training wheels. Let's live another day to eat that macaroni and cheese."

And sooo...back at the trailer, we sat contentedly, sipping reheated coffee in our favorite mugs, watching Conan O'Brien, and dreaming of glory days.


((( Thanks for your patience, folks. Just wanted to share the big night with you. I left out much - like the guy who started to race before being given the signal and almost rode head on into an oncoming car - about the wonderful conversations I'd overheard. The tough guy of about 50 who Ray once (long ago) scraped with and won - ending the battle by kissing the man on the mouth - never to be forgiven. But this is already long enough. You get the picture. It was an exciting, educational night. When I'm ready to race, I'll let you know *wink*wink*nudge*nudge)))