Jimmy Frizzell: On The Edge

Hunters Of The Mechanical Herd

Originally Published In The October 2016 Issue Of Cycle Source Magazine

There is no rhyme or reason to the bullcrap that has inflicted this great ball of molten rock, hurling through a mass vacuum at some ungodly speed towards imminent destruction. It’s a calming thought once you get to the base of it all that after all the bitching and complaining that ninety percent of this mouth breathing elitist society does, the fact of it is we all have to take a crap eventually and there isn’t any possible way around it. The world is a cluster bomb of annoying self righteous dip shits that find it necessary to categorize every single molecule that ever existed and somehow dumb it down to an all-around fictitious average standard. The cattle flock to the mundane ideal and turn their noses to all that reject this standard throwing pharmaceuticals and medical catchphrases at the violators to somehow justify their diversity. We’ve all been f****d up far longer than history would have us believe. I’m sure there was a caveman or two with ADHD. Some hunched over slope brow was dragging his women by her hair through the cave gnawing on some dinosaur guts when he noticed his buddy drawing pictures of cattle with his own feces and not once did he think that idiot needs to be medicated. Nope he just minded his own business and enjoyed the discovery of his opposing thumb. Ever since some idiot invented the wheel some douche has been trying to reinvent it. For the rest of us – we just want to make it go faster because that damn wheel is just perfection and after all aren’t we all just hunters and gatherers?

I really don’t even think that there is a fine line separating the squares from the rest of us. It’s fairly cut and dry. As soon as you see them you know exactly what makes them tick and exactly how far you need to push to piss them off. Their thin skinned existence is toppled with the introduction of any dull butter knife and as long as they stay on there side of the fence there won’t be any problems. As we settle into our comfort zone on this spinning top we surround ourselves with like minded maniacs that allow us to expand our existence and make the trip a little more bearable. It’s the survival skill that has been ingrained into our DNA since before that cave dweller went all Banksy with last nights’ dinner. It’s far from a tribe and more or less like a network.

Thanks to the evolution of bullets and fast food our hunting and gathering has really been dwindled down to an as needed basis although having the option is our god given right and for the more adventurous go knock yourself out. But when it comes to motorcycles it still remains a necessity. I don’t know many people that haven’t roamed the moldy fields of a swap meet. It’s safe to say that diving full throttle into a tattered box of rusty glory is worth the slices at the bed of their nails and the occasional tetanus shot: for the thrill of the find far out ways the sting of defeat. It’s a gearhead rite of passage and if you haven’t unloaded a handful of hard earned cash to purchase a part you don’t even remotely need in anticipation that someone someday may need it, you truly are a horrible person, for this is the basis of the network. Its’ human nature to form some kind of a tribe whether we mean to or not. We marry into some sub verse unity that revolves around parts and projects. As you talk about unused swap meet gems and unfinished projects every part, nut, and tire goes into a subconscious card catalog. Authors note: If you don’t know what the f#@k a card catalog is, Google it, and if you still don’t see the irony in that action, hold your breath for fifteen minutes]. Filtered away nothing may come of this useless knowledge of existence but come the day when the need arises you always know right where the part is. As the network becomes larger so does the collection of parts and eventually there is nothing that can’t be built or acquired.

As the stash grows larger and the search gets broader a simple cadence of accessibility is developed and the entire network settles into a dull hum. That is until that fateful day when inevitably someone is going to find some piece of rotten gold that’s been disintegrating behind some schleps garage for the past 40 years and the network will never be the same. Plagued with a tunnel vision’s desire to possess the mechanical unicorn a viscous cycle of liquidation must occur and if you aren’t sitting on a few bucks you are gonna regret that shit for a long time, and quite possibly forever. We all have our eyes on someone else’s crap that day they bought it someone already took dibs on first crack if its available ever again. It’s the nature of the beast. It just takes one jerk poking into some stranger’s garage to send the entire system into a complete shit storm. Yesterday you were sitting on the computer trying to locate a valve stem for a wheel they only made for a week in 1929 and now without warning you’re trying to sell that useless project and your kids puppy so you can buy the crap in your buddy’s garage that twenty minutes ago he didn’t even know he was gonna sell. The tribe is in an uproar, just one innocent find means that by the end of it all there is no telling what the hell your gonna own or sell, because if one idiot is liquidating to scam the scratch there are a handful of vultures looking to pick of the bones of the ones behind him. And without fail everyone has a new project and everyone is tapping into the network. We’ve all been there and we all know of that project that has changed hand six times and never has it gotten any closer to completion. It’s blue collar currency. We are the hunters and gatherers of a mechanical herd. You may not realize it but you are an

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