Mercy Killings And Lollygagging Demi Gods
Article By: Jimmy Frizzell
Originally Published In The August 2016 Issue Of Cycle Source Magazine
Northwest Jersey has finally given way to the constant down pour of spring rain, and as the temperatures begin to find a constant medium the less adventurous weekend warriors start to pollute the streets. Timid of any perilous intersections harboring deposits of last winters grit and salt the now purified conditions heed no salvation from rabid waving maniacs and their internet chrome trailer vixens. This year’s theme seems no different from any other, geared up in every piece of skull adorned Chinese leather freedom armor, the fair skinned office rebels strap on their hard core neoprene face masks and head out into the 80° wind. Sure, to some, dressing up like a perverted unicorn in leather clad bondage overalls and high heeled cowboy boots is a touch weird, but so is putting aside who you are in day to day life and dressing like a deranged outcast from a tacky motorcycle cable series… but I digress. Patiently the rest of us grin and bare the tidal wave of whistling idiots in hopes that the temperature drops, if just for the sanctity of having the roads to ourselves even if only for a few brisk hours. As the weeks trudge on, the herd thins as more accountants and lawyers show up to the office on Monday with fractured legs and dislocated collars bones, and without fail, all becomes right with the world once again. And shall those that reside in glass castles hoard all the stones. Gifted with the physical prowess of a human giraffe I’m the punch line of a god’s cruel joke, cursed with a love of motorcycles, and lacking any respectable way of looking remotely normal on one. Resembling less of the stereo typical road weathered dirty rebel, and more of diseased Praying Mantis humping a toothpick. At six foot nine and a respectful hair over 260 I have a better chance of mastering the art of chainsaw juggling than looking semi respectable on two wheels. This is something that years of therapy would probably allow me to come to grips with, but instead I choose to come armed with an arsenal of ignorance and a blatant disregard for giving a shit. Lucky for those car guys you can swindle that seat just about anywhere that’s needed in order to hide the mountain of legs and knees that ultimately builds up behind that dashboard of a lanky individual’s ride but when all else fails you just slather on a healthy film of tint and call your jollies hip. But alas, I was born with the super human ability to dwarf even the largest and coolest steel disaster. The biggest issue with motorcycles isn’t the bike itself, it’s the bag of meat at the helm.
It’s a high speed shit storm of mutant genetic accidents forcing us to bare witness to the result of generations of inbreeding and lack of natural selection. Thank god for the thinning powers of a decent black outfit to make the biker world look a bit healthier but the truth is I could dress myself up like a f#@kin’ ninja a still resemble a totem pole on a tricycle. It’s an ugly world, some lifestyles just hide it better than others but if we all came to grips with our limitations shit wouldn’t be as entertaining. I was recently gifted, by a friend, a pair of vintage rice burning inline twins with the request that if I was to do anything, do something remotely cool. My version of cool verses the rest of the oxygen breathing universe is very askew but I’m also not the one that made the request so by all extensive reasoning I can’t be held responsible for failure. But as the previous foreshadowing would lead you to believe the inevitable risk of resembling a shaved circus panda straddling a moped was by no means a far fetched reality. With the metal gluing skills of Jay Hoffman at Teo Pro Car, a less than perfected bat shit idea, and a swift call to Franks Maintenance for a set of 10” over forks I’m once again a day late and a buck fifty short coming into the riding season. Procrastination is more of a skill than a result in reluctant planning. In the clever mind of the nemesis known as myself the nerve splitting dregs of winter seem like they may last forever and at the end of forever I’m no closer to finished than I was when I started. We’ve managed to deconstruct a perfectly stock half assed Japanese engineered nightmare in a futile exercise in the art of unridability and yet the adventure continues in the lost search for my own patience. One can only hope that by the end of the summer some resemblance of a motorcycle will appear bathed in the light of my own self reluctant glory. A few more months of purgatory being perched behind the handle bars of the high mileage soulless bastard that tirelessly endures the abuse of a loveless romance will serve as a constant reminder that I may in fact budget my time in much the same manner that Amy Winehouse budgeted pills. Camouflaged amongst a jury of my peers let the season begin with a bitter annoyance only some have the stomach to bask in. I’m just gonna hit the road, polish up the silver buckles on a pair of choice cowboy boots, and wave to every mother f#@ker on two wheels until the excruciating pain of a torn rotator cuff forces me to retire to confines of a mildew choked basement watching an endless reel mind numbing hipster chopper exploit films on Netflix.