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Photo by Genghis

OWONGACARE: 3 quarts of Spectro 60 weight & a cloud of dust as a health benefit.


"Pretty much all motorcycle riders get therapy from riding. It's why many of them have stuck with riding for so long. When you're riding, you're by yourself, even when riding with others. You can run away from all...that gets on your nerves...."


Here's how I know my stroker shovel "Mabel" is a living thing: After changing her oil and filter today, she was absolutely purring with pleasure. Yup, just like a feline, feelin' fine, after gettin' her neck scratched. I am not making this up. She was purring after warm-up, just like a happy cat, or more accurately, a sleek sabre tooth tiger in black with a deep baritone purr. That's how I know that Mabel's alive. What more proof do I need? Hey man, I know my bike. I know every whir, tick, rumpity-rump and BRRRRAAAAAACKAAaaaaaa.... that she enunciates. I know how she sounds when she's idling. I know precisely how she sounds when I'm backing off the throttle at 70 per. I know when she's happy. My Harley's a magnificent cat, ready to pounce on the highway, reveling in her fresh lifeblood of fossil fuels, begat of prehistoric animals. She is a roaring reincarnation of the prehistoric animal, all fangs, claws and power. Old dinosaurs never die, they live on in Harley-Davidsons. Fossil fuels get fed to fossil-like bikes, and the cycle continues, the circle is completed. The line continues unbroken.

And that makes me happy. It gives me great pleasure to know that she has fresh 60 weight coursing through her veins. I also feel happy when I'm gassin' her up, directing that gasoline made from dinosaur muscle, bone and collagen into her round and voluptuous Super Glide banana tank, knowing that once again---that I'm completing the circle from prehistoric anmial to Harley Animal. Life to life, the line continues unimpeded. The circle is completed. I would say that I know her like the back of my hand, but if I had to identify the back of my own hand in a photograph, I'm not sure I could do it. Suppose Hieronymous (Harry) Bosch held a lineup of photos of the backs of different biker's hands (behind a two way mirror, natch) for me to examine. Could I in all honesty, pick out my own hand under such pressure? I doubt it.

I will testify truly to one thing, though. I love the smell of 60 weight. I also react favorably to the odor of high-test gasoline. I guess I'm weird, but it's a good kind of weird that I suspect most other bikers will admit to being. I just dig the smell of motor oil and gas, because these smells trigger so many pheremone-like associations in my acid-washed brain cells. There is something so seductively satisfying about the sensations and emotions I experience while riding. Smells are just one part of the therapy of motorcycle riding. The sights, tactile happenings, the smells, the feeling of supreme control that the Harley-Davidson imparts to her owner---man, it's the best. Take a ride and charge yourself $100 an hour for the therapy sessions.

This is your brain on high octane!

Dig it, man. As to's point, yeah absolutely, man. I agree. Riding is therapeutic. I feel it every time I'm on board my Harley 74. That's old time, old school good times, man. The kind of old school good times that you think about when you read about the Hells Angels of the 1960s. Just raw, gasoline-soaked pheremonal ecstasy that might've been enhanced by a few tabs of orange sunshine back in the day, except that it can be replicated at any time and in any era, including the present. All ya need for this old time euphoria, is the ignition key for your Harley. No wonder some of us bikers have been riding for so long, most of us since our tender youth. Ahhh, the smell of gas, the smell of motorcycle oil. They are the chemical enhancers that never go out of style.

Who knew that a metal container, known as an oil tank, could be so sociologically significant when holding three quarts of 60 weight? The smells emanting from that metal container, is more than an oil tank. It is what connects us bikers to the past, to others like us from different eras, who felt exactly the same ecstatic emotions that you and I feel, when they smelled the oil and gas in their brand new knuckleheads in 1936. This is a thread that runs through history. It is a heirloom that is handed down through the generations, fueled by gas and lubed by motorcycle oil as it slips from hand to hand, heart to heart, and soul to soul of bikers. Every time I straddle my Harley, I am reminded that bikers are a part of something bigger and older than we are, something that stretches back decades and generations. The oil swirling in our bikes' veins links us directly to those of us now longer with us. We are them and they were us, before "us" was even born. The cycle continues, the circle is completed, the line goes on unbroken.

Photo by Genghis

IN YA GO: Pour those dinosaur blood and guts into the tank.

Fossil fuels were begat from dinosaurs who roamed the earth eons ago. It is no mere coincidence that our Harleys are considered "dinosaurs" by some. They're magnificent dinosaurs, who run on the blood of their flesh and blood tyrannosaurus rex ancestors. Every quart of 60 weight that you pour into that sociologically signifiacnt metal container known as an oil tank, came from a living animal from prehistoric times. Now you have another reason to know that your Harley is a living thing. Pour that prehistoric animal matter in there man, and be happy while ya do it. Life to life, the cycle continues, the circle is completed and the line continues unbroken.

That's a trip, ain't it? To realize that we belong a tribe of like-minded individuals going back eight decades. This is a tribe that transcends DNA. It is tribe that transcends and neutralizes the cultural and religious insularity practiced by our ancestors, that creates a common demoninational bond stronger familal and ethnic history. The glues that bind us as bikers, are gasoline and oil. Forget "blood being thicker than water." I'll tell ya what, man. 60 weight is thicker than 'em all. From a biker's point of view, that is the incontrovertible truth. The circle is completed. The wheel turns, and it usually measures as a sixteen.

I don't find it ironic that it is fossil lifebloods that sustain our Harley dinosaurcycles. It might also be fitting that the public perception of the biker is of the low-browed Neanderthal. Hey man, embrace the image. We ride prehistoric vehicles that are gassed by fossil fuel and greased by prehistoric animal blood and guts. The smells of oil and gas make me happy, as I feed my Happy Harley these amalgams of prehistoric animal and plant matter. You are what you eat, and our Harleys are also what they eat: The flesh and blood remnants of prehistoric life, refined to a fine wine of 60 weight and high-test gas. It's no wonder we love our fossil fueled machines so much. It's because we view them as alive animal members of our families. We feed 'em well, and they purr in gratitude.

I guess that does make us Neanderthals. Some of might even have Geico insurance. Here's how I perceive the Neanderthal image of bikers: There is great nobility inherent in the low-brow, for it makes us the masters of the base nature of mankind. I'll take that any day. We're primal, baby! Dig it. Enjoy the distinction, and ride like it came from the Stone Age. Also, keep in mind how therapeutic riding our dinosaur-like Harleys is. That's why so few of us have to see Dr. Melfi. In this era of Owongacare, take three quarts of 60 weight and call me in the morning. Later.