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by Genghis


A monstrous nor'easter has just the atlantic coast. Two feet of snow surrounds Mabel, my Harley 74---up to her S & S Super B. This reminds me of the Iron Horse editorial when David Snow posed in similar snowed under conditions next to his motorcycle Rebelene, dressed only in bathing trunks, sunglasses---and holding one of those cocktails with the little umbrella stickin' out of it. Man, wotta laff riot, and what imagination by the chief editor of the time. It seems like a good time for writing. Writing is the purest form of mind communication, from writer to reader. It has magic that stimulates the mind of the reader in the special place of the brain that results in the release of pleasuring pheremones into the reader's system, causing a mild euphoria, if---and this is a big if---the reader somehow relates to what the writer is thinking and saying. The pheremonally-based emotion one feels when reading something stimulating is not dissimilar to one's reaction to music that we dig. Hey man, I think you will relate to what I'm thinking right now. It is immediate, it is right and it is righteous. Of course I'm not referring to the released pheremones as sexual pheremones. We all know what those are about. Those are the pheremones that we exude to attract others of the opposite (in a perfect world) sex. The type of pheremones I'm rappin' about are "information pheremones" which lock in an animals identities. As animals, we as bikers identify with certain signals from each other as an affirmation of what we are, bikers to the core. Hey man, get ready to have those information pheremones hit the exit ramp of your brain and onto the highways of your entire being. Getcher mental motor runnin'. A snowed in day like this makes me think about what this motorvatin' life is all about, and I'm not just thinking about my Harley-Davidson. I'm also thinking about my '72 Vette, Mary. There are mental triggers that get tripped when I ride or drive, think about or just plain stand there lookin' at my motorcycle or car. When these triggers click on, here's what I experience:

Raw emotion.

You startin' to feel those little information pheremone buggers coursin' through your bloodstream yet? I am. This shows to go (not a mistake, so fergit it) that a pheremonal response occurs not just in the reader, but also in the writer---yers truly. Man, I'm hummin' Steppenwolf now! What I feel when I relate to the love objects of my motorvatin' life, is pure emotion. It must be, because it sure isn't logical. What's logical about our choice of motoring partners? Man, if our choices were dictated by pure logic, we'd all be in minivans.There is something so primal in my response when I look at or pilot Mabel or Mary, that logic gets tossed into the circular file of human response. Here are some things that get me goin'. The sheer primitiveness of Mabel's V-twin and the low-slung demeanor of her four speed frame. The sound of her loping idle contrasted with the way that her motor backs off from full throttle at 80 with a "BRAAAAAAAAACKKAAAAaaaaaaaaaa....." The animal like sweeping muscular lines of Mary's coke bottle body with its flared fenders and the patriotic rumble of her V-8. A V-8 sounds so terrifically and inherently American, the way that a Porsche flat-6 doesn't, just as the Harley motor cadence is so profoundly American, that nourishes the soul when it's heard. The patriotism that these machines engender should not be underestimated in their power. These visual and aural clues turn me on on a purely emotional level. The motoring experience is an emotional one. It's too bad that scientists of the 1960s wasted time postulating that bikers reacted to their motorcycles as phallic symbols between their legs, in an attempt to discredit the biker subculture. They were traveling in the right area, but got off at the wrong rest stop. Motorvatin' is a sensual experience, but not a sexually based one. What makes one's commitment to one's motorcycle is an emotional bond that transcends mere hobbyism, or the transient rush of temporary thrills. It is deep and enduring. If this all smacks of going the distance with your bike, then baby---you have stopped at the right rest stop.

As I sit here in my 21st floor apartment in the Lower Beast Side of NYC writing, the winds swirl and the snow blows outside my window. Days like this make us appreciate the good and warm days even more. Even this appreciation is an emotional repsonse that is pheremonally based. The warm and clear days when I'm out on the highway with the blacktop rushing under my feet on Mabel's pegs, listening to her motor singing that incomparable song in her unmistakably American baritone voice. Righteous, baby! Is it time to pose outside next to my bike that is buried in snow, wearing a Speedo and sipping on a banana daiquiri? Later.