The biker eased his chromed steed past the Tree of Shame.
The time had finally arrived to challenge the fire breathing dragon, resident of Deals Gap. His heart thumping, the biker settled into his leather seat, lowering the center of gravity just a little bit, getting ready for the fight of a lifetime. His steel horse weighs in at 810 pounds and the biker adds another 220. That's a lot of weight to throw at the dragon.
Entering the first turn, one of hundreds, the biker rolled the throttle up to launch speed and entered the fray. "Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons, for you are crunchy and good with ketchup".
Oh, what the hell.
There's the biker perched upon his rumbling, two wheeled Winnebago soon to become one with the bike.The biker launches his bike and begins the eleven mile hunt. His goal is to not embarrass himself in front of the four other riders on their fast BMWs. Sport bikes all.
The turns came quick and sharp. The adrenalin began to flow. Time slowed down as the turns came quicker. Faster! Lean it over!! Soon the biker focuses on staying between the solid white ribbon on his right and the double yellow on his left, both unreeling at an increasing pace. Faster! Lean!!! The solid terrain flies by on his right, his helmet getting closer and closer to the rocks. A sharp curve suddenly appears and the biker takes the bike over farther than ever before. The right floor board touches down, striking a match on the road. His bike now starts to look like a Roman Candle from Milwaukee. Steel and pavement blend together, throwing sparks far behind the biker dueling with the dragon. The beemer behind him starts to lag behind. As it turns out, this beemer biker didn't want to:
- get hit from whatever it was that was fueling the Roman Candle in front of him
- miss seeing a wreck like this
The dragon slayer no longer has time to look in his mirrors. The beemer biker is on his own in the land of dragons.
Suddenly the dragon curls his tail like a snake. The road twists left, right, left, right, and left again. The biker throws his bike from left to right. A half ton weaving at speed. The horizon appears to be attached to a broken gimbal, tilting wildly as the biker keeps it between the lines. He looses count of how many times the floor boards light up the road. Throwing flames back in the dragon's face. That's one for the little guy, pumping adrenaline and swallowing so much fear that he can taste copper in his dry mouth. His only goal now is to get to the other side of the dragon's lair without crashing into the rocks or flying into the valley below. He roars around a corner and there, in a small area off the road is an ambulance, sitting there with emergency lights flashing. Trolling for business. The biker did not need that particular distraction at this particular time.
Suddenly, the biker rolls out of the valley of death and onto a straight road. He slowly decelerates and is able to stop by the time he arrives at the boat launching ramp. The biker pulls into the parking lot and for the first time in a very long time, takes a breath of fresh air. He links up with the four fast beemers. They all look at one another and as if of one mind, turn the bikes around and go dragon hunting again.
Play it again, Sam.
Back they roll, into the dragon's lair. Hunting for thrills. It's not any easier the second time through the Tail of the Dragon. More Roman Candles, more speed, more adrenaline, more copper being swallowed in a dry mouth.
No win for the dragon either. The biker screams out of the valley and past the Tree of Shame. The knight on the chromed steed extends his middle digit to the tree. Maybe next time, pal. The bike blows an ill wind past the tree, causing its limbs to shake. The Tree of Shame seems to be saying "I'll get you next time you bastard!!! NEXT time YOU'LL be hanging from my limbs!!!". The biker laughs a slightly maniacal laugh, and then refocuses on the winding road. He only has a mile or so to bring the bike down below 1.0 on the Mach meter before pulling into the Tapoco Inn. The biker is looking forward to a refreshing beverage to quench his thirst, maybe a bite to eat and, of course, a little bit of bench racing with the beemer bikers.
The biker smokes into the parking lot of the Inn, sliding to a halt. He throws the kick stand down and climbs off of his mount, quietly securing his scorched shield and broken lance, invisible to all but himself. He starts to walk towards the Inn, through a cloud smelling of hot metal, scorched oil, burned tires and, finally, a slight whiff of asbestos. Brembo brakes, 2008.
It was a good year.
It occurs to the biker, how is he to memorialize such a memorable ride? As this thought occurs to him, he glances at his rear tire and the quarter inch chicken strip on each side of the tire. A quarter inch buffer just in case he came upon the dreaded decreasing radius turn whilst battling the Dragon. A quarter inch of buffer for Mom and the kids.
Not bad for a half ton, two wheeled Winnebago.
So, the biker takes a memorable picture of the quarter inch chicken strip. It's either that or, say, a pretty tree. And who wants to remember this battle with the Dragon with a picture of a frickin' tree?!?
And that, my friend, is why I sent you a picture of my rear tire.
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