The Runaway
It was all in a days ride for the Harley mountain brethren - a cavalry of rugged backwoodsmen and mountaineers who take the true grit of American motorcycling to the greatest heights.
They made a raucous run up the steep grades and discambered corners of the mountains north side, blasting past timber, rockface and avalanche to the summit where by tradition they celebrate their legends and feats before the gods of all ages. Here these stout and hearty riders indulged in fierce feasting and the other sacred rituals of mountain men, and then commenced a thunderous descent from the snowy peaks.
As they tackled the asphalt with brawny roadcraft, one rider suddenly broke ranks and failed to slow for a treacherous corner. The brethren caught up and saw he was cursed with the lethal calamity deeply feared by all mountain bikers: his controls were frozen solid with the brakes lost and the throttle wide open - it was a runaway!
All instantly knew what was at stake here. They were now falling into the steepest grades of the mountain that would soon plummet down to Dead Mans Curve, a hairpin surrounded by sheer cliffs - the devils way of collecting his dues in these parts. Mountain myth and the lore of the hills had it that no runaway could ever be saved, and men of any lesser caliber would have let the doomed rider plunge to his grim fate in the valley of death below.
But these were Harley men, and with daring resolve all swerved into strategic positions astride the stricken biker. Brakes were forsaken and speeds soared as bold commitments backed by deep trust were swapped with rapid eye contact and swift hand signals. Narrow and jagged curves were showered with sparks and shredded rubber as engines raged and tires drifted towards the abyss the margins of possibility here were disappearing quickly.
A lane for runaway trucks that carved upward into the mountain offered a last chance to exit the cruel grades - but these courageous men would never desecrate a Harley with a cowards escape.
The speeds were well beyond the ton now as the beefy brethren hurled around bends with such overpowering momentum and ferocious force they surfed above the road on a shockwave, followed by a deafening roar and tremendous suction that tore limbs off trees and swept rocks off the precipices. On one curve the mountaineers careened at ungodly speed past a scenic vista and each and every one of the ordinary folk gathered there for picnic and repose was thunderstruck by the conclusive proof of what hitherto only a few had ever dared hope: this is an age of heroes.
Another few corners and the forbidding odds became bleaker as the road fell away perilously in a final descent towards Dead Mans Curve - here was the moment of truth.
With all abreast in a giant V formation of bikes, buckskin and bravado, arms were locked together, boots and gloves were braced and the signal was given. Massive muscles of steel - fueled by gallons of adrenalin pumping through arteries as thick as oil lines - leveraged thousands of foot-pounds of raw torque over colossal bones as buckets of sweat blew off like high pressure steam. Brakes blazed bright red, tires scorched broad black wakes and smoke burned off all friction surfaces as flames licked about everywhere a sight to send the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse fleeing in mortal terror. It was all for one and one for all as the Harley mountain brethren kidnapped fate, took destiny hostage and brought the runaway bike to a grinding, punishing and smoldering stop mere feet from the deadly curve.
Back at the ultimate peak of the mountain, an old soothsayer cloaked in hooded robe raised a long crooked finger to the heavens and whispered "I told you these are the worthy ones."
_____________________________
They call me . . . The Highwayman
_____________________________
It was all in a days ride for the Harley mountain brethren - a cavalry of rugged backwoodsmen and mountaineers who take the true grit of American motorcycling to the greatest heights.
They made a raucous run up the steep grades and discambered corners of the mountains north side, blasting past timber, rockface and avalanche to the summit where by tradition they celebrate their legends and feats before the gods of all ages. Here these stout and hearty riders indulged in fierce feasting and the other sacred rituals of mountain men, and then commenced a thunderous descent from the snowy peaks.
As they tackled the asphalt with brawny roadcraft, one rider suddenly broke ranks and failed to slow for a treacherous corner. The brethren caught up and saw he was cursed with the lethal calamity deeply feared by all mountain bikers: his controls were frozen solid with the brakes lost and the throttle wide open - it was a runaway!
All instantly knew what was at stake here. They were now falling into the steepest grades of the mountain that would soon plummet down to Dead Mans Curve, a hairpin surrounded by sheer cliffs - the devils way of collecting his dues in these parts. Mountain myth and the lore of the hills had it that no runaway could ever be saved, and men of any lesser caliber would have let the doomed rider plunge to his grim fate in the valley of death below.
But these were Harley men, and with daring resolve all swerved into strategic positions astride the stricken biker. Brakes were forsaken and speeds soared as bold commitments backed by deep trust were swapped with rapid eye contact and swift hand signals. Narrow and jagged curves were showered with sparks and shredded rubber as engines raged and tires drifted towards the abyss the margins of possibility here were disappearing quickly.
A lane for runaway trucks that carved upward into the mountain offered a last chance to exit the cruel grades - but these courageous men would never desecrate a Harley with a cowards escape.
The speeds were well beyond the ton now as the beefy brethren hurled around bends with such overpowering momentum and ferocious force they surfed above the road on a shockwave, followed by a deafening roar and tremendous suction that tore limbs off trees and swept rocks off the precipices. On one curve the mountaineers careened at ungodly speed past a scenic vista and each and every one of the ordinary folk gathered there for picnic and repose was thunderstruck by the conclusive proof of what hitherto only a few had ever dared hope: this is an age of heroes.
Another few corners and the forbidding odds became bleaker as the road fell away perilously in a final descent towards Dead Mans Curve - here was the moment of truth.
With all abreast in a giant V formation of bikes, buckskin and bravado, arms were locked together, boots and gloves were braced and the signal was given. Massive muscles of steel - fueled by gallons of adrenalin pumping through arteries as thick as oil lines - leveraged thousands of foot-pounds of raw torque over colossal bones as buckets of sweat blew off like high pressure steam. Brakes blazed bright red, tires scorched broad black wakes and smoke burned off all friction surfaces as flames licked about everywhere a sight to send the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse fleeing in mortal terror. It was all for one and one for all as the Harley mountain brethren kidnapped fate, took destiny hostage and brought the runaway bike to a grinding, punishing and smoldering stop mere feet from the deadly curve.
Back at the ultimate peak of the mountain, an old soothsayer cloaked in hooded robe raised a long crooked finger to the heavens and whispered "I told you these are the worthy ones."
_____________________________
They call me . . . The Highwayman
_____________________________
I think that if thehighwayman was involved in this farcical moto-acrobatic ceremony, it may have been him sucking (I won't say who, or what, but you can figure it out).
