Book Review: Conversations With A Motorcycle

You might have surmised that I am woefully behind since I didn't post anything for so long.  Now it is finding the time to get fingers to keyboard to purge the sludge (hopefully coherently) from my brain.  There is one item that I am responsible for and pathetically late on.

Conversations With A Motorcycle by Jack Riepe

Long, long ago Dom of Redleg's Rides wrote an intelligent review of the book.  Due to some smartass comment I wrote, intimating how lucky he was to receive an advance copy, Jack contacted me.  It was time to shut up and put up.  Jack kindly sent me a copy of mine own.

One thing lead to another and I wasn't able to read the book in a manner that I could intelligently review on.  Well...now I have and I have to pay for that trust.

I'm a strange one.  I am probably among a handful of women that actually enjoy Jack's profanity-laced, sexually-charged writing on his blog Twisted Roads.  (No, I am not getting paid to say that.)  There is something in the way he writes that just draws me in and I sit there laughing.  My husband gets annoyed with me reading passages out of context to him.

But to the book.  It is not written in the same tone as the blog.  It is a cohesive narrative into the life of a beginning rider that has two basic [conscious] ambitions: hot pillion candy and acceptance.

We are whisked along on Jack's first introduction to two-wheeled conveyances, and experience with him the moment he is smitten.  It is a feeling we will all remember, rider and non-rider alike. Along comes the introduction to the famed Kawasaki H2 "Widow Maker" and Jack's intrepid first miles on it.  Don't think that he worried about never having ridden before, recognize that his first thought was wishing the gorgeous girl across the street would be outside to notice him on his hot bike when he rode it home.  There is no missing that he bought the bike for one reason.

The story gains depth as we are introduced to the characters he hangs around, and the girls he wants to be involved with.  And we don't have any difficulty in understanding why some hold him in complete attempt.  The story isn't just about the pursuit of women, though.  Read between the lines to learn of the life and lessons that are learned.  There is an allegory in here that must be cracked.

While it is an easy read, I was having a difficult time trying to come up with how to review it. I am not a guy.  So I can't relate to that.  I did not get into motorcycling to attract girls.  So I can't relate to that either.  How am I supposed to think about this book?!?!  It finally hits me.  I relate to the motorcycle.  I'm pretty sure I would have the same remarks coming from me as the motorcycle said to him.

"It's not the destination, it's the ride."

"Don't bother with what other people think."

"If you have to try hard to fit in, you never will."

"What did you think would happen?"

"Dope."

Through so much of the book I had to groan at his setup to a situation.  I could see the outcome, why couldn't he?  His motorcycle would even spell out the error of his way, and he would blithely ignore it.

This book is incredibly well written to take a rider through motoring nirvana.  I am a ghost on my bike beside him as he leans the bike into a 100 mph curve.  I'm displacing the droplets of fog on an early morning run next to him on my whispering bike.  I'm enjoying the drop in air temperature as the road drops in elevation towards the river at the bottom of the valley.  I'm sitting across the table from him when he sees brunette #1 and the snake, watching the action unfold across his face.  I'm watching him across the fire, seeing him tinged in flickering light as he approaches brunette #2.

Jack is able to write in a way that pulls you into the book and brings you along.  No.  I may not relate to his 19 year old self, but I could relate to the riding.  As a rider, I can understand the aspects of the ride. I can revel in the immersion into the elements of the ride.  Jack is able to help me relive simple connections to my motorcycle that sometimes slip my mind.

After my fifth reading, the last half curled on a loveseat, looking through the blinds at an early gray morning, tiptoeing away from a warm bed, I can finally sink into the last chapters, and am left in a pensive mood over the baring of a soul.

I like the book.  Yes, there is still some vulgarity, hinted and obvious, that is "just Jack".  But I read it for the ride.  And it is a lovely ride.  :)

Brown Baggin' It

Do you ever feel a little naughty walking out of the package store with your little plain brown paper bag wrapped bottle of happiness?

I unwrapped my little package of goodness today. Have you ordered yours?

If you haven't yet, now is the time to contact Jack Riepe over at Twisted Roads.

(Package stores are liquor stores for states that still don't have complete separation of church and state, with the laws still regulating who can sell liquor, and when. You can purchase beer and wine in the supermarket, but all hard liquor has to be acquired from a package store. Hey, still better than Utah where you can only purchase near-beer, or "three-two beer", in the supermarket. Otherwise everything has to go through state run liquor stores.)


 

Day 3 - Meeting Jack the Riepe

So just what is one supposed to do while on the New Jersey shore?  Sight see!  And how does one do that?  Call and request the personalized tour guide services of Jack the Riepe.

Oilburner and I arrived at our hotel around two-ish after navigating the construction zones on the Garden State Parkway. Once we were settled into our room Jack and I touched bases on getting together.

While Jack had been up since 5 am, and driven to and from Pennsylvania that morning to spend time enthralling the MacPac, he was still quite willing to come pick us up and go out for dinner.  We settled on a time that would give us all the chance to relax and cool down.

When the anointed appointed time came, I requested Jack pick us up at the back entrance to the hotel.  I was worried about the paparazzi entourage following him. Either that, or all the women near the lobby would swoon upon seeing his visage.  I was worried of some Beatles or Justin Bieber affect of women sniffing out the star and start throwing their underwear at him. (For his part, I am sure he worried about meeting two deranged, sun-stroked people that might strangle him slowly and throwing him out for whale bait.  Meeting at the back entrance would limit how many people saw us associate with him.)  Truthfully?  The distance between our room and the front doors was about a mile of maze-like hallways.  Where as our room was directly next to the back stairwell.  Two steps to the stairwell, one flight of stairs, and the back door was right there.

When we emerged from the hotel a bright red Ford F-150 was stopped, nosed into our neatly covered bikes.  Jack sat there contemplating the unidentifiable bikes.  I'm sure wondering if they really belonged to us, and if we were on the level.  Despite all of the warning signs we shook hands, made our introductions, and he allowed us to climb into the pickup.

His concession to safety was a heavy wood cane nonchalantly leaning against the front passenger seat.  I'm guessing he was planning on using it as a beating stick if I started going crazy.  (He sure was taking his chances...)

We started towards the "real" Jersey shore, heading to Seaside Heights.  I had to bring up something about New Jersey that had baffled, but impressed, me.  On the main road we had ridden in left turns from the roadway were not allowed.  At intersections, instead of turning left, one had to turn right after the intersection onto a "clover leaf" (also known as elbow or jug handle in NJ) that dumped you onto the cross road.  I found this intriguing and wonder if it cuts down on left turn accidents.  Wondering, as well, if traffic flowed faster without that signal time in the routine.

Crossing over the Thomas A. Mathis Bridge we started swapping experiences of riding over metal "cheese grater" bridges.  Jack's involved a scantily clad woman riding pillion, having to stop for the raising of the bridge.  Mine mundanely regaled my experience yesterday riding through Norfolk, encountering a curve in the rain on one of those horrid things.  He educated me on his cure by riding with the MacPac: they laughed at his trepidation and just rode faster.

We were treated with a great driving tour of Seaside Heights., admiring the architecture, while discovering Jack's favorite house.  Why is it his favorite you ask?  Well, it obviously has something to do with some smoking hot woman.

We ended this portion of the tour in front of Berkeley Fish Market, where we were headed for dinner.  Apparently it is the most expensive place around...  Of course, nothing is too good for Jack.

This is where we learned more of the cane story.  In addition to making a great weapon, it was very hefty and solid, it was a working weapon.  Jack's use of the truck hood, bumper, cane, planter, door handle, support column, and any available waitress wasn't feigned.  (OK, maybe the waitress leaning was a little contrived.)  That cane was a well regarded extension of his arm and it was heavily used thanks to the latest medical problems.  He took it in stride and just used it as an opportunity to solicit a little more help from friendly waitresses.

As the Fish Market is a fairly regular haunt for him we were seated at the best possible table with sticky chairs, horrible views of the parking lot, and a mean waitress that we had to bribe to talk with us.  (Maybe that was another use for the cane, snagging them so they couldn't get away.)  In discussing our dining options Jack learned that we were poor waifs uneducated in the culinary perfection that are Ipswich clams.

We were soon to be instructed.  A bucket of "steamers" was ordered and Oilburner and I began our homage to Jack's instruction: pry the clam open, extract the clam by the faintly phallic appendage called the foot, remove the "sock" from said appendage, dip in clam broth to remove sand, then dredge in butter before devouring this delicacy.

Yum!!

The "foot" was a bit rubbery, or chewy, for my tastes.  Oh, but the rest just melted on your tongue.

Dinner soon arrived.  I believe the waitress only drug his soft shell crab across the parking lot once, to collect a bit of sand and roughage for him to chew on.  He was really turning the charm on, though I didn't once see his battered baby seal look!

Conversation lingered over motorcycle stories tall and short and I was finally able to call him out on his purported snail paced riding capabilities.  With a twinkle in his eye he didn't exactly admit I was right.  Instead he told another tale that just proved my hypothesis. 

Dinner was over much too soon.  And the waitress was genuinely happy to see us on our way.  Out the door.  Away from her station.  We didn't move far though, as we worked our way to standing around his pickup continuing our conversations.  There was a discussion of the BMWMOA rally starting up in a few days time.  We discussed his frustration at having to cancel his attendance and seminars at the rally.  While he had really wanted to attend, so as not to disappoint all his fans (those holding tomatoes as well as pens), his recent medical backslide and associated immobility was preventing it.  I was just happy to be having personalized attention, not having to vie for it amongst a crowd of adoring fans.

We also palavered about dream rides.  Once Jack gets back on his feet (HA! Literally) he is purchasing his dream bike and having the appropriate spider and skulls stenciled on it and taking it across the country.  I would gladly volunteer to accompany him.  But somehow I just don't think I will be able to keep up with his speed, unless I am on some rocket-propelled motorbike.  I believe his thinking is to peg out and never let up.

Unfortunately, we overstayed our welcome and our waitress came out into the parking lot to shoo away the riff raff; accusing us of running off incoming customers.  So we climbed into the truck and turned our attention to more classic New Jersey landmarks along the shore.  Now...growing up in Southern California I am not accustomed to permanently affixed amusement parks.  Amusement parks are those fold up rides and carnival games that come in and set up in the middle of the night, and leave just as quickly.  Leaving candy wrappers blowing in the breeze, getting stuck in the trampled grass. The amusement park along the sea side was complete and authentic to the ones I remember while growing up.  However, these are permanent structures and a large attraction for tourists.  So I sat in wide-eyed wonder as we slowly drove past the boardwalk.  I was enamored with the flashing lights, bells ringing, and sordid carnival goodies.  I was drawn in like a moth to light.  But there was no way Jack could get me to set foot on that boardwalk.  I know about those electric murder-death-kill mosquito zappers that will harm moths too.  I was not going to be sucked in.

(Though I was thoroughly fascinated with the "ski lift" that ran the length of the boardwalk.  Affording people views of their next selection for entertainment, or giving lascivious boys the opportunity to sneak peeks down tank tops or throw spit balls into aforementioned tops.)

The sun was setting and we turned back towards the hotel.  Not wanting the conversations to end we raided a Dunkin Donuts for dessert and coffee and continued the talks.  We ranged all over from Bregstein to Canadian Geese to Land's End.  As a final push, Jack was trying to convince us to take a ride into New York on our way out of town in the morning.  To ride those beautiful cliffs over the Hudson that he has written about on more than one occasion.  As much as a yearn to behold this sight for myself, there is no way I am going on a Monday, during a work week, when he ends the directions with "but it has to be done between 11 and 12 o'clock".  Uh-uh, no way!  That is a sight that I will only ever try either following him down those roads so that I don't have to figure out proper turns.  Or when Stephen King's Captain Trips comes to decimate the world and I am one of the few riders remaining.

Jack drops us off at the back of the hotel, quickly speeding away into the darkness.  The clouds are quickly gathering and we will have one heck of a light show that night.  It was then that I realized he had kept me so busy during the evening that I had failed to take a picture.  My camera managed to take one of his legs in the cab of the pickup.  But since it didn't show any garters and hose, nor the cane, I'm not posting it.

SSsoooo....what part is truth and what part is fiction??  The waitress was actually very nice.  She put up with our gruff and scorned the nickname Jack tried to give her.  Though she did shoo us from the parking lot.

Jack, thank you so much for the fantastic evening.  I wish we could have gone back through New Jersey.  I just didn't want to scare the Jersey drivers on the Parkway again.  I hope we can continue our conversations over alcohol and donuts along some shoreline, bike headlights illuminating the ocean soon.