WILD TURKEY RIDE REPORT 9/23/21 THURSDAY
Eden Prairie MN
The gang assembled at
1100, as instructed, at the Scanlon Kwik Trip. It had been at least 6 weeks
since they had gathered and they were ready for trouble. Itching to cause
mayhem once again. Plunder and ride.
Smitty looked anxiously at
Al, The Most Perfect Leader, and exclaimed, “I feel like robbing a bank, maybe!
Or maybe a Lost Tavern! Or maybe a Candy Store?!”
Jack looked into the
distance and said, “I feel like raping a bunch of women! “He licked his lips
and rubbed his hands together excitedly.
Smitty said, nodding
almost convincingly. “Yeah! That’s what I want too! I just forgot it for a
minute there. Then we rob the candy store! After, you know, we rape a lot of
women!!!”
He beamed, pitifully..
They looked at Al for
direction. He said, quietly, “I’ll ride drag.”
They were off. On purpose
they went by the elementary school and pulled in their clutches and revved
there engines wildly. But since none of their bikes are particularly loud, they
circled back and honked their horns a bunch of times.
Satisfied with that they
rode om searching for women, but there were none, save a runner on one of those
snaky back roads along Big Lake, and she looked like she was in really good
shape so they spared her.
Having found no
particularly vulnerable victims for Jack’s plan, he gave up on it and said - with
The Masters permission of course - he knew of a day care center where The Turkeys
brand of chaos would be rewarding.
However, they got to the
playground and no one was there. They sat on the swings for maybe a half hour
but no groups showed up. They kicked the dirt, disconsolate.
They rode on to Kettle
River where they commandeered a picnic table. In an instant they were startled
to the sky, nearly, when a loud racket was produced across the street as a pick
up truck with an elderly man at the wheel lurched across a yard across the
street launching a cloud of dust. He was pulling a log chain attached to some kind
of debris and in his wake a recently deflated shed settled. He stopped the truck
and ambled unsteadily into the house, never to reemerge.
Al produced beers from his
saddlebag. Amazingly cold. They sat at the table wary about passerbys not
approving of the consumption in a public place, Sure enough, here came a black Charger
down the street. The boys cuffed their beers and looked innocently at there
fingernails. With relief they noticed it was a grey-haired grandmotherly type
at the wheel. They breathed a sigh of relief at that.
But Al cautioned, looking
suspiciously around, “Could be undercover...”
The gang returned to their
bike whistling nonchalantly and gazing furtively about.
They decided to go to a
golf course where they could make fun of the golfers and the clothes they wear.
On entering the clubhouse, the server at the bar recognized Smitty. He was
taken aback. She was a former coworker of his. He was happy to see and the
others did not complain. Al put on the Turkey Crown for her viewing pleasure
which she , ever the lady, did her best to disguise.
Later when she brought
them a beer she remained at the table for a visit. Smitty recalled that she did
own a Harley Davidson. A Dyna. She confirmed so proudly.
This fact was met with
amazement by the others and after she left a discussion was made as to whether
she should be allowed to aspire to joining The Gang. I.e., receiving a T-shirt.
But Smitty noted that no one had ever actually witnessed her riding the bike
and he though that maybe she sat on it in the garage and twisted the throttle
and made revving noises. Stuff like that. Still the opportunity, Al allowed,
existed for her to ascend to Wild Turkey membership…if she could prove having
actually ridden the bike.
They began, then, to look
at the golfers and poke fun of them in their striped shirts and plaid shorts
and stockings pulled up nearly to the knees, riding about in those goofy
looking carts. They were slapping their thighs when they noticed some of the
golfers were looking mean at them. And they had those clubs in those bags…
They put their helmets
back on and finished their beers.
Onward to the Streetcar
for an exceedingly late lunch. Here Al suggested that they all go out in the
country to an intersection he knew of where they could do “Rolling stops.”
However, Smitty backed off
on this knowing personally, a Wild turkey member who had come to grief by this
very display. That unnamed member might be wondering at this very moment…” What
ever happened to Trooper Del Sandberg I wonder?”
Well, Smitty has it on
good authority that he is now retired. Smitty’s old time buddy he reconnected
with this summer, is, in fact, Del’s neighbor. That does not mean that the
Turkeys can breathe easy though. Del can still can make a citizen’s arrest.
This has been rumored from a good source as well.
The gang rode on through
Jay Cooke State Park on 210, pressured most of the way by a fogey on a Street
Glide who must’ve thought he was the second coming of Craig Breedlove. (There’s
a name for you.)
They split the trail after
reaching Fon Du Lac. The mileage was over 120, maybe.
WILD
TURKEY RIDE REPORT 7/8/21
7/15/21
Duluth, MN
Jack and Al
and your reporter assembled at the designated establishment, The Buffalo House
at 1100, last Thursday, as agreed.
A table was
secured as well as soft drinks. A plan was to be formulated as to what destination
the riders would be targeting. Because the time was as issue, the later start
and an early return mandated by previous commitments, the choices were limited.
Many ideas
were presented but, just as soon, rejected for various reasons such as already
been there this year, road construction, not enough time, etc.
Finally, the
Blue Max was forwarded by Jack and the others thought it worthy.
During this
time our Most Perfect Leader did don the Turkey Crown to the delight of the
bartender who was properly grateful for the chance at being present. Also, our
leader casually displayed his infinite knowledge of, and familiarity with,
every bartender and barmaid in a 25-mile radius, down to their grandchildren
and their previous employers.
So the Blue Max
was the objective. Then there followed a long discussion of how to get there.
With the sugar bowl representing the Blue Max, and extra spoons procured from
said bartender, roads were constructed. Those little creamer cartons served as
various lakes, sugar packets as other route attributes. Soon another table was
pushed alongside to expand upon the various routes. More silverware begged.
A route was
chosen and Jack rode beak. Yours truly rode breast which he, by the way, prefers,
Al rode, er, drumstick.
Jack led on a
hopscotch of roads to the north and west and, upon reaching Twig found highway
53 to be impassable! Fresh asphalt being laid at that very crossing. Never ones
to return over their own tracks a discussion ensued about possible alternatives
to the Blue Max including The Clip Joint, Trailside etc. Perusing their phones
each destination was discovered to not be open until 1600 or so forth.
So the Blue
Max it was. But how to get there? Jack
and yours truly found some sticks in the ditch and began drawing roads in the
dust. The designs became ever more elaborate with complications ever more
becoming an issue. It was then Al decided to ride over and catalogue the flora
behind a nearby storage complex.
When he
returned he discovered the other two concentrating on individual projects. Each
had built elaborate tiny forts in the dust. Jack’s neatly made out of stones
and pebbles and including an officer’s mess and an armory and quarters for the
troops etc. The other fort was made of sticks and wads of rubbish found nearby.
Not very impressive to look at really. But did boast a taller flagpole. And
some dirt roads to it.
Al at this
point decided to ride beak and the others followed. With some construction
frustrations and the fact that the others did not wish to risk speeding through
a yellow light that had turned noticeably pink, the Blue Max was achieved.
A table on the
deck overlooking the lake was made available and in an outstanding display of
frugality Jack and Al ordered the 2-dollar cheeseburgers which in review was
worth every penny according to the victims. BLT for yours truly was fine.
The bartender
found the crown and the Wild turkey Saga to be most interesting, perhaps this
contributed to the forgetting of the chips which were to accompany the 2 buck
burgers.
Then off
towards the Minnowette and a left. A blast up the fish lake dam road, up high
over the lake and beautiful. Thereafter a similar excursion down a hilly and
curvy dead end towards Island Lake that provided nice views of the lake on both
sides of the road.
Back past
Bergen Lake and eventually Pike Lake and the Cast Iron was, in spite of road
construction, achieved. Here on the deck another well-earned beer was swilled
and the view of roadwork being down left no doubt in the minds of the audience
that county workers are not allotted toilet paper wide enough to cover their
cracks. A mess to those who follow them.
The trial was
split there. Yours truly clocked just under 100 miles, the other surely
travelled more.
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WILD
TURKEY RIDE REPORT 7/1/21
7/3/21
Duluth MN
Jack and yours truly
assembled at the agreed upon location, The Bong Museum at 0930 on Thursday
7/1/21. Both agreed that the trip across the Bong Bridge was an adventure given
the blasting winds off the big lake. Cold too. (For those of you who are not
locals. The Bong references are to a WW II flying ace, “The Ace of Aces”
Richard Bong, who was from the Superior Wisconsin area. It does not refer to
that appliance you are probably cradling in your hands at this very moment.)
Al, our Most Perfect
Leader, could not attend due to the fact that he had received a memo that,
apparently, was posted to all royalty suggesting that all such figures should
have a day of quiet reflection on account of the fact that Princess Dianna would’ve
been 60 years old on that day.
As the two waited at the
light a huge truck passed by on US 2 pulling a trailer with an immense object
that defied explanation. It resembled a huge turkey drumstick with nasty teeth
about the business end. The two looked at each other and shrugged.
Down highway 53, traffic
light and cruising was superb. Exit at Minong and stop for a stretch at the end
of main street. Here another marvel ensued in the form of a red house-cat of
imposing size who was first noted in the far distance and was approaching with
amazing speed. Both grabbed their helmets to ward of an imminent attack but to
their relief the animal veered to the E and leapt onto the porch of a nearby
house.
Onward on WI 77 to Hayward
and beyond that town to the E, perhaps 15 miles. Then an exit to the S and lake
country was anticipated. Not far along though, and your reporter, who had
penciled a map onto a sticky note attached to his wallet, became thwarted by
the letter road nomenclature so prized by WI highway engineers. Jack however
was more cosmic about it all and voiced his preference for just getting lost
and finding our way back out again. Your reporter, ruminating to himself that
he was being too tight-assed about the whole experience decided to roll with
the zeitgeist. Besides the two were already lost. The roads weren’t bad and the
team pressed forward, regardless.
With every letter road
encountered your reporter became slightly more agitato but rolled with the
flow. Suddenly there appeared in the distance a long graceful sweeping viaduct
and below, and in the distance, water everywhere. The Chippewa Flowage was
presumed and that was the destination anyhow. On the other side of the bridge a
handsome resort called out. On parking their bikes, the two approached a woman,
may have been the proprietor because later she checked on our service, who was
washing the windows. Yours truly asked the woman, “Can you please tell us where
we are?”
She replied
sympathetically that we were “Right here.”
A good old-fashioned lodge
and we sat for lunch. Shortly, after just having discussed the fact that Al
Capone had a hideout, or more appropriately a grand fishing lodge, close to
nearby Couderay, a man walked in and looked at us. Wordlessly he proceeded to
the end of a long table and, still without a trace of emotion, he sat. He regarded
us with a baleful air. He was a big guy, true, he was fat, very fat, but he moved
with an ease and a foreboding sense of sober purpose. Personally, your reported
thought he might’ve mentioned Capone’s name a little to loudly and this had
aroused the attention of a local descendant. A fleeting glimpse of a cheap
funeral crossed his mind.
Suddenly from around the
corner to the back came the sound of kazoos and cheap bells and a chorus of “Happy
Birthday to You.” Out danced a large group of well-wishers with gifts etc. for
the man. They sang through the song a couple of times and glances towards the
man revealed no sign of pleasure or amusement. Still, clearly, everyone there
seemed devoted to his unattainable joy. They must’ve been hired for the job.
The previously mentioned
lady had directed us to snowmobile trail maps in a rack just inside the door.
After careful scrutiny of same the party had planned an escape route. Another
alphabet soup of roads. NN to K to E to B to RR and so forth. One cannot keep
these letters in one’s helmet once the throttle is twisted however. The deeper
we plunged the more confusing the County Road signs became. Soon there was a
road that was a capital O with a small X in the center of it. They were running
low on letters. We saw roads under designations of letters that have not even
been invented yet or were from some other alphabet for some other language.
Sanskrit perhaps.
Your author was blissfully
following Jack’s advice when he pulled alongside and declared we were going the
wrong way. This brought my carefree abandonment crashing. We stopped alongside
a lake and pulled out our phones. Incredibly both compasses were in agreement
but patently pointing towards the wrong N. Eventually a plan was devised and in
spite of it we gained Hayward again. And Hayward was jumping, it was like
rolling into Bagdad of at least Disneyland.
We ignored it and pressed
onward. We turned N on WI 27. Also well known as “Wisconsin’s driest highway.”
There is a sign at the start, just above WI 77 that warns, “No barstool for 18
miles.” This strikes fear into the psyche of the average citizen there and the
tavern at the other end of that stretch, in Barnes, sells T-shirts for those
who have completed those grueling 18 miles that proudly shout “I survived The
Dry Highway.” In fact, on that day, as we passed that barstool sign, there was
a young family, mom, dad, two kids, with those shirts on, posing for a photo in
front of the sign. (Which is an attraction in Wisco, even to those who have no intention
of making the trip.) I suppose that photo of the family will be an Xmas Card
and, if not, a bragging right for years to come.
Up through Barnes then and
the pine/sand barrens. A turn on S and past the strange, alien, airstrip out
there in the wilds. Paved with a paved taxiway too, no buildings, no hangers,
no nothing.
We rode into the town of
Lake Nebagamon and achieved a tavern right on the lakeside. A generous deck
gave a good view. Girls were walking by with ice cream cones. Clearly the
holiday was ramping up.
It was here that yours
truly shared a few of his many sure-fire money-making ideas with Jack. Jack,
understandably was skeptical, thus it always is when the unthinkable is proposed…
but he allowed that the hush-hush insurance scheme might have some merit and he
would study it out in an actuarial mind-frame some night when he had
devastating insomnia.
The motorhome/paddlewheel
design he dismissed. The thought was it would be in better hands with the
inventor of the flying trailer.
Speaking of Ole and the
upcoming holiday, yours truly felt compelled to share with Jack childhood ideas
to entertain his grandchildren with. For instance, homemade firecracker guns
that were wildly inaccurate but still could be employed to shoot stones at the
heads of your buddies.
Rockets made of crimped tubes;
car antenna segments work best, stuffed to bursting with carefully cut off
match heads packed. Upon ignition never to be seen again, except for a frail
wisp of smoke coiling in the air. Shooting a 22 at the Milaca water tower
light. From the front porch of a friend’s place while he aimed and pulled the
trigger the other two held rags tightly over the muzzle. In this way a handy
silencer can be had.
Also mentioned was the
fact that Wild Turkey Dale could take a brimming mouthful of lighter fluid and,
as an assistant then would hold up a rolled newspaper and light it with
flourish, Dale then would exhale expansively and a huge flame would light up the
night in front of him. It makes one wonder if he ever considered that, given
the right diet and circumstances, and the addition of another assistant, he
surely could’ve projected flames form both ends simultaneously and thus cement
his reputation as a top-shelf showman.
These tricks should be
approached with caution however, it was stressed to Jack, the wrong assistant
or stage props can be deleterious. For instance, Calvin D. was assisting his
brother Maynard with the trick one night in the parking lot of the bowling
alley. However a newspaper could not be procured so a matchbook was had and he
dutifully lit the match. However, on the expectoration of the lighter fluid,
the accelerant sprayed liberally unto his arm. He ran around the lot with a
flaming arm not unlike something out of the Wizard of Oz and the scarecrow.
Another holiday suggestion
was putting gas in an old time bug sprayer. Dale had remarkable success in the
early years with this homemade flame-thrower and won the approval of many friends
visiting to the old farm. However, a word of caution to Jack insisting that
practice with the grandkids would be necessary before letting them do it
without parental supervision. Yours truly can attest to this when he attempted
the feat with Bruce Hooker in attendance and suddenly the entire device became
incredibly HOT. Naturally the machine was dropped and the tank separated from
the piston shaft and gas and flame were dispersed liberally. Sorry about the fishhouse
grandpa. Thank goodness he was not using it at the time.
Also tin cans in water
firecracker rockets were touched upon. Water not being compressible yields a
soup can that can soar. However one cannot shoot them at his friends due to the
fact that they have to be horizontal.
Time did not permit the
opportunity to discuss of having famer match wars with our BB guns. If shot
directly against a cement block, say, for instance the Milaca Theater wall, it
makes a hell of a SNAP. However the design demands single shot only so the
duels require discipline and timing, i.e., “1…2….3 SHOOT” Maybe the flying
trailer guy can come up with a BB gun that has a match revolver, or repeater,
option.
Back on the bikes and
onward toward Superior Wisco, the day which was hot down there got ever cooler
with each mile approaching the big lake.
Spilt the trial at The
Bong Museum.
I registered 235 miles.
Jack surely recorded more.
WILD TURKEY RIDE REPORT
6/23/21
6/27/21
DULUTH, MN
The Wild Turkeys assembled at the Mahtowa Southbound
Ramp 0930 or thereabouts. The weather favorable. Discussed the route to Milaca.
Yours truly informed the group, (the other 2, Jack and Al), that just the
evening before his neighbors Chuck and Bill had informed him that they had made
a recent trip to Greece and while there learned that Milaca in Greek means to
masturbate.
At this the other two threw their heads back and
guffawed. They clutched their guts and stamped their feet and struggled to get
air. When they would pause, they would look at each other and say, “Milaca!’
and then again slug each other and slap their thighs and convulse all over
again.
Finally, during a come up for air break your reporter
told them, “You know what we used to call jacking off in Milaca?”
At this they grew silent, each raised a brow
inquisitively.
I said “To Cloquet.”
They frowned and considered this for a while, in
silence.
They looked at each other. They said “Milaca!”
Again began the slapping of thighs and stomping of
feet and repeating the word over and over again.
Finally I put on my helmet and fired up the bike.
This, temporarily at least - for the notion and the word would be returned to
regularly during the day - brought an end to frolic. We were off.
I rode point and Al brought up the rear as usual. Al
likes it in the rear. He tells us he prefers it in the rear.
We blasted down I35, traffic was light and the scenery
green. Pulled off in Hinckley and Al bought gas giving us cover to use the
washroom. He did not splurge on gum.
From there on 23, a miserable road, heavy oncoming
traffic etc. At Ogilvie a turn to the S offered relief. Several miles to the
south, dairy country, here was a bear standing on the road. The bear finally
crossed into the woods on the other side. The group was about to proceed when A
REALLY BIG BEAR emerged, following the first.
We tried to appear nonchalant and implied then that the bear could take
all the time in the world to cross over. Bears have really goofy looking feet.
All agreed that the last bear was bigger than the average bear.
Back on sweepers and through some big pines which seem
out of place and then past the place where yours truly lived for his first 13
years or so. Onward up 169 and over to Ole’s Place and there he was, working on
bikes. Yours truly was reunited with his old Yamaha and his old Bridgestone.
The Yamaha is showing promising signs of life under Ole’s ministrations.
There followed a wide-ranging conversation regarding
events and accomplishments, which were not a few, that Ole and yours truly
participated in. Ole extolled on subjects ranging from the Black Bastard’s bent
rear rim, to Billy Kelly, to Tootie Bemis. The latter being a surprise element
in many stories that day.
Frequently the tales returned to the many motorcycle
crashes survived. Also, your reporter must add that the crash involving
Mickelson and Ole resulting in the broken headlight on the former’s was
REPAIRED, in the field, by the latter. Ole did not mention the fact, later
recalled by yours truly, that there was a spring left over after the reassembly
and when Mickelson pointed this out Ole threw it away and said “Fuck the spring
Marvin.”
Later the same spring would be the cause of the rear
tire blow out on Ole’s Honda just past, you may have guessed already, Tootie
Bemis’s place.
Ole
and yours truly spent time at that place repairing his Honda 305 after Ole and
yours truly locked bars while racing and careened into his pristine bike. Old
Tootie was not happy but as Ole said, “What the fuck was he thinking parking
right along a fucking racetrack?”
As those present found comfortable chairs in his shop
Ole sat at his workbench, above the others, and regaled those present with
tales of bikes saved, reputations sullied, scores settled and scores yet to be
settled. Towards the end the presentation ventured into politics and to think
that the promise of our speaker’s potential voluminous contributions to the
political fabric of this nation and how they have been wrestled to the dirt by
one unfortunate photograph. Still, those present found it rewarding and
illuminating. The Turkeys vowed to, next time they ride that way, bring little
tablets and pens so notes can be taken.
A later tour of the shaded Motorcycle Recycling Center
provided more stories about bikes and riders and left us all covetous of fuzz
busters for our own bikes.
Then, just prior to departure, Ole revealed his top-secret
new invention. It is all still hush-hush and everything, but this of it can be
said: Flying Trailers. There are still bugs to be worked out. True, take off
and flight have been mastered but the landing part still faces a few hurdles. Yet
he assured us they are not insurmountable challenges. Genius knows no
limitations.
As we carefully struggled to turn around our massive machines,
he left us with parting words of wisdom: “Don’t pet the sweaty stuff.”
Can’t get more profound than that.
So we were off to the best BLT’s to be located
anywhere. AND, the waitress seemed tolerant of Wild Turkey Lore. She was even
amused and wrote “Thank you Wild Turkeys’ on the check. Al is difficult for the
fairer sex to resist when he dons that crown.
My experience there however was a bit diminished due to
my dread that the others would call that sweet waitress back and ask her
excitedly, “Hey! Do you know what Milaca means????!”
They must not have thought of it then.
Off we were westward and yours truly almost sacrificed
the others when the intended road was blocked for construction and he
accelerated back onto despicable 23 without warning, leaving the following
bikes to fend for themselves.
An adequate road was found and along it a stop to show
the others the dead-end road where yours
wife grew up out in the Benton County Sticks. Also,
the one room schoolhouse which still, improbably, stands where she went to
school.
Threading the way through Granite Ledge Township and N
and past, eventually, Gotvald Store, which is a wonder of the world in not an
uplifting mankind accomplishment sort of way. It is a miracle of machinery
organization in which more implements are squeezed into a limited amount of
real estate than at any other place on earth. All on the same plane, is what
makes it a marvel. If it were a parking ramp it would be 10 stores high. Or about
flying trailer in height.
From there a cruise through the prairie lakes to the
north.
With a sense of alarm I noticed the other 2 were not
following. I turned around and found Jack with his helmet off and Al met me to
say a big bug had offered its life against his glasses.
From there over the hump and before us spread Mille
Lacs Lake looking beautiful in the heat. N thru Garrison and onto the lakeside
drive to offer a view of the big mermaid and her lovely gorgeous beautiful ample
bosoms.
Al missed the ample bosoms, which is much
uncharacteristic of him, but he was probably thinking about fishing walleyes
just then.
Across the elevated spine of the north side of the
lake to Malmo for gas and refreshment. This has to be the freshest non-oxy in
the world for the number of greedy trailered fishing and speed boats at the
pump signals rapid overturn of product. We were a bit dehydrated too.
Here Jack gave a presentation on how to eat an ice
cream cone in the hot sun. At least one way to do it.
While he was away to speak with the owner of the place
about using the hose on himself the other 2 chatted about that bug on his
glasses. How, they wondered, can a bug like that get inside that full coverage
helmet? And that bee on the earlier ride? Then the breakthrough came to them;
The bugs are already inside his helmet! When he puts it on. *
Having settled that to their satisfaction the procession
headed E on county roads to Willow River. No traffic whatsoever, save for a doe
and a fawn. Good tarmac, intense greenery and some harvesting of hay seen.
A stop at the Squirrel Cage there for a much need
beer. Unfortunately the bulletin board that held the clippings regarding the
previous owner had been removed. It was a fascinating account of his larger
than life, well, life. There given was a plausible rationale for the argument
that he just might’ve been DB Cooper. An independent film has been made about
his exploits. Landing a plane in Mexico at night, surviving a shoot out with
the federales, organizing a snowmobile race form MN to Moscow. The usual.
The trio split the trial there. Al and Jack on old 61
headed N and yours truly on I 35 in the same direction. Your reporter traveled
the furthest that day.
298 miles.
FCTTG
*Al and yours truly have
agreed to purchase (Part#52300104,
Page #3349-56 of the Big Catalog) for Jack.
The Harley-Hartz Collar for “The infested
rider with taste.”
Starting at $100.48 for The Sportster
Model which appears to be a run of the mill plastic wire tie…it even has the
same no slip fastener. But it does have a bar and shield logo on it and it
comes with a tiny magnifying glass so others can see it. The H-H Collars come
in a multitude of colors from flat black to gloss black, black and orange, pink
(with rhinestones and fetching streamers dangling)), and metal flake of course.
For the Glide rider it is more of a dickey-type affair while for the discerning
CVO Electra Glide Ultra Classic owner comes the offer of a C-collar (Cervical
collar) type of product, very much similar to the collar the work-related neck
injury poser has to wear when he is finally forced to return to work.
(Available only in Gold.)
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WILD
TURKEY MC RIDE REPORT 6/1/21
Three riders
of the MN Chapter decided to ride on Tuesday. Agreed to meet at Kwik Trip in
Carlton. But when your reporter arrived at about on time he saw Jack at the end
of the exit ramp heading back towards the East. This did not seem logical but
totally within reason. Explanation was that Jack was waiting on the W side of
the freeway, at the casino, and Al was at the KT on the E side. Al realized
this and rode W to meet him but Jack had, at that moment, realized the same and
headed E. They passed each other along the median and both assumed to head back
to their starting points and passed each other again going in the opposite
directions. All that was missing was some Fez hats and popcorn could’ve been
sold by the time they arrived on the same side of the freeway. From there Jack
led on old 61, The Blues Highway: from the Canadian border to New Orleans thru
Memphis, see Bob Dylan. West from Mahtowa to 73 and down just about to Kettle
River where Jack designated a stop at a historical Marker trumpeting the
virtues of the Finns who immigrated to that area. Jack, incidentally, is of
Finn blood so this was a cosmic coincidence. He did allow, that although the
Finns were far superior to other immigrants, there still abides a simmering
dispute on how to pronounce the surname Aho. Some say Ahho and some Ayeho. We
had crossed an Aho road along the way but yours truly had no idea in regards to
the controversy.
From there W
towards Automba, which is a cross between Detroit and equatorial Africa and
then N on a road, that for some reason, Jack favors called Finn Road. Very nice
road threading by small lakes. Came out on 210 and from there W to Tamarack,
named appropriately after the only coniferous tree that is deciduous which
predominates in that area. Somehow your reporter was allowed the lead and he
promptly led the rest to 2 taverns that were closed. The Horseshoe Lake Inn and
that fancy place on Big Sandy. From there tentatively to the W towards Palisade
via a road that was under construction and thick gravel and dust necessitating
a turn around to Palisade for to yours truly not 3 weeks prior. Amazingly this
was complete and boasted shiny black tarmac. Once past the Rat Lake Barn Dance
site your reporter opened her up a little but noticed the lights of the other
two fade and pull over. He turned back and found Jack putting his helmet back
on. Al who was following him reported that he saw Jack swerve, pull over,
remove his helmet and began pounding his forehead with the palm of his hand.
Naturally Al thought Jack had forgot something important back at home with a
forehead slapping like that but, instead, a bee had decided to penetrate his
helmet and was engaged in doing what bees do when their plans are not realized.
That was very likely the most activity ever to occur inside
of Jack's helmet,
Jack
prevailed and Palisade was obtained. A modest little grill was entered. At this
point Al proceeded to delight the waitress with the fine points of The Wild
Turkey Gang and informed her of the singular honor which was hers to be waiting
upon such an august group. Her joy was
not unlike what one would expect in any young person who was informed, say, of
the fact that Adlai Stevenson contested the presidential election, twice,
against Ike.
Jack
growled, “Al, sit down.”
Al did so
promptly and the waitress escaped. Yours truly wondered if Al had given Jack
permission to give his highness an order.
From there
up the lovely arcing River Road. The Mississippi there is convulsed. From
Aitkin below, to Grand Rapids above, back in the days of steamboats it was
measured by the Corps of Engineers to be a distance of 130 1/8 mile. Today by
automobile it is 53 miles and 40 miles by aeroplane.
As the group
swept along eventually they approached activity in the deep woods out there.
Flashing signs demanding 20mph and a cop was, in the middle of nowhere,
speaking to a group along the road. For about a mile or two was gathered knots
of people in the ditches and the woods, some of them around fires, some just
standing there. Each of them looked at us as if we should be delivering some
sort of sign regarding their existence at that place. Pipeline protesters. The
whole affair, that day, had the atmosphere of the last-dogs- to- be-hung
tailgaters after the big game which had ended in a tie. The life of the
protester does look remote and rather mundane. Until something happens
presumably.
From there
to a wayside at Jacobsen along the river. It was here that yours truly’s Road
King suffered KED, Kickstand Erectile Dysfunction. Whether said stand was half
erect or never stimulated in the first place had not been determined but the
result was the same.
It was of great
relief to the rider that the other two were there to help him immediately right
his bike. A previous time this happened
only his partner was there to help and it was greatly appreciated then,
although not a true case of KED in that instance.
It was the time before that when KED struck
and there was nobody there in the wilds of Wisconsin. There on that lonely
gravel pull out was where the most remarkable event was experienced.
As there was nobody about, the rider bent to
his task of returning his bike to vertical. On about his 3rd
attempt, while trying to keep his feet firmly in the sand, he strained mightily
and blood was just then about to issue from his nose when the pressure was
relieved by the release of an enormous hemorrhoid, the size of a grapefruit,
no, on second thought, the size of a pineapple, and about the same textures,
which exploded majestically from his already astringently clenched anus. This
clearly provided the propulsion necessary to resolve the situation. Apparently
the vasculature of his nose was spared and thus, gratefully, no bleeding was
expressed upon the bike, or his shirt…his underpants were another story
however.
Also,
thankfully, when his tunnel vision had slowly subsided, he found the rupture
had fully returned to its original fixation, poised, most likely, for the next
event.
Although the
assistance of his comrades was much appreciated, still the vision of his bike
like that is haunting for it revealed some glaring omissions of detailing in
regards to its own privates.
Thankfully
Harley Davidson does, in the big catalogue, have available a mirror on castors
which can be employed to remedy that scenario. *
Two riders
approached. One from Brainerd and the other From Walker. Nice guys, all shared
road ideas. One of the fellows had the characteristic of blinking his eyes in a
rather exaggerated fashion which gave the viewer the feeling, when he reopened
them finally, that he was secretly wishing he would find you vanished and gone.
Nice guy
though. But when he started to talk about The Real Hells Angel, he met in Lake
Park MN who was, mysteriously, working in a wood yard where he was sawing huge
trunks into slices that would make rustic tables yours truly began to blink his
eyes similarly.
Onward to
Floodwood and down. At a pull out along a lake Jack presented, in solemn
ceremony, Al with The Turley Crown. It was quite the auspicious event. Al
lamented the absence of his “Royal Vestments” however, which consist of a long
robe like affair, according to his description. Patty told him he can’t wear it
outside anymore because its imitation leopard skin hems were getting greasy in
the garage etc. Further she pointed out that if the garment would, at speed,
get caught in the spokes, and given the gigantic zircon clasp at this throat, it
could tear his head off.
Jack then
wondered, “What difference would that make?”
We all
agreed but then Al pointed out he would have no place to place his crown then.
Also, it
should be noted that he has ordered a new scepter. The old one, which he purchased
last Halloween at the dollar store is too long to fit in his saddle bags and it
is clumsy for him to hang onto across this handlebars while riding. He ordered
the new one from Git Magazine which breaks down into 3 parts and it should be
arriving by September.
A final stop
in Cromwell for gas and the trail was split at Carlton. Yours truly recorded
200 miles exactly on his return.
Abide.
*Interestingly in the Big Catalogue Harley
Davidson does offer an “HD Hemorrhoid Truss” (Part#52300103) just for this sort
of situation. Available in sizes ranging from golf ball (Sportster) to
cantaloupe (Street/Road Glide.) In various colors, flat black, gloss black,
chrome and metal flake. The belt/thong is sold separately and is offered in
black leather, sequins, flaming skulls, and with streamers if preferred. Also,
there is an exclusive option for the CVO Electra Glide
Ultra Classic owner which is available in gold only. It is about the size
of a gas tank for an outboard motorboat.
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6/18/21 Duluth, MN
WILD
TURKEY RIDE REPORT 6/16/21
Al,
Jack and Yours Truly met in the assigned location at 0930 on Wednesday as
agreed upon. When Jack had proposed that we join him in Oliver, the other two
exchanged doubtful, if not wary, looks. But then he clarified that we were to
join him in Oliver the town and not Oliver the actual guy.
So we were off with Jack in the
lead and Al, as per usual, riding drag. Al prefers drag. When asked why he so
much prefers drag he pointed out that from his being in drag he can keep a
careful eye on us and watch closely for flaws in our riding styles, lane
discipline, motorcycle etiquette (i.e., not waving at any other biker who might
be on a sport bike or adventure bike etc.) and overall comportment as set forth
in the Wild Turkey Credo. When he makes one.
So that is why he rides drag.
Praise be to Al lah.
Jack led through the wilds of
Wisconsin on back roads, the last portion of which featured a spectacular
descent into the Brule River Valley. A stop at Brule while Al bought gum to lay
justify our use of the facilities.
Al graciously, once he had
negotiated opening the pack, generously shared a stick with the others. Here it
was recalled that after a ride many years ago, upon stopping at Carlton after a
blast down 2010 it was noted that Al had a substantial wad of chewing gum on
his shoulder. Stuck to his jacket. We were aghast at this and thought that some
cager in a Chevy had spit it out and it had cratered into Al’s leathers. Al
picked it out then and closely examined it and, upon his inspection, i.e.,
colour, dental pattern, and odour, it was found, indeed, to be the same wad he
had expectorated, while at speed, into the wind, back near Sawyer. Mystery
solved.
Your reporter does not recall if
he discarded the gum or put it back in.
From Brule to Iron River where
the group exited US 2 shortly after reading an ominous sign that warned of road
construction for the next 22 miles. Several miles S of Iron River, Jack and Your
reporter missed, again, the tiny road they had been lost on before. But the
other road was located, it had remained in the same spot. Twisty and hilly and
lakes to the sides it is fantastic. Exiting that stretch at the Delta Diner the
group picked up the Delta/Drummond Road which is a jewel. At Drummond the group
stopped for gas, 90+ miles from our origin that day. It was noticed that on the
roof of the store were 2 bricks holding down something, maybe a satellite dish,
and of perfect spacing that if one of us could talk the other tow into standing
just so, then slamming the door on the store, maybe both bricks would fall on
the heads of the other two. We were going to try it but then remembered it
would not be as funny without it being a surprise to the targets. We agreed
that it could wait until Gordy or Dale, or preferably both, would visit. And best
if we would remember to have them standing beneath the bricks and not slamming
the door. We made mental notes of this.
It was then Jack doffed his chaps
without warning the other two so they could avert their eyes. The day was
getting hot. Al considered removing his leather jacket but noted, with a sense
of doom that if he took it off then something might happen down the road which
would make him wish he still had it on. He seemed comforted when the others
said they would, in that circumstance, take the jacket out of his saddlebags
and fold it so he could rest his head on it while we waited for the ambulance.
From there down the beautiful and
intense Lake Owen Road. Nearing Garmish, our destination, yours truly, now in
the lead, turned just short of the correct road. This favored the group with a
side trip through a construction moonscape of sand and gravel and two hardhat
guys who looked up at us, quizzically, from the blueprints they were holding.
We held our jaws out proudly as if this was our scheme all along. However,
trouble would await beyond when regaining pavement found that the road ended
still just further shy of Garmish. This was not the problem, it could provide
return to the mainstem without flouncing through the gravel pit, but rather it
ended in a loop at the cul-de-sac.
Yours truly made the loop and was
on his way to the highway when he noticed in his mirrors the absence of the
other two. He waited and seeing them not materialize, feared trouble and turned
around to investigate. He found the others circling the loop endlessly. And,
somehow, in opposite directions. Not unlike the start of the previous ride.
When your truly finally flagged them down, caught their attention, they seemed
shocked to see him, as if they had forgotten all about him or figured he was
somehow up ahead. Finally both were brought to a halt after a few more laps.
A nice lunch in Garmish, which is
an outstanding resort, genuine old school lodge etc. on Namekagon Flowage. Our
server was trying to be genuinely flattered by the invite in joining The Gang
but his joy at that was thwarted by the fact that he had no motorcycle and,
after seeing us, no intention of ever procuring same.
The food was terrific and the
scenery excellent and the conversation rewarding, especially the Dirty Freddy
episodes.
Yours truly had lectured the
others on the need to safely lock their ignitions before going inside, given
the breakthrough design of having a big switch on the tank, ready to snag one’s
testicles in the advent of rapid deceleration, that could be forgotten in the
unlocked position and thereby provide a bad guy with the invitation to a joy
ride. Upon returning to his bike the
lecturer, however, found his keys laying on the seat of his motorcycle. He
snatched up the key in an effort to conceal it from the others but discovered
that, while it had been displayed there on the black seat in the hot sun it had
become intensely thermal, nearly molten. Naturally the owner threw the keys
high into the air while hollering. This, naturally, busted him in the view of
the others. And when he retrieved the keys and gingerly slipped them into his pocket
where they were pressed against his near groin by his chaps, a wild dance was
performed while he unsuccessfully tried to pull his pants forward and away. The
blisters have healed nearly perfect.
From there up the east coast of
the big lake and across the spine of Anderson Island. Shortly a suicidal grouse
dive-bombed Jack’s helmet, perhaps thinking, “If a bee can do it then maybe…”
Per Al’s report, who was riding drag, Jack telescoped his neck into his
shoulders as if he were the world’s fastest turtle. If there is such a thing.
At any rate the impact was
avoided. Al would then declare war on The Wild Grouse Gang, or Grouses, rather.
We are all instructed to eat grouse at every opportunity, as per his recent
decree for all to consume bacon similarly because of his antipathy to The Wild
Hogs.
Up through Grandview and across the Great
Divide just south of that place.
Your reporter was in the lead and
as such missed the turn for Mason but did discover the turn for Benoit which
luckily provided all with a chance to see it. A strange place it was. The
buildings were in good shape and everything cared for but not one sign of human
habitation. It was like some kind of creepy movie set and one could expect, at
any moment, a flying saucer just behind the old schoolhouse and the residents
lined up to receive a telepathic assignment to do harm to the rest of us.
Arrived on US 2 with the
intention of turning off at Ino and heading north form there. Long slugs of
cars were met and suggested a flagman ahead. Just shy of Ino by about a mile,
and orange signs too could be seen in the far distance, yours truly in the lead
decided to exit on the Moquah Road. It is a nice road and further, provided
Jack the opportunity to view the sorriest looking bar in Wisconsin. And that is
saying a lot, given in that state, apparently all that is needed for an On Sale
license is the ability to make and “X” and a coloring crayon. It would not be
inconceivable to see, somewhere in that state, an ice fishing house with a
Miller High Life sign ablaze.
From there up to Washburn and
then the back county road to the west and then north to Cornucopia. A stop for
a beer at the former Village Inn which now is the Fat Radish and stepping inside
one, if he remembers the previous place, must rub his eyes. It is like Dorothy
stopping out of that fallen down house into Oz. Soft jazz percolating, coffee
bar, in fact the bar has been relocated entirely. Correction, it is like the place
fell down into Cornucopia from Oz. Or maybe those flying saucers are about.
Still, given that it was Wisco a
cold beer was precured without trauma.
From there back West on 13 where
yours truly, again in the lead, made up for missing the Mason Road by missing
the turn for the Port Wing Beach.
Nearing Superior however was
found the abandoned tavern nearing highway 2. This is in fact perhaps a
singular location in the entire state and one would not be surprised if a
historical wayside is not in the planning stages as an interpretive center in
regards to what an abandoned tavern actually looks like.
Here a stop for a stretch. It was
then discovered something remarkable. There was a bug impact on the back of Al’s
helmet. We stood there in slack jawed amazement at this fact.
(On the previous ride, I failed
to mention, Al had collided with what must’ve been a massive horsefly, perhaps
one with wingtip and belly tanks who had just gorged itself upon an ox who
surely was on blood thinners. None of us had every seen so much gore on a
windshield impact, even on our car’s windshields. It would made Bonnie and
Clyde jealous, a least for a second or two. Somewhere there was a farmer
starting IV on an Ox that day.)
I said it had to be a miracle and
Jack mentioned a few more like that and The Pontiff would declare him a saint.
At this Al got a faraway look,
almost dreamy-like. Clearly he was not interested in being sainted but rather,
he kept mothing, silently, the word “Pontiff.”
The others became further alarmed
when he started twisting his ring. Even more so when he closed his eyes and
started making little kissing smackings with his lips.
He started to hold out his hand,
and ring, towards us when Jack, fearing the same request as your truly, wisely
said, “It sure would suck to be Pontiff. How could you fit that big pointed hat
into your bags man?” He laughed nervously, “Yeah now take for instance, a
turkey crown fits good in the bags.” (Al had donned the crown in the restaurant
at Garmish, so easy was it that he could conceal it in his leathers.)
“Yeah!” yours truly added, and in
the urgency of that moment continued, “A Pontiff would also have to, with that
pointed hat, have to have his barstool in the corner to sit!”
Your reporter, had under the
pressure of the instant, confused the Pontiff Hat with the other one that said
“dUnce” on it.
However, Al did not seem to
notice. Jack’s reasoning had hit home apparently, but I suspect a future Wild
turkey shirt with “Pontiff” on the breast will be on made.
All returned back to their
residences. Al having covered the most miles. Yours truly 253.
FCTTG
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By now everyone should
have received their new Wild Turkey shirts.
A question has come up in
regards as to how to retire an old Wild Turkey shirt, say one that is shot or
too rank.
The recommendation is
cremation.
In the evening the shirt
remnants should be stretched upon the ground and doused with gasoline and then
ignited with a sulfur preparation. (Thank you Frank Zappa.)
While the garment is
consumed with flame the owner is to stand on his Rt foot while extending both
hands forward as if gripping imaginary handlebars. He then will twist his Rt
wrist briskly three times, pull in the clutch with the LT hand and kick her
down into 1st with the left foot while reciting, in gratitude, to the Bo
Diddley Beat, the Wild Turkey Chant:
“Their aint no cooler Dude
That can’t be found
Then a ‘cycle ridin’ Wild
Turkey
Flyin’ Close To The
Ground”
Then he is to pop that
clutch.
Unfortunately, for a
number of reasons, the above ceremony works better on proposal, and paper, then
in practice.
First, it is too much to
remember to recite while trying to maintain the Bo Diddley Beat which is also a
challenge in its’ own right for some of the members. Further, twisting the
right wrist invariably leads to spilled beer. And last, but not least, no
current Wild Turkey can stand on one foot for that long, let alone perform the
other complicated gesticulations, without having a motorcycle under him.
It was suggested maybe the
above could be performed while the member lies on his back in the grass.
However, it was pointed out that this would surely guarantee spilled beer. And
one’s neighbors might look at him funny.
So, instead, during the
conflagration the owner may sit in a lawn chair and raise his beer in gratitude
and repeat only the top-secret Wild Turkey Greeting/Clubhouse Password:
Ack Acka Dack
Dack Acka Ack
And lastly, the sacred
accelerant employed upon the shirt must be exclusively limited to
Non-Oxy Premium.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Report of Wild Turkey
Event Thursday, March 25, 2021
Al and Jack were waiting
at 0805 or so in the Casino parking area when your reporter arrived. Said
reporter climbed in back and they were off in Al Our Most Perfect Leader's SUV
with trailer in tow. Destination was Detroit Lakes MN were a Harley
Davidson Softail Heritage Classic was
nervously awaiting his review/approval. By the time the crew reached Sawyer the
discussion had, naturally, proceeded to strippers. And where to find them. The
various attributes of same came into review. A heartwarming story was shared by
Jack who humbly offered a tale which featured a selfless act of fatherhood that
made the others present review in their own minds how they often had failed
their own sons whereas Jack had soared high above. To make the event short
enough to fit this narrative it basically involved a modest tavern near Wascott Wisconsin and one
evening when Jack and his son stopped in for a beer. And a peek, maybe.
Jack somehow noticed that the bar maid was topless as well and she sported a
huge pair of bouncers. (On her chest, not at the door.) He did allow that appearance-wise
this was the most she had to offer. Jack approached her and she volunteered to
give Jack's son a lap dance once Jack had paid her sufficient. This lap dance
was well worth the fee because his son almost succumbed to
asphyxiation therein while she was thus employed. After a revelation of
selfless fatherhood of this magnitude the others present could only focus on
their own failings as fathers and secretly envy the pride Jack must feel at
family gatherings when the topic is once more brought up around the family
gathering, or table, say at Father's Day for instance. Or Easter maybe.
Sometime during the discussion it was noted that tamarack is a very
hard wood. How that tidbit jumped to mind was not apparent. Towards the end of
the discussion Al noted that he does not approve of strippers with obvious
needle tracks apparent. That is where he draws the line. This brought silence
to the others present who then pondered whether that was decree, i.e., did the
prohibition extended to them, and the other Turkeys for that matter, as well?
Around 0900 the talk progressed as would be expected, to beers’ each
offering his own preferences and the various attributes for each. Basically the
same format was followed as was adhered to in the stripper discussion. By the
time McGregor was achieved it was
fairly made certain that Jack, again setting the example for the others, did
not approve of many beers on the scale beyond that of MGD or so. When it comes
to beers Jack is clearly an anti-snob. (But it was suspected that, to him, any
beer would be preferred to none at all.) From this new perspective then it
follows, but it was not voiced, does that make Al a junkie stripper snob? The
topics thereafter ranged from old cars to old motorcycles and, a theme that
would be returned to time and again during the trip, the desire to downsize.
Nearing New York Mills quilting was brought to the table. It was a veritable
primer course for yours truly who knew nothing of quilting until these two
quilting power houses engaged in a lively debate on items such as where to
donate one's excess material (Certain churches) and how, for instance, if one
starts a row a little off early on by the end of the quilt it looks like a jigsaw
puzzle just dumped out of the box or something like that and, also, which lady
to go to for the actual quilting which was confusing but we had reached Detroit
Lakes by then and I was unable to discern how the actual quilting differed form
quilting in general. Clearly your reporter, as a base novice when it comes to
quilting, was out of his league. Soon we found the bike in the sun outside a
huge place on one of the 1080 lakes to be found in Ottertail County. The owner
emerged and he was of a genial expansive type but was a little hard of hearing.
When Al fired up the bike we understood why. Al took off for a trial run and
when Jack’s and yours truly's
hearing returned we could detect Al's every throttle change even to a far
distance. The old oil stain trick was employed with flourish
but unfortunately the owner did not have a very highly developed
sense of humor. Soon Jack was strapping the bike down. A title discrepancy was found on
the title which, Al thorough his most perfect wisdom in these matters, detected
and a trip to the local authorities was warranted with a side trip back home
for the owner to get his spouse's signature on the deal. While waiting in Al's
vehicle the group enviously eyed the filling of a dumpster down the street but
decided the rescue of any of these worthy times might damage Al's new
bike in transit. Soon ownership was established. It is two tone red and claims
many extras to make it shiny enough to suit. We would thereafter proceed to a
nice restaurant on the municipal beach shoreline of Detroit Lake but only after
a stunning display of our leader's skill at discovering just the right parking
place. Perfection seeks perfection it was revealed. Jack and your reporter were
a bit woozy after this performance and clung to the fenders of the vehicle
until the sensations dissipated. The food was good, the discussion lively
and a long sepia photo of MN patrolmen and their bikes from 1931 hanging above
us seemed to be an omen. No mention of omen was made as our most perfect leader
was considering then whether he should adopt the title of Allah. He also, I
might add with all modesty, knighted yours truly with, in addition to the title
of Secretary, the title of Treasurer. And approved of commencing a search for a
new series of T-shirts. No reason was given why Jack was not entrusted
with some title, or even, say, Assistant Junior Deputy Secretary but clearly Al
has made his evaluation and found Jack wanting. Or maybe Our Most Perfect
Leader was still a bit envious of Jack's carefree knack and easy aplomb
at Fatherhood. But this was not made evident. Soon we were on our way back
easterly and a day which started with snow and low ceilings had given way to
sunshine and spring. At Motley a slight detour was made to Morley’s fish shop and
purchases were made by Al and yours truly. Jack determined that fish smelled
fishy even in such an exotic locale. Jack then volunteered to drive, allowing
himself and your reporter to keep their eyes open for the remainder of the
trip. Meanwhile this left Al free to debate with himself the merits of various
exhaust pipes. The last miles of the trip were given to discussion on
downsizing and the need, as well, for more auctions to include trailers on the
bill so one could conveniently buy one there and then not have to make so many
returned trips for the good deals procured earlier. And in conclusion it must
be said the other two displayed remarkable tolerance, if not pity,
for the viewpoints and topics offered by yours truly. Arriving at about 1730 or
so your reporter proceeded home while Al and Jack continued onwards to Al's
place to complete the unloading. No word on any other difficulties or cosmic
revelations during this period have, as yet, been received.
Respectfully submitted.
WILD TURKEY MEETING
MINUTES
3/4/20 Streetcar Diner,
Carlton MN
Attendees: AL, Bruce, Jack,
Smitty
Al, our Most Perfect Leader,
called the meeting to order at 1130 with the others arriving at 12N
Since there was no
business to conduct lunch was ordered.
A wide variety of topics
were discussed. Including the fact that Al is receiving good marks in his
concealed carry class up at Quick Draw’s in Munger. This information was met by
all with a sense of relief for those present who surely, and secretly, recalled
the time at Third Base, just across the street, (In fact we all caught each
other casting a wary glance in that direction at the thought of it.) when Al,
who used to wear his revolver in his belt “For all the honest world to see” was
demonstrating his prowess at that trick where he twirls the gun dizzyingly
around his trigger finger and then quickly, blindingly fast, blows across the
muzzle and stuffs it back into his pants. At any rate, that particular time the
gun flew off his finger and struck the pinball machine forcibly, fracturing the
glass diagonally on the upright portion. (It was an old Bally, “Dodge City,”
vintage, but very tender on tilting.) The owner was in the cooler at the moment
and Jack whispered “Git!’ and we were off and on our Harleys in no time. Al did
drop his gun a couple of times on the way to the door, jouncing it out of his
pants as he scampered. He even kicked it once with his boot, too. Thankfully it
did not go off as the bullet for it was in Patty’s shirt pocket where she keeps
it as usual.
We also learned that Jack
has nearly attained his goal of having at least one of his former ancient motorcycles
being owned by every make resident of Blackhoof Township. This has occurred in
a process similar to a virus spreading through a community. Now he is in the endeavor
of reclaiming all his old rides and demonstrating the wisdom of keeping and meticulously
cataloguing every part he removed from them in the first place. Except for
maybe one or two which must be pursued on the internet.
He reported that he has
employed Craigs List to good effect which brought out a mutter form Bruce, “Should
be called Jack’s List.” Which Jack did hear but did not comment upon leaving
the rest of us to wonder if he was aggrieved by the term or honored by it?
Bruce had mentioned that a dedicated line has been set up, a “hot line” so to
speak, between Jack’s house and the nearby Minnesota Power Thompson Dam, so
when Jack starts his day on Craig’s List he can notify them and then they can
open another floodgate to spool up the dynamos. Apparently neighbors have complained
of flickering and dimming lights, straining freezer compressors and the
pictures on the TV sets shrinking down to the size of a postage stamp when Jack
gets rolling on his shopping.
Later, at one point Jack pointed
at Bruce and said “Ass.”
Bruce tensed. Al and Smitty
scooted up to the front of their chairs in eager anticipation as Bruce was
obviously flexing and winding up a grand roundhouse right to clock Jack with. But
unfortunately, Jack noticed it as well and feverishly pointed out the window in
back of Bruce where a log truck was stopped at the four way. Jack had noticed
it was load of Ash, not Ass. All of us had to take Jack’s word on that, the
rest of the party being familiar with their own wood. And that memory was
growing dim as well. Al and Jeff slid back in their chairs disappointed.
Smitty took the stage to
proclaim, again, that 30,000 miles on a Sportster was a good thing while the rest
of the gang politely pushed a pea or a piece of salad around his own plate.
All agreed that the weather
was spectacular and, as if on cue, a biker rumbled by on a Street Glide. Those
assembled all whispered “Fuck” to themselves at seeing that. It was noted that
the bike was spotless and gleaming and some satisfaction was derived to
discussing what a mess it would surely bo on its returned home given the snow
melt, salt and sand. So that helped.
Smitty gave a report on
the West Coast Sect. He had heard that Johnny O was under the weather for some
reason, he couldn’t recall what. There followed a long and wide-ranging
discussion about what it might well be that has laid him low and the conclusion
was it certainly had to be of self-inflicted excessive life style origins.
Everyone felt better after that was made fact by proclamation of Al. A toast to
Johnny O went up.
Dale, apparently, is in
prime condition having survived some travelling and at this very moment rides his
Road Glide regularly and is now ever more confident of returning from the rides
given that Johnny O is not riding alongside Also he is, at last report, divining
a method of photographically making a cheeseburger appear on a plate, one bite
at a time, as out of thin air. And not the old fashioned way.
No word of Alonzo who was
last heard to be excelling at his violin lesson.
Thereafter followed a long
period of staring down hazily at out empty plates, nodding and muttering “Yup”
every once in a while.
Then it was time to
adjourn having accomplished the goals as present by Al, Our Most Perfect
Leader, at the commencement of the meeting.
Respectfully submitted. -
Smitty
FCTTG
