the arkansas headlight

the names have been omitted and replaced with clever nick-names so as to protect the stupid,… there are no innocents in this story,… and I like calling people by clever nick-names, especially when I get to pick them.

It was supposed to be a fantastic four day weekend,… Bikes blues & BBQ in Fayetteville AR,… chrome, leather, music,…. skin filled fun fest on Dickson street,… no matter what, I wasn’t going to be at work, and that was the whole point. (and on that point, mission accomplished,… no matter how bizarre this weekend got,… I was indeed, not at work)

the regular bike broke down, and its nearly 30 years old so impossible to get electrical parts for,… two weeks wait for the eBay part,… no luck, so we’re taking the other bike,… The 79 that’s slept in the barn for the last 10+ years up until 3 months ago,… but the 80 mile trip yesterday went perfect so what the hell right?

Just to be safe we load it in the truck and haul it to what we think is the half way mark of the trip, my family’s house in southern mo. In taking the truck we’re trying to inject some responsibility into an increasingly irresponsible weekend.

Its when we arrive that we learn that not only will we be traveling with my bi-polar schizophrenic aunt who has taken up motorcycling after the age of 50, and my socially inept uncle who encourages/allows this because he‘s learned after 25 years,… that aunt beetle gets what aunt beetle wants,… but also two new friends of theirs will be riding with us,… a female tactically trained prison guard and her son, a baby faced sheriffs deputy.

my boyfriend at that time has one year of parole left due to stupid moments earlier in life and didn’t have permission to go out of state, and definitely not to a bike rally,… double bonus,… our bike has the other bikes tag on it, and no insurance,……. And now we’re traveling with law enforcement professionals,….. Can we say..... balls?

We made a team decision not to elaborate on our true outlaw status,… or even our last names for that matter,… balls be damned.

Side note;..... We spent Wednesday night on a less than fully inflated inflatable mattress,… which is to say that we spent a sleepless night sandwiched in a plastic sweaty ass taco,… cozy.

Thursday morning comes and my crazy aunt that I call Beatle Juice behind her back, has doubled up on her “bounce around excitedly and annoy the crap out of people” pills. All 6 of us on 5 bikes are ready for blast off,.. If for no other reason than self defense.

My man and I felt a wee bit out of place next to these slick chromed out rides, sitting on our 79 fireball,… our rough leathers and denim that looked like they had survived an apocalypse contrasting with the new riding suits and shiny helmets of our companions,… yup,… we were the tattooed outlaws of the bunch. Good thing our road crew didn’t know just how outlaw we were.

Just shy of the state line, the fireballs headlight dies,… no light at all,… oh well, no bother, unplug the thing, wont need it till night, we’ll fix it when we get there or we’ll come home before dark.

once in the city of Fayetteville proper,…. At the intersection of what I can only imagine were holy crap and WTFstreets,… we loose all power,.. Dead as a turnip in the turn lane,… battery drained by the short in the headlight switch.

so my man rides bitch behind boy-cop to get the battery charged at the nearby Wal-Mart,… it was a cute scene,… from my point of view.

1 hour and a waffle house later, the battery is recharged, and rather than tote parolee back to Wal-Mart, the boy-cop just throws him his bike keys,… stunned, my man rides off on this shiny scooter to fetch the juice box. He laughed later “if boy-cop ever saw my rap sheet, I doubt he would have so casually tossed his keys at me”

Then we yanked the fuse to the whole light system, and were back on the road.

We park the bikes just off Dickson street, and begin to understand why people go to bike rallies in the 21^st century,….. Shopping, Shopping, Shopping, Shopping, Shopping, ……. Did I mention shopping?

I can say that after 4 solid hours of this shit, I have seen enough bright shiny objects to wipe out half my childhood memories. I placated myself by putting a new sticker on my helmet that read “it used to be about motorcycles, now its just a f**king fashion show.”

Its all about the bling, the dope, the accessories,… The whole affair can be condensed down to the equivalent of a teenage girl gang hitting the mall,… Only with more leather, more chrome, louder music, and copious amounts of bravado,…

picture an effeminate 300# pound leather clad specimen saying in his most fab-5 voice possible,…. “oh my god,… would you look at all his patches!”,….. or,….. “Do these chaps make my gut look big?” and you’ll have the same ridiculous picture in your head that I did all day,… you’re welcome.

We hid in bars trying to loose our biker mall-rats,… but they tracked us down each time.

Another interesting side note,....

there are a few other reasons folks go to bike rally these days,…

1) ugly girls gota get laid too,… like ugly guys learning to play guitar,… you slap an ugly skinny broad in a slinky shirt and leather and send her down Dickson street,… yup,… like white on rice.

2)bored housewives need a venue for reliving a youth they never had,… that’s it sugar,…. Shake your money maker there,.. Whoa,… wait,… don’t shake that part no more,… oh I see,…. That part just shakes on its own now doesn’t it,… sorry bout that.

3) 70 plus year old grandmas can still play mustang sally,… I’ll prove it,… I saw what I assume was a 75 year old woman (or a really rough 22 year old tweeker) in bright red high heeled cowboy boots,… daisy dukes that couldn’t conceal a peanut, a red leather halter top,…. And,… wait for it…. Huge crushed red velvet cowboy hat,…. Oh yea,…, ride sally ride!

4) men need a place to express their inner faggot without the worry of retribution,… I saw big burly men in clothing that would have made Boy George come undone,…. In outfits that woulda shocked Elton John,… and I guess that’s ok at a bike rally?,…. Who knew.

5) college girls gota make a livin too,… that’s why horney dummies buy beer,… cause a college girl in a low cut shirt is selling it.

and so on, and so on, and so forth,…. It was an education.

Oh yea,… almost forgot,…. Take the whole family to the bike rally,… bring the kiddos and the pregnant wife,... it’s a famiy friendly affair,…. Right?

Sadly,… yes,… for the most part it was,… I was hopping for tits and ass, wild drunken fun, pass out on the street,…. Come on man,…. This was a bike rally,…. Right????,…. No,…. not Sturgis,…. But then I’m told Sturgis is no longer Sturgis in that sense any more,….. but I’m still amazed why any one thinks it’s a good idea to take the 8 month pregnant wife and 3 kids to a bike rally,… really? Come on folks,…. You look like a misplaced family of Jehovas whiteness that might try to convert me,… your freekin my ass out and screwin’ up my bike rally mo-jo,…. go home!

Where were we? Oh yea,… shopping.

Aunt beetle has a laundry list of medical conditions requiring a laundry list of really good meds,… but she can walk for 4 hours straight looking at every piece of chrome plated white trash bling imaginable,… without stopping. Of course one of her listed meds is Rx methamphetamine,… so I guess that explains a lot.

Crazy bitch and outlaw (boyfriend and myself) gave up and walked back up to the bikes and sat in the grass till 3pm,…. To hell with all that exercise,…. If I had wanted exercise I woulda went to a f**king joggers rally,… that’s why we road the damn bikes,…. Yes?

My man enjoyed the irony of smoking a joint while sitting next to boy-cop and prison guards bikes,…. I enjoyed not hearing my skitzo aunt beetle say ridiculous things in my ear every time she passed me on the side walk. Evidently she’s now convinced she can pick out devil worshipers and/or child molesters at 20 paces now,… and she points them out to me,… loudly.

Perfect strangers and she will spin off on a wild tangent about what she thinks they’re into,… and what she would do to them if SHE were the law,… its surreal,… and its also the reason I’m incredibly tense the whole time I’m near her. I love her, I really do,… but she makes my butt hole pucker shut.

At 3pm, our road buddies all make it back to the parking lot. Its now that we learn that prison guard and boy-cop want to do some bar hopping,… they don’t want to go home early,…

Excuse me?…. Headlight?

No worries, boy-cop, prison guard, and uncle do-do have the answer,… with their amazing mechanical prowess, they have quickly bungee strapped two flashlights to the front of our bike,… for real?

Did we wear our “I do crazy shit” t-shirts?

My man just watches in amazement as the struggle continues until he shrugs his shoulders and zip ties the arrangement in place. I ask him if he’s seriously considering driving home in the dark with two AAA flashlights on the front of our bike with our boy scout bikers for back up?

His answer?,...

“my parolee ass is already over state lines, at a damn bike rally, traveling with a boy-cop and a prison guard along with aunt beetle and uncle do-do, with weed in my pocket, illegal tags and no insurance… f**k the penny,… we were in for the pound.”

Yup,… that’s some serious level man shit... charming actually.

Ok,… so now were eating average over priced BBQ and listening to an average musician sing her more than average tits off,… watching uncle do-do bob his head up and down to the music with his eyes closed,… with an un-lit cigar in his mouth,… not at all in time to the music,… and that’s why he’s uncle do-do,…. But I love him,…. Because he hasn’t killed my aunt yet,…. And I'm afraid I would have.

Ok,…. Picture this with me,… its crazy bitch and outlaw, (myself and my man) along with boy-cop and prison guard, (mother/son bar hopping? Who knew) and aunt beetle and uncle do-do,… bar hopping in a college town over run with middle aged bored house wives and their midlife crisis husbands,… now,… remove any and all vestiges of coolness you might have foolishly applied to this,… and you get the picture.

So 4-5 bars later, having dodged an endless string of teeny-boppers with infants asleep on their shoulders while they danced wildly,… skirting hordes of wrinkled grandmas pretending they’re still princess’s,… we find one with a bit of breathing room and more appropriate to our collective age bracket. We usher our bad ass biker friends inside as the music is finally going after a 45 min self righteous mic-check,… and most importantly,.. We have found a place to set our exhausted ass’s down.

this is when our party-animal road buddies announce that they are tired and ready to go home. Seems this wasn’t as much fun as they thought it would be,… oh yea?,… no kidding.

So we head back up Dickson street to our bikes. We don all our clothing because we know this is gona be cold enough to hurt,… however,… our companions are wanting to make a fashionable exit perhaps? No jackets, no fancy riding suits,… oh,… I see,… I wouldn’t wear that pretty crap in front of anyone either.

I’m in charge of emergency lighting,… which is to say,…. I jump off the bike at the first stop sign, turn on the stupid AAA high beams and jump back the f**k on.

We’re on the road,… strains of “born to be wild” playing in some of our heads no doubt,… my internal radio was playing something more akin to “the bitch came back”

God loves fools such as my man and I,…. and here is why,….

Somewhere between Fayettevilleand Rogers,… our points begin to fail.

Top speed, 40mph with bursts of 65. Worried we might loose our two lead bikes if we just pull over, my outlaw shoots ahead of the pack as I wave my arms wildly. Crazy bitch looks like an acid tripping octopus as I flail my arms on the back of his bike,… doing my best to signal that we’re heading for an off ramp.

When we roll to a stop on the exit ramp,… we are alone.

Our incredibly safety conscious bikers have lost us.

Our law enforcement and public safety professionals,…. Just lost us.

My highly observant aunt beetle who can pick out the anti-Christ at 100 yards because of her extensive biblical research in Hollywood movies,…. Completely missed my 65mph epileptic fit on the back of our bike.

We are alone.

After adjusting the points by the light of passing traffic, a couple on a bike, complete strangers, stop to help and we explain the situation. (minus the parole violation, illegal tags, no insurance, and weed of course)

We sit road side as our four traveling companions have yet to answer their phones. 4 cell phones between them,… no one has answered. Eventually our phone rings,… they cant find us,…. Perceptive,… did you suddenly count bikes and realize you had an extra finger?

They are waiting for us,…. at a weigh station.

A f**king weigh station?,…. Well hell!

So our good Samaritans ferry us to the thank god its closed weigh station by the light if their head lights.

Seems like it takes forever, not only because our top speed is 40,… but because its 10 miles away,…. 10 DAMN MILES AWAY?

It took 10 f**kin miles for our boy scout level cool bikers to realize they lost us and pull over????????……. I’m not even shocked any more,… but they are NOT getting their biker merit badges now!

“No,… were not leaving the bike at the dimly lit cop infested weigh station,… no,…. there are lights ahead,… LOTS of light ahead, i'm sure its a gas station or an alien abduction in progres. iether way we dont care at this point. we’ll park it at the next gas station. after quietly cussing, parking and locking our bike,… and my aunt beetle buying her 3rd cappuccino along with finally donning her cold weather gear with the rest of the gang,… we’re headed home to southern mo,…. I riding bitch behind prison guard and mine riding bitch behind boy cop. Cozy.

Since we never exceeded 55 mph ONCE,… it was a LONGER cold ride.

You were wondering why I said that good loves us?…. Because god killed our bike.

We passed 4,… count ‘em 4 cop cars parked along the road waiting for dips shits like us as we road bitch all the way home. Yup,…. God loves us,… so he killed our bike,… so we wouldn’t get pulled over with AAA high beams.

We fell off of our bitch pads at 2:30am, for night number two in the sweaty plastic ass taco.

Next day, we cross state lines once again, to retrieve our dead bike, parked at a truck stop on wagon wheel road. Airing up a now flat tire and spotting another cop in the parking lot, we looked like a tattooed Chinese fire drill as we loaded the bike and sped away.

We made it almost to the state line when we pulled over to help broke down bikers. Throttle just quit, and they were scratching their heads. “Cable’s ok, did you check your fuses?”,… and vroom,… they were back on the road.

We felt like we paid it forward,….. Karma.

Made it all the way back to central MO, and my bed never felt soooooo damn good.

Saturday morning we pop the hood of the truck to find a nearly shredded serpentine belt. after a great deal of looking we determine that we must have ran over something on the return trip from Arkansas because there’s a chunk of fan shroud missing, a slash in the hood liner, and something is making an ominous noise. What ever we ran over must have flown up into the engine compartment and spun till it dislodged, ripping the serpentine belt as it went.

the bike now refused to run at all,…. So in protest,… we painted the letters AMF on the side of the tank,… right next to the Kawasaki,…

So its off to the parts store for a serpentine belt,…. in the truck with the 50% shredded belt,…. hopefully before it shreds 100%

Put the new belt on in the parking lot,… noticed the water pump leaking, that explains the obnoxious noise. Spinning mystery object in the engine compartment must have tourqued the water pump bearings. “Screw it, we’ll deal with that Sunday, lets go home”…..

Hit a deer,…… I am not kidding you. Bambi’s little brother just threw himself in front of us like it was vehicular assisted suicide.

So now we’re covered in blood, gutting a deer in a ditch in the dark.

Funny,…. No one,…. I mean NO ONE stops to see if your ok when they see you covered in blood up to your elbows,….. Go figure. You can be decked out in leather, covered in tattoos and secretly hiding your parolee over state lines status and bikers stop to check on you in the dark,… but that’s the difference between bikers and people I guess.

headed home, short one headlight, water pump squalling, dead deer in the back,… this is gona require beer and tequila. Stopping in at the local BBQ we grab a garbage sack full of ice. when I tell the teenage boy behind the register we have a dead body in the back of the truck, he doesn’t even bat an eyelash,… this kid is cool as a cucumber,… and I think I like him,… or he scares me,… same difference.

Hang the deer up in the shop,… and go to bed,… done!….. Or so we though.

on Sunday morning the outlaw walks into the garage to yell “shit” at the top of his lungs. I run in thinking what the hell next,… he's just standing there..... “I thought maybe it was all just a crazy dream,… but that f**kin’ deer is still hangin’ there,… so I guess we hit him”

Then we walk outside to find a flat tire on the truck.

So there you are,…Our 4 day weekend…. of infamy

My man said the next bike rally was gona be at home,… just ride round the yard in circles,… cook a large dead animal, play the stereo loud, get drunk and pass out in the yard,… …It seemed safer. in the end, all things would always compare to the infamous trip to arkansas.

Looking back on the whole experience,… I can honestly say,… While I would most definitely NOT do it the same way all over again,… not even on a bet,.. Not an a dare,… not even if you paid me,…. I'm sure things like this build chatacter.... perhaps that's why I am such a character.

the advertising will be pulled from this because of the language,.... i dont care,... i love telling this story,.... and this story would NOT be the same if i cleaned it up enough to get adds for toilet bowl cleaner and christian missions abroad put back on! ha!