This is an excellent example of the Usenet group rec.motorcycles at its
best (worst?). Freeze a moment in time and see what happens...
----------------------------------------------------------------
From: Sapphire@innonyc.com (Janice in NYC) (with editing and 
"Americanization" by James H. Lui)
Newsgroups: rec.motorcycles
Subject: The Showdown
Date: Sat, 03 Aug 1996 08:51:11 GMT
Organization: Adny Woodwrad Acolytes
     A cool May breeze gently caressed the freshly prepped surface of
Gateway International Raceway like a lover would his partner's silken
thigh.  The unmistakable pheromones of gasoline, antifreeze, and un-
catalyzed exhaust dominated the air. 
     Two late-model Kawasaki sportbikes, resplendent in their lime
green, pearl white, and baby blue war paint, glistened in the bright
Mississippi sunshine, speaking volumes of the countless hours their
owners had spent polishing to a mirror-like sheen the bikes' metallic
surfaces and waxing to a prize-winning finish their respective ABS
plastic fairings as well as of the not-quite-so-countless number of
hours of actual usage the two motorbikes had seen on a regular basis.
Gentle metallic pinging sounds emanated from deep within the hearts of
both machines as they cooled from a lap around the racetrack to scrub
in the freshly-mounted Dunlop D364 race-compound tires. 
     One of the riders unstrapped his Kawasaki Z-Force helmet and hung
it on the right mirror of his ZX-9R.  He pulled the right sleeve of
his color-matched Z Custom Leathers 1-piece racing suit up slightly
and peered at his Rolex. 
     "It's high noon, and nobody's here yet," he muttered to nobody in
particular as he went through several tongue contortions to dislodge a
piece of hot dog that was stuck between his teeth. 
     His riding partner mirrored his actions, removing his Bell and
hanging it on the only mirror his ZX-6 still had. 
     Quite suddenly, a loud CRRRRRRACK! followed by a dull THUNK!
reverberated across the otherwise tranquil racetrack. 
     With his buttocks still firmly planted in the cushy seat of his
ZX-6, the rider bent downwards awkwardly to retrieve his helmet and
the larger shattered remnants of what moments earlier had been his
bike's only mirror.  He inspected the Bell for damage but was relieved
to discover that he could not discern which of its many scratches and
dents was the most recent, so, quite logically, came to the conclusion
that his helmet's integrity was just as good as, if not better than,
what it had been before.  With an expert hand, he wiped fork oil--
which had slowly made its way down one fork leg and into a puddle on
the tarmac, into which the helmet had fallen--off the unbroken half of
his Bell's faceshield. 
     "Rob," he said in a high-pitched whining voice which--had this
been a television sitcom--must surely have been fake, but, quite
sadly, was not, "are you SUUUUUUUUURE they're gonna show up?  They
always play tricks on you, they're so mean." 
     "If they show up, I will win.  If they don't show up, I will
still win.  Therefore, I can't possibly lose," declared Robert with
the undeniable acuity of a Computer Science student as he stared at
the distant horizon and fiddled absently with his Ninja's petcock. 
     "Why did you ever challenge them anyway?"
     "Because I have the best bike by far.  Jason, you have much to
learn about life.  These guys are a bunch of inbred, pus-sucking,
asshole losers who don't do anything but talk about riding their
imaginary piece-of-shit bikes on the Information Superhighway and
insulting people like us who have nice bikes, get lots and lots of
pussy because we have nice bikes, play real men's sports like golf,
and get more money a day than those skankwads could even dream of
getting a year working at their bus station shoe-shine jobs.  The only
way to teach them a lesson is to call their bluffs." 
     "But why are they so mean to you?"
     "Simple.  Cos we're rich, Jason.  They're jealous of our money
and our bikes and our cars and our women.  They know they can never
have as much as we do, so they make fun of us and insult us.  But I'll
show them.  Our dad didn't raise no losers!  We will make them FEAR
the name McGehee for the REST OF THEIR FUCKING LIVES!!!" screamed
Robert in a catharsis of his most deep-rooted and profound hatred for
the denizens of the famed Usenet newsgroup rec.motorcycles. 
     His anger was multiplied tenfold when the petcock lever, under
great stress from being gratuitously manipulated with great force by a
clenched hand, snapped off. 
     "DAMMIT!!!!!!" he screamed again, spittle spraying and dribbling
out of his mouth and down his chin, as he flung the broken lever in no
particular direction with a force only a seasoned golf veteran could
ever manage. 
     His younger brother, with the well-honed reflexes younger
brothers invariably develop as a result of being younger brothers,
ducked quickly to avoid the projectile and slammed his chin into the
Ninja's fuel tank, creating a dent matching the one that was already
present at the juncture of tank and seat. 
     Robert, with the impeccable air of authority and superiority,
snapped his fingers. 
     Almost reflexively, Jason pulled out a silk handkerchief, ran to
his brother, and wiped the spittle from his mouth. 
     Satisfied with the dryness of his lips, Robert waved his brother
away with a gesture of dismissal. 
     A distant, steadily approaching high-pitched wail reached the
brothers' ears.  They cocked their heads to listen. 
     The unmistakable, lightly baffled exhaust screams of high-revving
inline-four motorcycle engines ripped through the air. 
     Not one, not two, but three sets of headlights became visible and
approached the brothers at an extraordinarily high rate of speed. 
     Robert stared intently, unconsciously twisting his bike's
throttle with his right hand in anticipation of the festivities to
come. 
     Jason nervously fiddled with the remaining portion of his
helmet's faceshield until, quite inevitably, it, too, joined the other
half on the ground. 
     The headlights manifested themselves in the forms of a late-model
Fireblade, a first-generation GSX-R, and an overheating FJ. 
     The three bikes pulled to a stop thirty feet away from the
Ninjas. 
     The newcomers turned off their ignitions, nodded acknowledgment
to Robert and Jason, and began removing their helmets. 
     "I say," said the Fireblade rider, whose visage upon removing his
helmet struck the McGehee brothers as being not quite entirely unlike
that of Benny Hill's, "that wasn't much of a ride, wot?" 
     "Keep your thoughts to yourself, sunshine," said the FJ rider,
whose visage--like that of the Fireblade rider's--upon removing his
helmet struck the McGehee brothers as again being not quite entirely
unlike that of Benny Hill's, "or, better yet, take the cooling system
off your CandleButterKnife and see how it likes being run at redline
for summat like twenty minutes across a fookin' desert." 
     "Is this," whispered Jason to brother Robert, "what they call
'deja vu'?" 
     The third rider pulled his helmet off.  The McGehee brothers,
fully expecting to see yet another incarnation of the ubiquitous Benny
Hill face, were understandably taken aback when an arse-length stream
of jet-black hair poured out from the RF-200 and a stunning female
face of Asian descent fixed them with a steely gaze. 
     "Say," said she while attempting to untangle several strands of
hair from her helmet's D-rings, "you're the Magoo brothers, aren't
you?" 
     "I thought it was MegaHeeHee," speculated the Fireblade rider.
     "Baaaaa-aaaaaaaa," agreed the impossibly enormous wooden crate
bungeed to the Fireblade's pillion seat in total incongruous violation
of the laws of classical physics and the sight of which would send the
hearts of the Fireblade mass-centralized design team members into 
quite fatally unrecoverable palpitations. 
     "Now now, Nellie," cooed the Fireblade rider as he gently patted
the top of the crate, "no need for _you_ to get involved in this.
This is a private war, you know.  Rob against everybody else." 
     "Must you take that sodding ewe everywhere you go?" the FJ rider
demanded. 
     "You're just pissed cos I flew past you on that last sweeper with
livestock riding pillion.  With one hand on the bars.  And my helmet
on backwards.  Face it, Gaz....in the U.K. or in the U.S., you'll
always be second runner-up." 
     "The sunlight distracted me," growled Gaz.  "I haven't seen the
sun for the past ten years." 
     "Are you forgettign that I work at Aber too?"
     "You're used to illumination.  Bathrooms are typically well-
lit...that way, you can tell if you missed a spot...."
     "That's Adny Woodwad and Gaz," whispered Robert to Jason. 
"Normally, I'd consider them assholes like the rest, but they're
British; it's genetic.  Can't blame them for that." 
     "I don't care about _them_.  Who's that chick?" whispered Jason. 
     "I don't know.  But I want to know.  Boy, do I want to know. 
Gaye Oliver, maybe?  Naw, can't be....Oliver isn't a gook name."
     "I saw her first." 
     "Bull fucking shit!  I'm getting her first because I have the
bigger penis extension.  You can have her after my two minutes." 
     "Okay, that sounds fair," lied Jason through angrily clenched
teeth. 
     Robert paid him no heed, for his attention was focused fully on
the various bodily motions of the female, who had gotten off her bike,
walked languorously to the Fireblade, and was sniffing the wooden
crate--a decidedly unladylike thing to do, decided Rob, but was
entirely OK given the possibility that she might be a slut--secured to
the pillion. 
     "Damn," muttered Robert to himself (for some reason, Robert
seemed to be entirely comfortable with this) as he struggled to think
who out of all of the rec.motorcyclists who had flamed him she could
possibly be.  "Who the hell IS she?  I want to know I want to know I
WANT TO KNOW!!!" 
     Gaz, who had taken notice of Robert's interest in the girl, cut
off Adny in the middle of one of his tirades with a wink and a slight
nudge of the head towards Robert.  Adny paused, looked over at Robert,
smirked, and nodded. 
     "Say, kiddo," said Adny towards the girl, "when are you going to
show us that rose tattoo on your arse?" 
     He looked at Robert, whose eyes were transfixed on her firm,
shapely posterior.  No indication of any response. 
     "Ugh," said she, wrinkling her nose, "pigs, apparently, aren't
the only ones who emit methane." 
     "How would you know?" chirped Gaz.  "There aren't any pigs in
Newy Ork City.  Not the animal kind, anyway...." 
     He threw a glance at Robert, whose eyes were still arse-
transfixed but glimmered with a slight hint of uncluelessness. 
     "Ahhhh, yes," observed Adny, "don't we all remember that plod
Officer Bob?  Many a flame hooked, did he." 
     Another look at Robert.  Gradual understanding of sickeningly
obvious disseminated clues--stuff of which new DoD numbers are made--
began to appear on his face, but, like the revelation that it is the
rider and not the bike, was still being denied by his unconscious. 
     "Something's wrong here," said the girl, tossing a look back
towards the way they had come.  "Where's Hobblewort?" 
     Gaz spun around and looked.
     "Shit," exclaimed he, scratching his head, "he was right behind
me not even ten minutes ago!" 
     The girl ran her hand across the FJ's pillion seat.
     "Armor All!" she exclaimed triumphantly.
     "Oops," declared Gaz with absolutely no hint of regret.  "Say,
when did you get so much Sense?" 
     As one, Gaz and Adny snapped their heads in Robert's direction.
Realization hit Robert like a wayward manhole cover as his eyes slowly
opened impossibly wide, pupils dilating wildly, and drool oozed out
the corner of his mouth.  What little shred of sanity and connection
to reality he had left was irretrievably ripped from his being, the
physical indications of which were the spontaneous uncontrollable
convulsions that began to wrack his admirably-shaped body. 
     "T-t-t-th-th-this c-c-c-c-ca-ca-can't b-b-b-b-be!" he stammered
as clearly as he possibly could given the fact that the world was
spinning erratically around him like the dented front rim of a
Kawasaki ZX-6. 
     The three stooges burst out in fits of laughter as Robert
commenced slamming his forehead rhythmically into his ZX-9R's fuel
tank in a futile effort to introduce clarity into the confusing jumble
of misinterpreted sensory inputs that were clogging the admittedly low
bandwidth capacities of his cerebral cortex. 
     "Stop it, Robert!  Stop it!" pleaded Jason as tears welled up in
his eyes and began wending their way down his well-pimpled cheeks. 
     "This......>>THUNK<<.......can't......>>THUNK<<.......be!!!!!!!
>>THUNK<<" 
     "I do believe," said the girl as she walked up to Robert, hand
extended and biting her tongue viciously to keep herself from
laughing, "we haven't been formally introduced yet." 
     Robert paused his tank-denting long enough to look up--face still
attached to the painted steel surface by way of a remarkably strong-
looking thread of mucous--at this girl whose identity revelation had
driven him into a psychotic denial of reality and had flared into the
desire to inflict as great an amount of pain as possible on his own
body. 
     "I am," continued she, batting her eyelashes demurely and smiling
broadly, "Senseless Bandwidth." (ed. Sensory Overload and also Janice
Chung, et.al. ...)
     A spine-chillingly inhuman scream emanated from the general
direction of Robert McGehee and shattered the air of the racetrack,
reverberating sickeningly back and forth across the grandstands. 
     All present, save Robert himself, clamped their palms to their
ears. 
     A trickle of blood oozed out from between Jason's fingers as he
scrunched up his face tightly in a display of the utmost pain, mouth
opening wide in a soundless scream. 
     Robert, as masculinely as possible, leaned over one side of his
Ninja and retched. 
     Chunks of Nathan's hot dog and baked beans marinated in a
remarkably flavorful yellow-green sauce spewed forth from his mouth
and hit the ground.  Specks of the smoldering mixture began dotting
the lower fairing of his ZX-9R. 
     The unmistakably pungent aroma of fresh vomit permeated the air.
     Fingers automatically pinched nostrils closed in an effort to
prevent a chain-reactive group retching. 
     Not heeding the pain of stomach acids burning his sore throat
like cigarette-butt torture, Robert continued puking--even after his
stomach's supply of vomit was depleted. 
     Energy exhausted, Robert collapsed off his bike and lay on the
tarmac, body still twitching convulsively. 
     A distant, deep, ethereal rumbling that seemed to come from deep
within the bowels of the earth itself shook the riders--save Robert
and brother Jason, who was too busy shoving silk handkerchiefs into
his ear canals in an effort to stem the flow of blood--out of their
respective states of shock. 
     "Wot's that?" asked Adny.
     "I think it was what the Yanks call 'hot dogs'." replied Gaz.
     "No, I meant that sound."
     "So sorry," said Senseless, blushing self-consciously.
     "Nononononono, _THTA_ sound!"
     The rumbling grew louder in amplitude.  An unmistakably veritable
sea of headlights appeared at the horizon, heading towards them.  A
large banner, visible even from such a distance, was held aloft. 
     As the group of what appeared to be several hundred motorcycles
approached steadily, a horrendous red visage with menacing yellow
horns on the top of its head and bright white razor-sharp teeth
exposed in a dangerously evil grin could be discerned on the wildly
flapping banner--which, ironically enough, turned out to be mounted on
a silvery-gray sports car that was leading the group. 
     "It's Geeky," whispered Gaz in total awe of the demented mind
that must surely have been residing in the cranial cavity of the
sociopath who came up with the gruesome face gracing the banner. 
     "The DoD," declared Adny and Senseless simultaneously.
     The silvery-gray sports car, windows heavily tinted, 'DMC'
emblazoned on its front grille, 24' x 12' Geeky banner affixed to a
stout pole which doubled as a CB radio antenna, wheels locked and
tires screeching, slid in an impressive four-wheel power drift past
the trio and stopped, its snout pointing menacingly at the McGehee
brothers. 
     A trembling Jason, silk handkerchiefs streaming from both ears,
leaped off the left side of his ZX-6, looped his right shoelace on the
respective footpeg, and fell flat on his face, right leg twisted
across his bike's saddle at a painfully awkward angle.
     "Rob!  Rob!  Wake up!  Wake up!  They're here!" exclaimed Jason 
as he tried futilely to stir his comatose brother after retrieving his
footpeg. 
     Hundreds of motorcycles of all commonly known--and some that were
not quite so commonly known, as exemplified by one curious two-wheeled
behemoth which lurched to a stop and whose passenger leaped off and
began furiously shoveling vast quantities of what appeared to the
naked eye to be coal from a laden sidecar into a furnace quite
conspicuously mounted where the bike's engine would ordinarily be
located--makes, models, and vintages proceeded slowly past the trio
and stopped in nearly perfect formation surrounding the silvery-gray
sports car, the two Kawasaki sportbikes, and the three bickering Brits
(one of whom was actually only just an honourary one). 
     "Quick, quick, quick!" exclaimed a rider on a Seca II.  "Help!"
     "What, what, what?"
     "Is my brake light working?" asked she, pumping her brake lever 
furiously.
     The license plate light flickered erratically.
     "Yeah."
     A small U-Haul truck--the driver of which, apparently, had
crossed out the words 'U-Haul' and scrawled 'AMSOIL' beneath it in 
large Day-Glo yellow letters--drove past the sizable DoD contingent, 
trailing bright blue smoke in its wake.
     Jeers and catcalls erupted from the hordes of motorcyclists as 
objects ranging from pistons to carburetors to crankshafts--most of
which bore the emblem 'Triumph' on them--appeared mysteriously in the
air on ballistic trajectories towards the retreating vehicle.
     A viscerally mechanical sound which could only come from a 
quartet of gear-driven overhead cams operating on eight valves per 
oval cylinder ripped angrily across the racetrack and caused an 
immediate silence to fall.  Heads turned.
     The highly focused light belonging to a pair of ellipsoid
projector-beam headlights pierced ominously through the sweltering
heat and haze of exhaust fumes, closing in at an astonishing rate.
     A bright red blur shrieked past on one wheel, Showa inverted
front end pointed to the heavens above, giving the incredulous
onlookers a glimpse of its Pro-Arm single-sided swingarm and unique
carbon-fibre/Kevlar/Hubba Bubba/duct tape weave of its lower fairings.
     The commotion of hundreds of people from all over the world
united by a singular love for anything with two wheels--save scooters,
anything made in America, and Suzukis--and their just-as-singular 
derision for one particular college student owning one particular 
Kawasaki ZX-9R Ninja rose to a new level as they mingled, ogled each
others' bikes absently, and insulted each others' riding skills.
     "So it wasn't bait after all!  Lord Almighty....."
     "If you only spent more time on rec.moto and less time bench-
racing with yourself, R.C., you'd have known...." 
     "......so you see, Keith, as the rider applies a force to the 
handlebars, the static-state equilibrium of the front wheel's gyro-
scopic precessionary angular momentum vectors is disturbed, resulting 
in an equal and opposite reaction which, in turn, shifts the bike's 
center of gravity--not center of mass--towards the inside of the 
turn.  This, of course, is only when dealing with an inertial 
reference frame and not an accelerative one."
     "Very interesting, Brian, very interesting....but tell me how 
this applies on this street, as I've had very little experience with 
street riding......"
     "Street riding is _TOTALLY_ different form riding on the 
racetrack.  On the racetrack, you don't worry about naught but winning
the race in as little time as possible.  On the street, you want to 
maximize the amount of item you spend alive, Dan you 'ave to worry 
about Shit like Landrovers and elderly people.  On the street, you 
want to take it as slow as possible, cos then you'd 'ave more time to 
react."
     "If only you applied your technique in the bedroom, Adny....."
     "Baaaa-aaaaaa-AAAA!!!!"
     "Nellie's jelaous of you, Gaye....."
     ".....there I was, cruising in the left lane (though admittedly 
below DoD nominal), and some blue-haired troll behind me in her 1978
Chevy Impala decides she wants to pass, so she signals, changes lanes,
and.....GET THIS.....passes me on THE RIGHT!!!!!  Is she a fucking 
bitch or what?!?!?!?"
     "Oh my God!  Where the hell is my bike?!?!?!?!  It was right here
a minute ago!  I had the ignition locked!  What happened to my 
bike?!?!?"
     "What bike?"
     "The 916!  What happened to it?  Where is it?"
     "I didn't see no 916."
     "But you were right here!"
     "Yeah, but I didn't see no 916."
     "How could you not see a 916?!?!?!!"
     "Dunno."
     "Oh my God!  Jesus Christ, that wasn't even my bike!"
     "Maybe the owner rode off with it."
     "No, that's not what I meant!  I borrowed it from my friend!  Oh 
my God, he's going to kill me!  A $15,000 fucking bike!  It's gone and
I'm responsible!  Jesus Christ, he's going to kill me!  Oh my God...oh
my God.....oh my God....he's going to kill me....."
     "You should have locked it up, bud."
     "But I did!  I locked the ignition up!"
     "With what?"
     "The key, what else?  Oh my God, he's going to kill me...."
     "I meant, with what other type of lock did you lock it up with?"
     "What do you mean, 'what other type of lock'?  The ignition lock,
what else?"
     "OK, then, where's the key?"
     "Which key?"
     "The ignition key, you dolt!  Where is it?"
     Silence.
     "Oh my God.....now he's REALLY going to kill me.....Jesus Christ,
oh my God....."
(ed. What follows is a diatribe of common flame trolls found on
rec.motorcycles on a daily basis...not that the content of this entire
composition can't be found on r.m...)
     "My V-Max can smoke your ZX-11 any day of the week."
     "No it can't."
     "Yes it can."
     "No it can't!"
     "Yes IT CAN!"
     "Can NOT!"
     "Can TOO!"
     "CAN NOT!!!!!!"
     "CAN TOO!!!!!!"
     "NOT!!!!!!"
     "TOO!!!!!!"
     "NOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
     "TOO!!!!!!!!!!!"
     "NOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
     "TOO!!!!!!!!!!!"
     "NOT!!!!!!!!!!!"
     "CAN TOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
     "CAN NOT!!!!!!!!!!!!"
     ".....but 50's technology sells.  Why else do you think all the 
Japbike companies are trying to copy the patented Harley 'look and 
feel', huh?  There is only one REAL cruiser, and it's no fucking 
Hondork A.S.S.  I've had women I didn't even know jump on my bike 
while I was waiting for the light to turn green......"
     "Well, there's your answer right there!  It wasn't your bike;
they just didn't know you....."
     "INCENSE STICKS FOR SALE!  INCENSE STICKS FOR SALE!  VERY CHEAP!
BEST QUALITY INCENSE STICKS!  ONLY $10 FOR 12!  COME AND GET YOUR 
INCENSE STICKS!"
     "What's up with that guy?  He has a nice bike.  Why is he
lying face-down in a pool of his own vomit?  Please answer me,
somebody." 
     "You stupid .edu-wannabe-newbie-squid-breath-puke.  Stop
complaining and take a fucking MSF course.  Asshole!" 
     "What?!?!?!"
     "Mind your own business, Glenn...."
     "Now, now, we want you to educate, not legislate..."
     "But I _AM_!  I'm educating you on the PROVEN FACT that you'd
need a 24-inch thick helmet if you want to survive an impact at speeds
greater than 5mph!"
     "That is, of course, assuming that the head contained within said
helmet is worth saving....."
     "It's not helmets we're against, it's helmet _laws_!"
     "Bullshit!  That '24-inch' theory is a load of crap.  But then
again, what else could we expect from an organization whose members
are primarily Hardly Dangerous owners?  Not much facial damage--not
any that would result in making the face look worse, that is--can
occur when you're moving no faster than 6mph on one of the 4 days of
the year that you actually ride your bikes......"
     "I...........HAVE...........TITS...........GODDAMIT!!!!!!!!!!"
     Total and immediate silence.
     "Can we touch them?"
     "I don't stop bikes for no reason....after all, I'm a biker 
myself...."
     "You know what you are, Alan?  You're a pussy.  You're a disgrace
to real cops like me.  I stop whoever the fuck I feel like.  I'm a 
real cop and I get bored eating donuts and drinking McDonald's coffee.
If I feel like stopping somebody--especially those asshole kids on
their Saran-fucking-Wrapped crotch rockets--I'll do it, and I'll run
them off my fucking highway if I feel like it, because I'm a real cop.
'So sorry, ma'am, my brakes faded.  Pity that your son won't be able
to pay the tickets.  I guess you'll have to.  Have a nice day.'" 
     "Officer, officer, help me, please!  Somebody just stole my 
Ducati 916!  Oh my God, he's going to kill me....."
     "Who's being killed?"
     "N-n-n-nobody.....please help me, officer, somebody just stole my
916!"
     "OK, when did you last see it?"
     "About three minutes ago."
     "Where was it last parked?"
     "Right over there.....about ten feet away."
     "What color was it?"
     "I think it was red."
     "What was the license plate number?"
     "Ummm......I don't know."
     "Is this some kind of fucking joke?"
     "Nonononononononono, Officer, it wasn't my bike...."
     "Wasn't your bike, eh?  So you stole it, eh?  You did, DIDN'T 
YOU?  SO YOU FUCKING TOOK SOMETHING THAT DIDN'T BELONG TO YOU, RIGHT? 
THE THING I HATE MORE THAN KIDS ON SARAN-FUCKING-WRAPPED CROTCH 
ROCKETS ARE THE SCUMBAG CUNTWAD KIDS WHO FUCKING STEAL SARAN-FUCKING-
WRAPPED CROTCH ROCKETS!!!!  STUPID ASSHOLE, YOU SHOULD AT LEAST HAVE 
THE SENSE TO STEAL SOMETHING THAT DOESN'T DEPRECIATE, LIKE A FUCKING 
HARLEY, YOU PRICK!!!!!  THE THING I HATE MORE THAN SCUMBAG CUNTWAD 
KIDS WHO FUCKING STEAL SARAN-FUCKING-WRAPPED CROTCH ROCKETS ARE 
SCUMBAG CUNTWAD KIDS WHO FUCKING STEAL SARAN-FUCKING-WRAPPED CROTCH 
ROCKETS WHO ALSO HAVE NO FUCKING APPRECIATION FOR GOOD 'OL AMERICAN 
IRON!!!!!  BUT YOU'LL LEARN APPRECIATION FOR GOOD 'OL AMERICAN IRON, 
OH YES, YOU'LL LEARN TO APPRECIATE IT......BECAUSE YOU'LL BE FUCKING 
ROTTING BEHIND A SET OF GOOD 'OL AMERICAN IRON BARS FOR THE REST OF 
YOUR NO-GOOD, GODDAMNED, FUCKING USELESS LIFE, DICKFACE!!!!!!!!"        
     "Nonononononononono, please, Officer, listen to me!"
     "I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR FUCKING LIP!!!!!!"
     A long, loud scream.
     A night-stick lofted high into the air.
     And descended swiftly.
     >>>THUNK!!!!!<<<
     Up.
     Down.
     >>>THUNK!!!!!<<<
     Up.  Down.  >>>THUNK!!!!!!<<<  Up.  Down.  >>>THUNK!!!!!!!!<<<
     >>>THUNK THUNK THUNK THUNK THUNK THUNK THUNK THUNK!!!!!!!<<<
     "Now, don't worry, Julie, I'll be right behind you, OK?"
     "OK, but...."
     "Remember, thumb and pinkie extended means 'decreasing-radius 
turn up ahead', index and middle fingers extended and touching each 
other means 'BDC is tailgating you and wants to pass after rearending 
you', thumb and middle fingers extended and rotating in a counter- 
clockwise direction means 'slow down, speed trap up ahead', fingers 
extended in a closed slap and flipping back and forth means 'switch to
reserve', and bent thumb with crossed index and middle fingers moving 
up and down at a 45-degree angle to the vertical means that I got a
call on my cellphone, OK, cupcake?" 
     "OK, but...."
     "No 'buts', lovemuffin.  Let's go.  Remember that MSF thing they 
taught you:  kill switch, ignition, clutch, and something or other...
and remember, smooth clutch let-out, smooth throttle roll-on, got it?"
     "But....."
     "Now, now, be a Nike girl.  Just Do It (tm)."
     BWAAA-WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!
     SKKKKKRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!
     KKRRRUUUUUUUUNCH!!!!!
     "Sorry, Julie!  I forgot to remind you:  spread-open palm
rotating left and right axially and eyes wide, wide open means 'put up
sidestand'." 
     ".......and as the bike pivots about its longitudinal axis--which
is usually through the center of mass of the bike/rider combination, 
but not necessarily always--the dynamic offsetting of the torque
forces about the axis in combination with the Van der Waals electro-
static forces between the bike's metal chassis and the magnetic poles
of the earth creates a self-sustaining retroactive centripetal
acceleration that enforces a steady roll-on of the throttle to ensure
optimum bal.....Keith?........Keith?......." 
     "Say, rad bike, d00d!  Isn't that the all-new 1996 Suzuki 
GSX-R750RRSP7XR4TiRRR?"
     "Yeah."
     "It looks EXACTLY like the artist's depictions in Cycle World and
Motorcyclist and Sport Rider, man!"
     "Yeah."
     "Matching helmet, too!  That's an Arai RX-7RR, right?"
     "Yeah."
     "Rad leathers!  Color-matched and everything!"
     "Yeah."
     "How much you get the bike for?" 
     "Birthday present."
     "K00l, man!  What are the valve adjustment intervals?"
     "Valve adjustment?"
     "CAN NOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
     "CAN TOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
     "CAN NOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
     "CAN TOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
     "CAN NOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
     "CAN TOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
     "NO!!!!!!!!!"
     "YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
     "NO!!!!!!!!!"
     "YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
     "NOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!"
     "YEEEEESSSS!!!!!!!!!!!"
     ".....as opposed to, say, Monty Python sketches, where 99% of the
content isn't even remotely funny?  BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT try 
again."
     "And like somebody who lives in a country where free speech is
guaranteed except in instances where it doesn't agree with what you
think and gave the world Milli Vanilli would know any better?" 
     "Dickweed!  Don't EVER make fun of Milli Vanilli EVER AGAIN!!!  I
happen to love them!"
     "Then I wholeheartedly invite you to the first-ever public North 
American Male Biker Lesbian Association meeting......"
     "Yes, it REALLY WORKS!  Try them out yourself, Noemi."
     "Hmmmm.....but I don't think I really NEED them....I can balance 
my dirt bike quite fine....."
     "On your _TIPTOE_!  ONE tiptoe!  Don't you know how dangerous
that is?  What if, Heaven forbid, a gust of wind blows you the wrong
way or some mean teenagers out for a laugh give you a push?  WHAM! 
That's _THOUSANDS_ of dollars worth of damage to your beautiful bike!"
     "Well, it doesn't have THAT much plas...."
     "Nonsense!  That isn't the point!  Just give them a try, that's 
all I ask, and I GUARANTEE a full refund if you aren't satisfied!  
Minus a minor 20% restocking fee, of course.....I _am_ running a 
business, after all....."
     "But....."
     "And think about it this way.....with these Amway 8-inch Deluxe
Mega Extendor Clods, you'll also look ultra-cool, and....." 
     "$199.95 is an awful lot for a pair of clods....."
     "......when your SO wants to have standing-up sex with you, he 
will no longer scrape up his knees!  Show your love for him!"
     "I'll take them."
     "Great, great!  Put them on and get used to their feel."
     "Hey, they're pretty comfortable for wood....."
     "Er.....imitation wood....."
     "....for imitation wood.  Uh.....erm......how come they're not 
coming off?  I can't get them off!  Ouch!  OWWWWW!  They're not coming
off!  Hey.....HEY!!!!!!.....HEY YOU!!!!!!!.....come back, you 
fuc^@#%$)!@%!......"
     A sudden hush fell over the motorcyclists.
     For there, not five feet away from Robert McGehee's still-prone 
body, stood a 1985 BMW K100RS idling ominously, its rider suited up in
full Aerostitch regalia and the requisite BMW attitude.
     "He's here!"
     "The bane of all drunk drivers the world over...."
     "It's him......it's him!"
     "'Tis about fookin' time, too, wot?  I need to take a fookin' 
piss."
     "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh........that felt good......."
     "ATTEN-HUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" the BMW rider screamed--
rather audibly, the motorcyclists closer to him thought as they
desperately searched for their earplugs--at the unconscious excuse for
a biker. 
     As if summoned by some ethereal entity for his final Judgment, 
Robert McGehee rose to his feet.
     "WIPE THAT CRAP OFF YOUR FACE, SOLDIER!!!!!!!"
     Robert snapped his fingers.
     Brother Jason, silk handkerchief in hand, quickly wiped the 
chunks of hot dog and sauerkraut off Robert's face.
     "GET ON YOUR FUCKING BIKE AND LET'S GET THIS OVER WITH!!!!!!"
     As wordlessly as a man who had just been sentenced to a long, 
long liaison with Old Sparky, Robert McGehee donned his Z-Force helmet
and thumbed his Ninja's starter.
     A large puff of blue smoke spewed from the carbon-fibre exhaust 
canister of the titanium Muzzy Lite exhaust system as the bike burst 
into life and settled into an ominously loping idle.
     "WARM UP YOUR FUCKING TIRES AND MAKE IT QUICK, DICKWAD!!!!!!!"
     Robert stood up off his bike's seat, engaged the front brakes,
held the throttle open, and dumped the clutch.
     A loud metallic clattering sound shattered the tensely still air 
before finally subsiding as the Ninja's rear wheel began to spin.
     "AGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!  My hair's on fire!  My 
hair's on fire!  Help!  Help!  HELP!!!!!!!!"
     "Quick!  Dive into the ground and roll........NO!....not towards 
_ME_, arsehole!!!"
     "My hair!  My beautiful ponytailed hair!"
     "Serves you fookin' right!  Wot the hell were you doin'?"
     "Just looking at his rear tire, that's all......"
     "Is it just me, or is Bobsy-Wobsy's chain a tad loose?"
     A deep, earth-shaking voice boomed out from a loudspeaker mounted
on top of the silvery-gray sports car.
     "YOU BOTH KNOW THE RULES.  RULE #1: THERE ARE NO RULES.  RULE #2:
RIDE!!!!!!  WINNER TAKES ALL."
     Silence.
     "ER......OVER AND OUT."
     "That KotL sure is a melodramatic type, eh?"
     The silvery-gray sports car, tires spinning wildly, 24' x 12' 
Geeky banner flapping in the Mississippi wind, headed off the track.  
The motorcyclists--save a particular K100RS rider and a particular 
ZX-9R rider--donned their gear, fired up their steeds, and 
followed it towards the bandstands.
     "Hey, get that farking truck off the track!!!!"
     "I, an authorized AMSOIL distributor, am supplying the AMSOIL
race fuel.  That's because AMSOIL race fuel, developed, refined, and 
purified by AMSOIL, a subsidiary of AMSOIL International, has been 
PROVEN in AMSOIL laboratory tests conducted by AMSOIL, a subsidiary of
AMSOIL International, to be the..." 
     "OH SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY!!!!!!!"
     Robert McGehee took a deep breath to calm down his nerves.  
Nervously, he blipped the throttle of his Ninja and was instantly 
calmed by the BWAP BWAP BWAP of the Muzzy's exhaust note and the 
frenetic rustling of the 899cc motor's cam chain.
     Tom Coradeschi sat motionless on his K-bike, its Bosch electronic
fuel injection--metering out identically exact amounts of fuel-air 
mixture in the correct stoichiometric ratios into each cylinder--
not requiring constant throttle manipulation to keep the bike from 
stalling on extended idle.
     "WILL SOMEBODY PLEASE GIVE ME A GUN?" boomed the loudspeaker.
     "Sorry, Mr. KotL, sir, I didn't send THAT much email to you..."
     "I MEANT TO START THE RACE, YOU TWIT!"
     "Here, I've got one!"
     "Bah, that one's too small.  What you need is something of THIS 
caliber....."
     "Too bulky.  We only have two hands, you know."
     "So let's get a Harley guy to hold it....."
     "Here, take _MY_ gun."
     "Ewwwwwwwwwwww, zip your pants back up!"
     "That's not a gun.......THIS is a gun!!!!!"
     "SOMEBODY GIVE ME A FUCKING GUN ALREADY!!!!!!"
     A shatter of glass.
     "I WOULD HAVE ROLLED DOWN A WINDOW, YOU KNOW!!!!"
     "Sorry."
     "OK YOU TWO, ON THE COUNT OF THREE, I WILL FI..."
     "Is that ON the count of three or AFTER the count of three?"
     "WHAT?!?!?!!"
     "Do you mean like 'One....two.....three........BANG!', or
'One....two......three/BANG!'?"
     "WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE?"
     "About a second."
     "IT WILL BE 'ONE......TWO.......THREE........BANG!', UNDERSTOOD?
KEEP SHOOTING OFF YOUR MOUTH AND I WILL DO IT FOR YOU!!!!!!"
     "Okay, I just wanted to make sure everybody understood...."
     "SOMEBODY PLEASE REMOVE THAT ASSHOLE!!!!"
     "Hey, it wasn't me!!!!"
     "NOT YOU, GLENN, I MEANT THE OTHER ASSHOLE."
     "I'm the only Asshole here."
     "I MEANT ASSHOLE AS IN DICKWAD, NOT ASSHOLE AS IN NUMBER."
     "Stop shouting already!"
     "_THAT_ ASSHOLE.  REMOVE HIM."
     "But who was it?"
     "I think it was that RyanMan guy...."
     "Couldn't have been......he rode off a cliff yesterday...."
     "Firefly?"
     "Good book."
     "Which?"
     "Firefly.  By Piers Anthony.  Very sexual."
     "I meant the guy Firefly."
     "I'm not into guys.  I think that's kEN's specialty...."
     "Baaaa-aaaaa-AAAAAAAAA."
     "I'm getting fucking hungry.  Anybody here for lamb chops?"
     "Or squid?"
     "Naw, McGehee's in the race; he can't make it to dinner....."
     "Or maybe it was Senseless?"
     "I thought there was only Billy Bob and Tom in the race!"
     "There was and still is!"
     "Then how did Senseless get into the race?"
     "I'm NOT in the race!"
     "_YOU'RE_ Senseless?  This has got to be bait!  If this is bait, 
then just pretend that I didn't swallow the hook.  If this ISN'T bait,
then you must really be a guy, because everybody knows that there 
aren't any girl bikers, and also, how can a girl find time to post 
useless drivel on rec.moto unless she is neglecting her girlie duties 
in the kitchen?  You can't possibly be Senseless!"
     "Hey, I resemble that remark!  I happen to be a girl biker! 
Look!" 
     "Wow, she really _DOES_ have tits!"
     "But where are her nipples?  You can't have a tit without a 
nipple."
     "I can certainly attest to the fact that her nipples (notice the 
_plural_ form) do in fact exist.  They are simply tit-coloured."
     "But you're her husband.  You're paid to say that."
     >>>THUNK!!!!!!!<<<
     "OWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!  What you hit me for?"
     "Hmmm.......these clods really DO have other uses....."
     "So it wasn't Senseless."
     "That's what I was telling you!  Why don't you people ever 
believe anything I say?"
     "WOT?????"
     "I said, 'Why don't you people ever believe anything I say?'"
     "WOT?!?!?!?!?!?!!?!"
     "Don't worry your pretty little arse abou tit, Senseless....he
listens to a portable radio when he rides.....probably so as to listen
to the weather forecast so he'll know what to expect when he arrives 
at his destination two days later."
     "I THINK," sighed the loudspeaker in exasperation, "I AM GOING TO
RESIGN."
     "Come on, will you people shut the hell up so we can start the 
fucking race?  I didn't drive all the way out here to listen to the 
same old bullshit I read on rec.moto.  JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP, 
PEOPLE!!!!"
     Immediate silence.
     "THANK YOU, ED."
     A pause.
     "ER......ED?.....WOULD YOU PERHAPS LIKE YOUR JOB BACK?"
     "No fucking way."
     "PLEASE?"
     "NO!!!!!!!!!!!"
     "OKIE DOKIE, NO NEED TO GET UPSET....I WAS JUST ASKING."
     Silence.
     "OK LET'S TRY THIS AGAIN.  ON THE COUNT OF THREE..."
     Expectant pause.
     Silence.
     "GOOD.  ON THE COUNT OF THREE, I WILL FIRE THE GUN--DO NOT I 
REPEAT DO _NOT_ ASK ME WHAT KIND OF GUN IT IS OR I WILL BE EXTREMELY 
PISSED--AND TOM AND ROBERT WILL RACE.  ONE WILL WIN.  THE OTHER WILL 
LOSE."
     "And you're telling us this because.......?"
     "ONE!!!!!!!!!!!!"
     Robert clunked his tranny into first.
     "You really should try AMSOIL synthetic motorcycle motor oil, 
Robert, because AMSOIL synthetic motorcycle motor oil, developed, 
refined, and purified by AMSOIL, a subsidiary of AMSOIL International,
has been AMSOIL laboratory proven to be th..."
     "TWO!!!!!!!!!!!!"
     Tom snicked his K-bike's gearbox into first gear.
     Robert began tugging his right twistgrip as he had seen countless
number of professional racers do.  Presumably, he thought, it would 
give him greater power for a smoother launch.
     "THREE!!!!!!!!!!"
     Robert held his throttle steady, revs held steady at the big 
Ninja's 10,750rpm power peak.
     >>>BANG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!<<<
     Robert mercilessly dumped his bike's clutch.  Immediately, the 
Ninja's rear D364 spun for a fraction of a second before hooking up.  
The bike's snout snapped upwards in a gesture that would be sure to 
win him points in the hearts of the onlooking females, particularly 
the Asian one.
     Tom, with years of experience at the racetrack, raised his bike's
revs and smoothly fed in the clutch of his K100RS for a perfect 
holeshot.  Perfect, save for a lurching to the right due to the torque
effect. of the Bimmer's shaft drive.
     Robert, clearly enjoying the view from such an altitude, nearly 
lost control of the wheelying bike when he saw Tom and the Bimmer rip 
past him in a wave of torque.  He shifted to second, let off on the
throttle a bit and let the front end down. 
     The Bimmer was already into the first turn of the track, about a
hundred feet ahead of the Ninja, centerstand throwing up sparks wildly
as it scraped against the tarmac.
     Robert flicked his bike down into the turn, feeling intensely 
satisfied as he felt his knee sliders touch the swiftly passing 
ground.  His satisfaction, however, was somewhat muted as he came to 
the realization that the Bimmer, by no means a racebike, was still 
pulling away from him.
     "Just wait 'til the straights," he whispered through clenched 
teeth.
     Against his better judgment, he rolled on more throttle.  The 
bike's torque overcame his rear tyre's traction and started sliding 
outwards.  And not a moment too soon, for he was already past the apex
and brought the bike up.  And up and up.  Front end two feet off the 
ground in a crossed-over wheelie, at last he reached the straightaway 
where his ZX-9R would certainly shine.  He clicked off a clutchless 
upshift and slammed the throttle WFO.
     And shine it did, for he was closing in on Tom very rapidly.  
Almost too rapidly.  Before he knew it, the second turn was awaiting.
Grabbing the brakes and snapping off a downshift, he was very nearly 
catapulted over the front fairing by the immense stopping power of the
twin 320mm Tokico disc brakes.
     He gave the clipons a violent twist to turn the bike in.  Leaned 
over in the fast right-handed sweeper, with the K100 cornering barely
inches to his right, he found the courage to open the slides of the
40mm Keihins even more.  Slowly but surely, his bike began an outside
pass. 
     Another straightaway.  Twisting the throttle against its stop, 
the big Ninja lunged forward, its ram-air system audibly sucking in 
vast quantities of cool, pressurized air into the gaping carburetor 
maws.  Ripping angrily past the Bimmer, Robert set up for the tricky 
left-right-left combo he knew was to come.
     And overbraked, nearly relinquishing any lead he had over the 
K-bike.  He flicked the bike left, Tom hot on his tail and gaining.  
Deftly, he snapped the bike up and down to its right side.  A quick 
glimpse in his mirrors showed the K-bike's front wheel to be right 
next to his Muzzy exhaust canister.  He snapped the bike back up and 
then left, with Tom following suit.
     Then, suddenly, Robert was tumbling painfully across the tarmac
at over 120mph.  He caught a glimpse of lime green, pearl white, and 
baby blue fairings flying in various directions.
     Something very substantial smacked him across the face. 
     He could have sworn he saw the word "Luftmeister" on it just 
before he blacked out.
     The motorcyclists gathered around the wreckage.
     "Tom, are you OK?"
     "Yeah, just a little bruised, that's all."
     "What the hell happened?"
     "I dunno, he just fucking lost it, and I was practically right 
next to him.  Before I knew what happened, I was looking up at the 
sky.  It happened so fast."
     "Yeah, I know how it is....."
     "Pity about your bike, tho."
     Tom looked wistfully at the remains of his beloved Bimmer.
     "She's given me more than I could ever have asked of her.  Rest 
in peace," he whispered softly, a tear rolling down his cheek.
     "So can I have the rest of her?  For spare parts?"
     "Robert....Robert....Robert!" cried Jason in disbelief as tears
streamed down his face.
     "There, there, Jason," murmured Senseless softly as she embraced
him and held him tight, feeling Jason writhe as sob after sob was torn
from his body.
     "What a way to go.  A Bimmer."
     "Yeah, I thought ovloVs were the worst."
     "Hey, here's one of Bobsy-Wobsy's arms!"
     Jason shrieked audibly, crying harder as he pushed his face 
deeper into Senseless's bosom and blew his nose hard.
     "Hmmmm......I figure we can make about $1500 from the parts off 
his Ninja.  Damn, that bike is fucking durable....."
     "The frame is shot.....look, the forks tore the fucking steering 
head right off!"
     "One of the legs has a busted seal.....not too big of a deal, 
tho."
     "The front rim is dented."
     "The tire is still good.  Billy Bob wasn't much of a cornerer." 
     "The fluorescent green windshield is still mint!  That's got to 
be worth at least $50 brand new.  It's a Lockhart, too."
     "Hey, he had a Fox shock!"
     "Robert was, presumably, a smoker?"
     "How would you know that, Adny?"
     "I'm a doctor of biological sciences, after all.....take a look 
here at his lung....."
     Hours later, the setting sun cast beautiful shades of color 
across the now-empty racetrack.
     A lone figure stood looking at the horizon, System III modular
helmet in hand. 
     He turned his glance upwards, spoke a silent prayer, and 
genuflected.
     "Robert, I know we've had our differences," he whispered quietly,
"but I didn't want it to turn out this way.  You were young and naive,
that's all.....everybody is entitled to that at some time in their
lives, but nobody should die because of it.  Sometimes life just isn't
fair, and we have to play the cards we are dealt, Robert.  I guess 
there isn't much more for me to say, except that I'm sorry."
     A tear rolled slowly down his cheek and hit the ground.
     "Goodbye......"
     "......my son."
Janice Chung                                      Miss  Bullshit  USA
Sapphire@innonyc.com           __ __     __       KotPMS    OGREss #1
Usegroup Coordinator,        _/ -/ O\___/~ \_     Honourary Brit #001
rec.motorcycles             /   /  ___\___   \                __  __
                           /   \   \      /   \         +-,  (  )(  )
Newy Ork City             /   /\\E/\\_   //\   \        |  ]=|--  --|
                       \_/   /   /_/- \-//--\   \_      +-'  +------+
1997 Suzuki GSX-R1100    |  /|  /\____  ___  \  | \             /\
1995 Harley-Davidson     | / | /      ||   \ |\ |              /  \
     FLSTF Fat Boy       ||  ||       ||    || ||             /    \
""""""""""""""""""""""""So many men, so little time""""""""""""""""""