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I posted this on another forum in response to some old pics from back in the day.....thought some of you might like the read and share the sentiment so here it is:




those first two pics of LJ back in the day remind me of days long past....

When I was little asshole,we`d be cruisin the highways and byways in my Mom`s Ford Country Squire station wagon

I remember being passed by bikers because my mom was too afraid to pass a biker......I would sit in the backseat all plastered up to the windows or jump over the backseat into the rumble seat just to get a look at guys like you and the bikes you rode...all the while wishing to be all grown up and on the road....riding to nowhere in particular and having nowhere in particular to be

My mom would freak out and roll up the windows and scream at us kids "Don`t look at them!Kids,DON`T make eye contact with them!They are very DANGEROUS criminals!".....all the while swerving all over the road and trying to contort herself over the backseat and into the passenger side in a maddening rush to lock all the doors for fear the scenes in those movies were real and bikers were extremely adept at leaping from a running bike at 60 and jerking open the door handle on a fleeing station wagon

I remember the way I could tune out her shrieking voice......staring at awe at those "miscreants" and "social deviants"......with no paricular place they had to be or to go to........no rules to follow....nothing in life to tie them down......setting off on roaring steeds with nothin but a pack,a bedroll,and the road ahead of them

They always looked so FREE to me.....no real possessions save for the bike to maintain or be chained to......no home to be stuck in.....needing nothing but food,drink,fuel,and a soft patch of grass to crash on

My Uncle Mark was a 1%er......and though my Mom loved him for being blood,she always cast him a wary glance or a suspicious stare.....After all,He was one of THEM...... and had spent the time in prison for his sins

I would always run straight to my Uncle Mark at every family gathering......the thing about Uncle Mark was he was always true to himself no matter what the family thought of him or how badly they treated him for it.....a quality I had never seen in any other man in my life and one that had me dumbstruck in admiration and respect.....I used to pull on his long hair and beard and he just sat there and let me.....until my mom or Grandma would run over to me in gripping fear and rush me off to play with "safer" relatives

I used to call him "Jesus" when I was two or three cuz he bore a striking resemblance to that painting hanging over the pulpit in our tiny Southern Baptist church......the others would just laugh nervously and comment to each other that I couldn`t be more wrong

My Uncle was always a stand-up man and though he took the abuse from those who bore him into this world,he still held his head high......and they never ran him off

I often wondered how he could stand being treated so badly for no other reason than he looked like Jesus on a Panhead with all black clothes and curious looking patches.....I had never felt afraid of him or any of his friends I had met....on the contrary,I had always felt an odd sense of safety and acceptance with him and his kind

Mom did her best to keep me away from Mark.....and then The Hillclimb moved in down the road.....The Hillclimb was a deep valley set inside some steep cliffs of dirt surrounding it on three sides and it was a country mile from our farmhouse

We lived just off a State Road and since it was the main vein leading to the Hillclimb,I would sit on the hill in front of the house waiting for the waves of rumbling Hell to roar my way,slowing just in front of our little home to make the last turn to the Hillclimb

Bikers of all kinds and Creeds....a place that MCs called "neutral" for the weekend while they all rode in to represent their skills as both wrenches and daredevils alike....with all sorts of pit trucks and broken down vans to follow.....this was in the days when Hondas,Harleys,V-dub trikes,Yammys,and Brits shared the mutual respect only the real bikers could give a two or three wheeled machine.... no matter the badge it bore

and again,my Mom would run out of the house to scoop me into "safety" when the Rumble of the Hooligans could be heard far off in the distance

When I was five....I remember my Uncle Mark talking her into buying his friends little Z50....it was green and the knobby tires were all bald from drunken Z50 burnouts...the fenders were missing from all the times they ran it off those dirt cliffs tumbling over and over to the cheers af all those long-haired troublemakers

that old beat-up Z50 was the best birthday gift I ever got to this very day......and me and my soon-to-depart-mysteriously- in-the-middle-of-the-night-in-a-sheriff`s-car Father spent all that Friday night wiring up all the broken stuff and cleaning the mud off it.....and the best thing my Dad ever did with me was to show me how to kick that little thing over until I pissed my pants (literally) when she finally fired up

When I straddled that tiny little Z50 and wobbled it all over the yard trying to find the brake pedal and learning to let loose my death grip on the throttle,I finally understood how my Uncle Mark could hold his head high with nary a care in the world..... even though the world would like to have taken a shit on him at every turn

and every since those days...I have loved motorcycles

and the reason I got all fuckin sentimental and shit is because those old pictures brought back those forgotten memories of my days on the hill in front of the farmhouse and in the backseat of a Ford Country Squire station wagon

thanks fellas
 

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I love riding past a minivan or stationwagon and seeing a kid plastered against the window in awe of your bike even more than I like it when other riders check your bike out....
 
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