The RainMan Cometh

In 1999 hereabouts there was a drought such as many had never seen. The ground literally shrunk so much it often failed to support foundation and basement walls. Never mind the grass, folks were watering their dirt to keep their homes from falling down.

Now, 2007, winter broke early and we all thought we'd get an extra cut of hay this season. Then the RainMain sold his motorcycle. Drought. Heavy drought. Brown grass, hard ground, cracked earth, barren fields.

This went on until late last week. The dry, hot air mass sitting over the central Kentucky Bluegrass began yielding to the fronts previously thrown against it to no effect. The RainMan had made a decision. Motorcycle chosen, accessories ordered, price negotiated. Half an inch fell the next afternoon.

Wednesday afternoon The RainMan went to pick up his Motorcycle, well farkled. He pulled the great lumbering beast onto the road from the dealership's parking lot merging effortlessly, his wife following in the Z71. He rolled to a first smooth stop on virgin brke pads at the first intersection. The RainMan gazed down at the long, smooth curve of the red mirror finish fuel tank with satisfaction and pride of ownership. And the rain fell; a few drops at first. Enough to signal the deluge. It rained off and on all Wednesday night. The first utter downpour hit Thursday afternoon, and as much as an inch fell in places today. It'll probably rain tomorrow.

Coincidence? How far does a coincidence have to stretch before it becomes causation? Or, at least, correlation. I have never ridden with The RainMan without getting at least sprinkled on. More often than not it's a downpour at some point. There are folks out there who have a "knack" for one thing or another. Some folks are walking lightning rods. Others can find oil hidden miles beneath the earths surface.

I'm not saying The RainMan has some type of mystical power to call down precipitation. I'm just sayin'...

Makin' The Most of What Ya' Got

Now, I'm not one who could be called a motorcycle snob. If it gets ya' there and gives ya' grins - roll with it. But after rollin' by many a leather fag on a snortin' hippo.... or maybe it's the other way, leather hippo fag on a..... you get the picture - it certainly is refreshing to see someone who RIDES their bike. Albeit antique and raggedassed. Gotta give the fella credit though; no tassles, studs, or shiny chrome. That tote is probably not Genuine Honda though it is sporetin' a no-shit genuine Windjammer fairing straight from the hands of Craig Vetter - inventor of the modern touring bike.

Speaking of snortin' hippos.... Lately, I have taken to giving all positively identified harley riders "The Bird".

For those not of the cognoscenti I will explain why: we motorcyclists commonly wave to one another going down the road. It is a time honoured tradition that clearly acknowledges the kindred spirit of wanderlust that was common in all bikers. Today three quarters of the "riders" out there are a bunch of leatherfags playin' dress-up and lookin' to impregnate one another with a bunghole baby.

Am I being unfair? Yes. Am I stereotyping? Yes. Cry me a river. I figure the real riders will flip one right back (might even have an adventure bike in the garage)- the poseurs will just pout, putt on home, and keep gathering in flocks like the sheep they are.