Two Encounters with Morons


Submitted by Rocklandeagles

Dear B.E.:

I've been faithfully reading your site since I stumbled across it a few months ago, and thought I'd pass along two bike-related anecdotes.

Incident #1:

As a sportbike rider, I've heard my share of lame clichés coming from the mouths of Harley fanatics--things like "get a real bike...if you have to ask, you wouldn't understand...blah-blah blabbity blah." These tired little barbs (and their users) are about as original as a postage stamp and half as interesting, but one recent cliché-related incident will forever stand out in memory as a shining example of life handing me a big slice of delicious irony, free of charge.

I was on my CBR600 on my way home from work when I came across a biker stranded by the side of the road, obviously in mechanical distress. I initially just chuckled to myself and thought, "well, there's another Harley in its natural habitat." I was going to ride on, but  for some reason I decided to stop to see if I could help. I don't know squat about Harleys so I didn't think I was going to be any real help, but I did have some tools and a flashlight on me and I felt obligated to at least try.

Something about the guy's appearance made me think "old-school biker," tough but not a total dirtbag. I parked on the shoulder and approached the swearing, screaming, fist-pounding, tool-hurling biker. We exchanged greetings, and my initial impression was confirmed--he was a pretty cool guy who was PISSED off at his bike. It was a Shovelhead of some sort, with a pancake-sized puddle of oil underneath it, naturally. I noticed that both saddlebags were loaded to capacity with tools and spare parts.


We talked a little bit about his problem, and how it was the third time this week he had been stranded, although the conversation couldn't really go anywhere because he was swearing at his bike so frequently and violently. I mean, this guy said things to Jesus that you just can't take back. But amid his profane bellowing, he was also expressing his undying loyalty and love of Harley-Davidsons, "classic" models like his in particular. I couldn't figure this out, so I asked a dumb question: "If you're so pissed about this bike constantly breaking down, why don't you get something newer, something more reliable? Hell, everybody knows these AMF bikes are a nightmare..."

He looked up at me hard, kneeling there in the dirt next to his inoperable bike, with purple veins of frustrated rage standing out on his temples, grease in his beard, blood on his tattooed knuckles, spark plugs in one hand, and a socket wrench in his other hand....

....and then he said it:  "If it ain't broke, don't fix it."

Incident #2:

Stoplight racing is something I rarely (haha) indulge in on my bike, and usually racing  against cars isn't even worth my time, but I'll always make an exception for assholes. Such was the case when a rattle-trap hoopty Mustang LX pulled up next to me at a stoplight, with the stereo boomin' out some NWA loud enough to make my bike's windshield vibrate visibly. I kept my eyes forward, expecting a carload of hardcore gangsters to be inside. The driver lurched the car forward three times and redlined the engine for about five full seconds. It sounded like he had just hack-sawed the mufflers completely off, so it was rather hard to ignore. I took a wild guess and decided he wanted some attention from me.

Looking over, I saw a skinny puke of a little mall-gangster white kid in the driver's seat, wearing a Z. Cavaricci t-shirt and an Oakland Raiders ball cap (turned around backwards, natch) and a fat, nasty girl in the passenger seat wearing a Taco Bell uniform.

The driver screams at me: "whuzza FUCK you lookin' at BEEATCH??"

Pure class, this kid, a regular Rhodes Scholar. I didn't respond, but he wouldn't let up.

"Bitch I will cold fuck you the fuck up, you think that piece of shit's fast, boyeee? Come on, n*gga, I'll leave yo punk
ass in tha dust, yeah I'm talkin to YOU, you got noooothinnnn!!"

I don't always have something snappy to say in these situations, but fortunately inspiration struck. I flipped up my visor, looked at him, and screamed to be heard over the noise of his idling car:

"I'll tell you one thing for sure: I can beat ANYONE who wears their hat backwards.  Beeatch."

Alpha One to Flightcon, we have a confirmed kill, over.