Entertaining a Biker's Fantasy

By Jack Riepe

February 2012 BMW Owners News

The month before us is February, the middle of which is Valentine's Day, when men across the country will present their wives, sweethearts, and intended romantic targets with roses, candy, jewelry, and in many cases, the kind of lacy lingerie that might embarrass a professional pole dancer. These gestures are part of the Valentine's Day fantasy (and fallacy) that a public display of generous romantic ardor will be returned in Cupid's embrace.

The truth is that the Valentine's Day candy/roses/jewelry/lingerie-passion exchange fantasy lingers because it may have worked once in a man's lifetime, and he dreams of the night when lightning will strike twice. Yet some riders I know have developed a real strategy regarding the selection of moto-gifts as Valentine's Day tokens. Two weeks before February 14th, I encountered Wille C. buying a little red scooter for his wife up at Hermy's BMW and Triumph, with the intent of surprising her on Valentine's Day. (Out of deference for Wille's surprise, I have abbreviated his last name to "C.")

"What a neat idea," I said, looking over the shiny little machine.

"Ain't it though," he replied.

"Has she been wanting a scooter?"

"I have no idea," replied Willie. "But she pulled a pistol on me the last time I came home with lacy lingerie."

"So what made you decide to buy her this little 250cc sewing machine?"

"Because I just bought this nice yellow GS Adventure with all the bells and whistles on it for myself, and a little red scooter is a fraction of the cost of divorce."

A similar thought was expressed by Dick B., who was looking at a top-of-the-line Nolan helmet. (This is not an attempt to disguise Dick's last name. It is actually "B.")

"Getting the missus a more lasting alternative to the traditional Valentine's Day roses?" I asked.

"You bet," replied Dick.

"That Nolan is a great choice."

"That's for me. This one's for her," he said, holding up a much cheaper brand "X" model, with a grotesque graphic. "This says, 'I'd love it if you came with me on long weekend rides, but not really.'"

"Won't she see through that?"

"She'd rather see through this than filmy lingerie. Then I'll return it three days from now and get myself a pair of gloves." If nothing else, Dick B. is a hopeless romantic.

The notion of Valentine's Day fantasies got me thinking of fantasies in general.

A man has many fantasies in a lifetime, some of which are realized if he is lucky or bold, and some of which remain the pipe dreams of an adolescent mind trapped in a middle-aged body. Fantasies tend to mature and morph into slightly more attainable versions as time goes by, when men learn to adjust their expectations to certain realities. As the gentle reader of this column can imagine, I have had a number of fantasies over the years, some of which were attained against all odds, and others which have endured beyond reasonable expectation.

My more common fantasies have entailed the seduction of truly beautiful women (beautiful on the level of Jennifer Anniston), and the burning admiration and respect I'd get from lesser men. Three times in my life have I talked myself into romances so far out of my league that the crowds in the stands were left speechless. (The lesser men simply concluded the women had lost their minds.) Invariably, these fine ladies regained consciousness and I was thrown from a moving car again.

But my moto-fantasies are no less fantastic and a number of those have materialized as well. I once fantasized that accomplished BMW riders would ask for my autograph at an international rally. (That happened.) I also fantasized of the day when world-class riders would want to hang around with me. (That happened, too, with no less a two-wheeled legend than Chris Carr, seven-time AMA Grand National Champion and twice holder of the title "World's Fastest Man on Two Wheels." I met Chris at a party thrown by cookie maven Jim Ellenberg. Chris was determined to meet me, as I had blocked him in with my truck. Carr moved my truck himself, rather than wait for me to finish vacuuming up the buffet table. Carr later asked, "Does Riepe raise chinchilla or something in that Suburban?)

But my most enduring moto-fantasy (as a middle-aged man) is to find myself in a relationship with an adoring woman who will do something that most paramours will agree to in the very beginning, and then slowly move away from as time goes by. You all know what I mean-pack my gear for extended motorcycle rides. (What did you think I meant?) I would never expect a woman to open my side bags after a trip. I call the bomb squad for that, and watch robotic arms load my laundry into washing machines used for cleaning spent uranium fuel rods.

I can think of no greater luxury than to have a stunning beauty demurely look up and coyly say, "I packed your side bags for you last night," and know that everything is rolled tightly and stowed correctly on the bike. I'd even give up the Valentine's Day lingerie fantasy forever for this one.

I once vocalized this desire to a woman who gamely said she'd give it a shot. Early on the morning of my departure, she whispered across the pillow, "I packed your side bags on the K75 as you slept last night. Have a good trip." She then rolled me out of the bed onto the floor like I was an old carpet.

The bike was loaded as trim and tightly as a bateau on the Lewis and Clark Expedition. I was in heaven. This was the first day on a run to Maggie Valley, NC, and I'd be spending the night in a garden shed-type hovel, offered by a commercial campground. My paramour had packed the side bags in ride stages, and everything I needed to get going on the second day was in one handy cluster on top, including all my shaving things.

The communal men's bathroom at this campground followed the basic design of la toilette in your average Turkish prison. I have no idea how anyone ever got the idea that guys like to shower together or exchange recipes while sitting in stalls without doors, but this was the prevailing philosophy behind the decor. I was at one of 10 basins arranged uncomfortably close together when I began to shave. Step one in this process is lathering up my face with a bar of soap. The bar of soap packed by my lover was pink, and smelled like just picked Alpine daisies. I soaped up my kisser with reckless abandon, but noticed that I had gotten the attention of the guy next to me, who was slathering suds onto his face from a cup via a badger-hair brush.

He had arms like a lumberjack and the features in his face gave the appearance of being carved in wet leather. By contrast, I had the savage look of the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.

Step two entailed brandishing my razor like it was a sword. Unfortunately, it was the kind of cheap, plastic disposable razor that a woman would use on her legs, prior to donning the kind of lacy lingerie that I had now forever forsworn to present on Valentine's Day. Worse, it was pink, and had a flower molded into the handle. The guy next to me was using a straightedge razor... stretching his skin a centimeter at a time... scraping his beard with an audible scratching sound. I'd shave a patch on my face, look at it in the mirror, run my fingers over it, and then move the razor to the next spot. I found the guy watching me out of the corner of his eye.

Finally, it was time to rinse off and give my face a good toweling. Naturally, the face towel packed by the love of my life was pink. This proved too much for the guy next to me, who growled, "You sure do like the color pink, eh pal?"

I stared at him in the mirror. Holding up the cute, diminutive razor, I replied, "I've killed six pastry chefs with this. Do you know a good recipe for éclairs?"

He blinked, as I knew he would, and stammered, "I didn't mean anything, Mister."

I gave him my best Clint Eastwood glint, then exited the shower room and mounted my bike. I tossed the pink towel, the razor, and the soap in a trash can on my way out to the road. Another fantasy up in smoke.

Jack Riepe has been riding a BMW K75 since 2005, when he came out of coma in the gutter, where he had been abandoned by former wife #3. Riepe believes that the BMW K75 was brought to earth by ancient extraterrestrials, and allowed to be "rediscovered" by Bavarian scientists in 1986. Then again, he also believes that the US Congress works tirelessly on behalf of the taxpayer. Riepe is the author of "Politically Correct Cigar Smoking For Social Terrorists," a book that has redefined masculinity in the US. He also publishes Twisted Roads, a biker blog which can be found by Googling "Twisted Roads Jack." His new book, "The Motorcycle: A Talisman for Eternal Youth and Jackhammer Sex," will be available in spring of 2012.

 More at:   http://jackriepe.blogspot.com/