Raise your hand if you wish the weather would stay a little warmer a little longer. Now raise your hand if you’re like me and don’t give two ripe s***s what the weather does because you’re gonna ride any way.  I don’t know about you but I am for one getting tired of the ever popular excuse of not ridding because “the weather just won’t cooperate”. Ever since I started ridding I have rode year round. Like clockwork, in the winter I would layer up and in the summer I would strip down. This was done with no pissing, moaning, whining, or bitching because I was out doing the one thing I love and the only thing I was truly ever any good at. Over the years I have met a s***-ton of other moto jockeys with this same mentality, and it never ceases to amaze me that we’ve all mastered this unique combo of dedication and stupidity. Oh sure you would be safer in a car, and warmer, and dryer. While you’re at it though swing by the local Macy’s and pick yourself up a skirt you pitiful remnant of a wh**e’s sagging taint!

This recent bout of being pissed off sprang up a few weeks ago now. I was trying to get some buds together to ride to Chimney Rock and grab lunch at the local bar-b-q joint. But almost everyone gave the same reply; “not today slick, too chilly”. After politely telling all of them where they could shove their “fair weather rider” bullshit (seriously man, I’ve rode through snow on the Blue Ridge Parkway and you’re afraid of a little nip in the air?) I called up a bunch I know I could count on. My best friend Matt Wilson and his better half Ms. Amber Childers, and Ms. Monica Wilkerson and her ridding partner Andrea Beech. 

Before I go any further I just want to throw this out there. To all the yupps who think their all “Billy Bad Ass” because they’ll ride twenty miles when it’s seventy and sunny; just remember that in the town of Boiling Springs S.C. there lives a 30 year old girls gym teacher with a bigger f***ing pair than you! Monica if you happen to read this please know that I have the highest level of respect for you, when it comes to ridding you have balls that clank.

But I digress ... 

After everyone had signed on we agreed to use Strawberry Hill U.S.A. as a meeting point. Wilson and I arrived early and had some time to kill. While he and his better half grabbed drinks and munchies I gassed up King S*** and choked a few camels. On my second or third cig I struck up a conversation with these two gents, one on a V-Star the other on a Harley. Once I introduced myself the weirdest damn thing happened. The Harley pilot dismounted, shook my hand and informed me that not only was he a subscriber to thecarolinarider.com, but that he also digs my work was glad to meet me. Where the hell did that come from? He went on to say that he liked how straight forward I was and that he had given Fancy Free a vote of confidence on me. Fucking aces man. Meeting cats like that is the only reason I sit behind this damn screen that reeks of bootleg U.K. porn and stale cigarette smoke. You guys were awesome and since you have my card now please hit me up so we can take a ride together. After shooting the s*** for a few minutes we parted ways and me and Wilson finally linked up Monica and Andrea.

 

After that, Katy bar the door off we went to the land of twisty roads and overpriced tourist traps. It was a beautiful thing man. Splitting lanes, stop sign burnouts, passing the slow moving Sunday traffic with middle finger salutes: GOD BLESS AMERICA! Then another weird thing happened, once we arrived at Chimney Rock and parked we realized that the place was a ghost town. What the hell man? This place on any given Sunday is usually packed to the gills with tons of fat tourist constantly tripping over themselves in hot pursuit of that perfect little knick knack. Odd as it was though, it was pretty sweet to have decent parking without the fear of some f***tard hill billy knocking the bikes over.

After that though it was business as usual. We all chowed down on dead pig while listening to the owner of the place brag and show off his “Quigley Down Under” replica Sharp’s carbine that he kept behind the counter for security. I smoked, they shopped, I snapped a few pictures and we parted ways. Upon departure I sent the others ahead of me because I wanted to chill out alone for a minute and grab one more smoke. 

For reasons unknown I just felt better after this run. I’ve been stressing out over all of this s*** with the show, (vendors backing out, people dragging their feet and the like) but sitting in an empty parking lot with my last cigarette and a fist full of change that I rolled to make this trip everything just felt solid man. When I finally headed back to Gaffney I had a completely different state of mind. King S*** ran like a scalded dog on that last trip through the curves. I drug my pegs a little further, layed off the throttle, and for the first time in a long time I rode like I had no reason to hurry to get where I was going. I had Ozzy blasting through my headphones under my helmet. And the chorus chimed in perfectly as I hit top gear and those homemade straight pipes kicked in.

All my life I’ve been over the top 
I don’t know what I’m doing 
All I know is I don’t wanna stop
All fired up I’m gonna go til I drop
You’re either in or in the way 
Don’t make me, I don’t wanna stop

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