Hey, now there’s a real opener, The Buddhas Last Run.
Sounds mysterious, no? and why shouldn’t it? It’s got a bizzar set of ingredients to it that are wrapped up tightly in an Ego Burrito which is dripping a little zen on the floor, “Use your dam napkin!”
This little cavalcade of egos gone hog wild and stupid is a reflection of mine on a moment of clarity I had with my brother Dave. It is a testament to just how shallow the waters of human awareness can be just before they actually dry up and puff a way. Yes sir, free time, instantaneous gratification, and money have changed the landscape of the way people are and act. How they have become consumers and suckers to a popular trend or IDENTITY. The age of ON DEMAND has created a monstrous void of individual personality. It is the ‘right goddam now’ syndrome which has emerged as the the measurement of depth to the swampy and murky mindset of the west (well on it’s way to eating up what’s left of the old school east).
THE FLOOD RUN 2010
Back in 1966, 67, 68, 69 and 70 riding a motorcycle was a risky and a righteous act. The defining act of being a free and original human being without regard for the heavy duty consequences that always coencided with said act (not TV or movie type consequences), but real and dangerous with a capitol “D” consequences. The sixties were the last great gasp of human spirit untouch by Google, Gates and Apple. This was a time of real passion, a sense of duty to make something better and to know that you and your generation could step in to the ring and go 15 hard bloody thankless rounds against an aponent that was out of touch to the awaking free spirt of that times. So, the most extreme end of this spectrum was bikers, guys who needed the fix of a painful seat, a hard rain, a fast bike and a kick out the jams mind set. The cost of this defiant act was real and always immediate, costant stops, and harassment from the cops. “Oh, what’s that about your rights?” WHACK! “I couldn’t quite hear you”, “the sound of my nightstick keeps drowning out your voice.” “What have you done?” Well, ..WHACK! “It’s not anything you’ve done it’s what you stand for.” WHAK!..
That was a real and ongoing scenario in the sixtys, No Lie!
I witnessed this from the back of brother’s (hand built himself) chopper. There were no trendy and convenient biker boutiques back then. You built it or you did not ride! So, we get it, the sixtys were a bitch. Wrong, they were the last of the true pioneering spirit that has stopped to puke it’s collective guts out along side the road. And yeah, they were a bitch!
PRESENT DAY
Well… Yes sir immediate gradifcation please! Ok, choose your image and/or lifestyle from the Harley catalog, then write down how much you make each year and work out a payment plan that fits your finances, plus we’ll give you a free membership to the pretend biker club and a really cool coffee mug with AND A BLACK T-SHIRT THAT SAYS “BIKER”. This will let everyone know that your part of the pretend baddass biker gang that meets at noon and finishes around six cause the wifes’ parents are coming to BBQ and if your late you’ll miss the game.
No paying dues here, why? It’s just for fun right? I don’t need any of those stupid experiences of breaking down or police harassment or our avoiding certain parts of town, “that’s just stupid man.” I mean, what’s the point dude? See it, want it, buy it! That’s all you do, OK?
1968
“NOW REMEMBER IF HE PULLS US OVER JUST DON’T say a thing, let me do the talking , it will be OK. Don’t tell anyone, just be cool.” 9My brother talking me through a cop stop.)
2010
Hey let’s get close to front of the line next to the cops and kiss some ass. Yeah, that’s a great idea… “do you have any vagasil, my cushie seat is causing me to sweat.”
1968
Items need for a run, (a run was a nessecary part of being a biker) there were few real bikers back then and they where always spread out. So, a run was a matter of survival and need to keep a loose web of some real brotherhood, a pack mentality, strength in numbers, not to mention, just surviving the long distance in an era where there were no pump n munches every 10 miles, and secondly, surviving the very real dangers in every small town, that were just waiting to shoot you because they had read life magazine and found out what those (you) goddam biker hippies were trying to do to there ‘way of life’. No sir, not around here!
So back to the list: roll pack (filled with a couple of shirts an extra pair of jeans, a set of wrenches rolled in a couple rags, a pair of gloves) all nicely rolled up and tied to the handle bars over the headlight. Stick money in your boots, a gun hidden somewhere and an extra gas can strapped to your hand made sissy bar. That’s it. Oh yeah, some weed in your handle bar tubes. There, let’s fucking ride!
2010
You’ll enjoy the absurdity of this. 1 custom built Harley, built by Harley (not you) or perhaps an even more outrageous chopper built by a company that builds choppers for smucks like you (who will pay an enormous amount of money just to be cool this afternoon at the run). As a rule, these bikes are always way more machine than they should even think about trying to ride. Now of course we’re going to want to look like bikers so that when we’re not on our bikes people will still know that we’re bikers and look at us as if we are real orginals ftws. Crisp clean pre-distressed leather jacket, check. Matching vest, check. Matching chaps (because you need to protect those designer jeans from all thouse icky bugs) check. And of course biker boots bought at the biker boot store, check. Leather do-rag (god I love that one seeing all these einstiens sweating rivers to be cool), check. $300 sunglasses, check. A belt made out of chain, check. Black Harley shirt, check. Oh and let’s not forget the gloves with no fingers (bad ass to the bone), check. Well at least until six. Now, for the fearsome few who might brave, the needle of ink, how about a nice barbwire tattoo? Always on the upper arm right where your bicep should be. But for most afternoon warriors the temporary tattoo will be more than golden and it washes off by monday so the boss won’t see.
1968
Every back road, every safe bar, every club house was engrained in your brain. The need to be able to dodge trouble was of paramount importance. It was always a matter of doing your thing (the ride) and standing your ground, (or lay down and submit to a society that was blowing apart anyway). College or Vietnam, what a choice. Hence the biker is born, the third rail. Stay low, but stay. I’ll say it again, the fucking cost was real as you could get, the biker was the rarest of breeds.
2010
Lighten up dude! Look bud, times are different you don’t need all that PAYING DUES CRAP!! Just throw it on the visa, forget any sense of a real passion for the ride or the bike, obligation is like a lot of work dude. I mean, rain hurts and who needs any trouble with the wife or the cops, shit pal you take this way to serious. I just want look like I’m the real animated deal. Who wants to live like that “ish!”. I just like the chicks looking at me and thinking I’m a bad ass. “Hey baby.” And besides, I’m gonna be a boater next weekend. Now, (snarl) here comes some chicks.
1968
My brother’s riding partner got crushed by an idiot who did not see him. They took his leg, but as soon as he could, he had a fake leg and a bike and a passion to keep his lifestyle going. Leg or not (he could also beat people up with his fake leg), he scared the shit out of them. A guy reaching down and detaching his lim then reaching over the bar and whaking someone with it, now that’s biker!
2010 IT’S GOING TO RAIN? I’M NOT GOING!
So, after watching the endless parade of stupid roll by and watching every phoney persona imaginable represent itself and realizing that our original idea of jamming on uncharted back roads was the one we should have done. So we did, but you know it was kind of like a oddity that we could not pass by. This, the parade of egos, was too enticing to miss (kind of like a monkey who can type), cool for a minute then… so my brother and I blew out of there never saying much to each other, my brother paid the heavy dues for sure (he would never say that), but I saw him pay those dues. I was a part of it at times. He earned the right long ago to say whatever he wanted to say about theses boneheads, yet he never said a thing, just smiled, shook his head, then dropped the hammer on the throttle.
Buddha has left the building.
