...in the Colonies...
May not interest everyone. Click on by if so.
Bright sunny Sunday verging on the hot. It's only 10 am and 33 C already.
Our traditional meeting point: the Shell Service Center on the South Super Highway. Big complex full of shops and restaurants.
Sunday it is and our weekly ride up into the mountains for lunch. We all have Harleys except Larry who has a Valkyrie. 6 cylinders, 6 carbs, a bit OTT, what? We call it "The Bus". It's a bear to ride in traffic and he has trouble keeping up and sneaking through the gaps in traffic jams, it's so darn wide. He gets a lot of ribbing from those of us persons of discernment and taste who ride Milwaukee's finest. We actually lost one other member with an enormous BMW because it became known as the "airport limo"! Some people with origins south of the Rhine have no sense of humour. I think he felt insulted because it was a wedding anniversary present from his wife.
Stripped-to-the-bone Harleys -- only way to go. Lean and mean.
But Thou shalt not mock the afflicted -- Book of GRowler 3:1. There still exist misguided people who actually like those damn metric things and it's still a free country after all over here. Till the next attempted coup, anyway.
Us 7 guys are hungover, fumbling with tyre pressures, oil levels and where the hell did they put their goggles, their cigarettes, not to mention what day it is, or might be, or even might have been. Me I'm grappling with a Gatorade and several IbuProfen tabs sunny side up on whole wheat toast for breakfast..I knew those Cuervo Gold tequila body-shots with the girls at Dimples Bar last night would return to haunt me. I've got a whole new bunch of numbers in my cellphone, too. That will take some explaining when Herself finds out. As she will. Lord knows what my Visa statement will look like.
Even my hair hurts. Someone told me I went to a rugby match yesterday.
But it is Sunday and failure to pitch up for the weekly lunch ride is barely a tad away from mortal sin and invites jeers and scorn and rude language from my riding peers. Such calumny. Best hangover cure I know.
Slightly late (well they have to make an entrance, don't they?) we hear four Sportsters on open pipes blipping throttles and downshifting in unison, and our ladies arrive. GRowlette in the lead as usual, followed by Jackie, Grace and Marian. Heads turn. It's pure ballet to see them sweep into the car park. They have their leather vests on with the club colours and pins and things and are smothered in Coppertone 45 on their bare little shapely brown arms, their Nike fanny-packs are reversed around their little trim waists and full of whatever women fill Nike fanny-packs with. Enough for a weekend, seems to me. Just don't ask.
They, as true HD riders always do, back into the parking space by paddling their feet, nonchalantly kick down the jiffy stands, kill their engines, ignore us and everyone else, shake their long black tresses free, put their helmets under their arms, their Raybans on their heads and march into Starbucks for strawberry lattes and some female gossip plus of course checking their cellphones.
Us-- well we might just as well not exist. Pump attendants watch, slack-mouthed. Other motorists stare or leer. The more adventurous sidle over and peer at the bikes and ask how much they cost. I always say "a lot".
When I see a sight like that I am lost, done for, finished. It's something to do with shapely female behinds, noisy motorcycles and being ignored in public by attractive women wearing tight t-shirts and a lot of leather.
Everyone gets sorted out finally and gassed up and tyre-pressured (we should have done this the night before the ride and our ladies are not impressed, having arrived themselves impeccably organised -- as always --groan. Cue folded arms, weary sighs and bored looks). Ride briefing is carried out by the stage leader (me for once) about where we stop, who has the Fix-A-Flat aerosol, the disposable Kodak camera and First Aid kit just in case, does everyone have copies of their reg docs and licence etc etc. Police have been known to take your ride if you can't prove ownership and we all know what happens to it after that.......ends up either in the chop shop or the local mayor is riding it with no reg plates.
The leader for the first stage (me) has been nominated, as has the "sweeper" who brings up the rear in case someone has a problem. This time tiny Marian gets the sweeper job. Pity, she's far too good looking, but life is unfair and equality rules in these wretched days of political correctness. But, make no mistake, she knows what she's about when she kicks her leg over a bike.
It's customary to make a short pre-ride prayer. GRowlette does this.
We fire up and head out. 10 Harleys, 1 Honda (well he can't help that). We accelerate rapidly into the expressway's outer lane. The exhaust crackle as everyone upshifts on open unsilenced loud pipes is sheer music. Even Beethoven could have heard it and written a symphony around it.
Traffic accords respect when you are on Harleys in numbers. We adopt proper formation..i.e. staggered, and we "bracket" the girls so that our formation "owns" the lane for safety reasons and they are protected. Accelerate up to around 75-80 mph and we're fairly safe from the other ******es on the highway. Do a few wiggles to get the tyres warmed up. Mine are new and I'm still breaking them in, so I need to work 'em. Keep a watchful eye on Cathy aka Growlette in my mirror, she's right behind. Sees me looking, I blow a kiss but all I get in return is the finger. Women.
Leader's job is pay the toll for everyone at the Los Baños exit. I do this. For once I remembered to bring enough change - I'm so used to GRowlette on the back handling all this tedious detail stuff. Tell everyone stay to the left of the toll booth because of the oily carp in the middle from ancient wrecks dripping the stuff. Get that on your boot and you can drop the plot. Traditionally hazards are pointed out with the boot. It is the leader's job to spot potholes, rocks, bits of old burst tyre, nails placed strategically in blocks of 2 by 4 by tyre repair shops (yes it's true) and other stuff and wave his foot at them, plus country dogs who always seem to love chasing motorbikes. Following riders then do the same. He decides whether or not it is safe to wave following riders on to overtake. Also his job is to hold up an admonitory hand at any vehicle about to pull out of a side turning. There are still plenty of retards on this planet believe it or not who can't see or hear 11 motorcycles with open pipes and all with their headlights on.
However one of the safety benefits of a bike is you can get ahead of everything pretty rapidly. You need to anyway here in the Land of Sun & Fun where everything billows clouds of smoke. Emission testing? Did I fail? No problem sir, pay an extra 50 Pesos to the cashier and she'll type out your certificate. Result being black faces, a lot of demand for Wet Ones, and grumpy girl riders peering in their make-up mirrors at drink stops.
Two-lane country road, twisty. GRowlette pulls alongside me (That's OK but you must never overtake the leader. Rather like fox-hunting LOL - but of course you chaps can't do that any more over there can you?). Gives me the finger again and a huge grin. I get the feeling she's enjoying herself. I'll smack her bottom when we get back. I remind myself how lucky I am.
Little minx. Let's see how she keeps up on the curves. I wind that thundering V-Twin open and lay it over. Her Sportster follows, pegs well down but not scraping yet. Don't want to push the group too hard. As we sweep up into the hills towards Tagaytay the air gets cooler, the roads get twistier and one after another we're stacking it into the bends. It's a great sight in my rear mirror to see the orderly progression. I'd say the girls have no fear whatever, they've really got balls. Metzeler tyres - forget anything else, you can lay your bike over to the limit with absolute confidence. Our ladies are marvellous riding companions. They all took the Motorcycle Safety Foundation Course, which is available worldwide and I can't recommend it highly enough. There is a Ladies' MSF course, which G'ette took and she grew massively in confidence, In our group completion of that is mandatory before you receive your colours. Along with a few initiation ceremonies......wet t-shirts? Nah, that's just a rumour.......
Lunch overlooking a volcano within a lake within another volcano (yes, it really is as described) at Tagaytay on the open air deck at one of the local restaurants. The view is magnificent, the air cool. Girls go for a mixed platter of snake, lizard and frog (it's Lent, so no red meat) cooked in coconut milk and served on a palm leaf with garlic fried rice, eaten as is traditional with their fingers and shared between them from the one plate, swilled down with bottomless ice tea, the meanwhile deliberately chattering in their provincial dialect so that we can't understand and throwing meaningful glances at us. I make a silent prayer to the Almighty thanking Him for inventing the humble but predictable club sandwich and order that along with a San Mig Lite.
The other guys as ever go for burgers. Greg is a 325lb Texan and he orders what looks like half a cow on a bun (cooked rare), a bucket of fries and a gallon of Coke Lite (he's on a diet). Leslie's Restaurant makes serious burgers let me tell you. They could stop a freight train. Essential for keeping up the cholesterol level.
Return journey downhill for the 80 km back towards The Smoke: Larry rides lead. I pull the sweeper job this time around. The girls are riding well but they're at the back of the pack so I keep an eye on them as the Sunday pm traffic is now building. There are idiots who try and force their way into our formation; some cagers have a real ego problem with motorbikes. Maybe they're a bit under-endowed in the family jewels dept. It's my job to block them off. Grace's Sporty is blowing a bit of smoke when she opens it up after the over-run and I don't like the way her oil cap is loose and blowing a bit of spray over the rear brake rotor. Over-filled tank, most likely. All over her nice Guess jeans too. That's the sweeper's job, anyway, to pick up on this stuff and alert the rider.
We stop at the last Caltex station before the expressway for a break. Buy some cloth and some brake cleaner and spray the mess off Grace's rear rotor and tire. More Gatorade, some photos, a brief ride evaluation discussion. I always enjoy these informal de-briefs. Definitely they make better riders of all of us and enhance teamwork. It is always rewarding to see how seriously our ladies take them, too. If only cagers were as disciplined.......
Then it's traditional for the last few km on the x-way for everyone to do their own thing. We wave goodbye as each one takes his/her exit home. Road is clear so I manage 110 mph for a couple of minutes. A couple of R-1's and and a Fireblade storm past us with a wave. Cops stare but they can't catch us on their Chinese 125 cc's. GRowlette slows down and pulls alongside as we enter our sub-division and blows me a kiss.. Arms covered in traffic dirt stuck to the suntan oil. Both Harleys are hot as Hades - the oil temp gauge on mine is reading 220 F despite the oil cooler, but they've never missed a beat, as they never do. Hers is crackling and banging a bit on the over-run, sounds a bit lean, I might change that 55 idle jet to a 57, Since we put the Vance & Hines drag pipes on her bike we haven't looked at the mixture, I'll pull the spark plugs and have a look at that tomorrow. I dread the day carburetors disappear.......
We park up at the house and she plonks a greasy kiss on my cheek. Says thanks for a great day and a great ride as she peels off my boots for me. Shoves an elbow in my ribs and tells me I chickened out on whatever bend it was. She's right. She always is. Don't tell her I said that. Her morning subtle fragrance of Chanel No.9 has been replaced by a mixed bouquet of Shell Velocity 95 octane, Harley HD360 engine oil, sun lotion, very hot engines and hot leather. Which I much prefer. Her hands are full of the dye from those cheap fingerless leather gloves. She looks tousled, sweaty and very beautiful. The mournful litany as to what this experience has done to her hair will shortly begin. The beauty parlour bill is yet to come. But she'll ride again next Sunday. And for some reason best known to herself, she still loves me. Or says she does.
We crack open a couple of very cold San Miguels (I have a bottle opener mounted on my bike 'cos I'm always losing the darn things - bottle openers I mean, not bikes) and we sit on the porch swing holding hands in companionable silence and chugging on our brews listening to the Hogs ticking as the metal cools down along with the day's heat, and Creedence Clearwater crank themselves up on the CD player. The horizon turns a fiery end-of-the-world orange fading into blood-red crimson as our fabled Manila sunset does its daily job behind the silhouetted palm trees.
Then the Fijians thrash the All Blacks in the Hong Kong 7's. Perfect end to a perfect day. Now I can send rude emails to my Kiwi mates.
The adrenaline gradually fades, to be replaced by total relaxation. It's as if the brain has had a jolly good spring-clean and all's right with the world again. Till Monday morning, anyway.
But there's always next Sunday.......
Growler out/
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