Post by jack hamilton on Jan 11, 2010 2:52:36 GMT -5
Riding old Thunder to the Boxcar
Old thunder was a Yamaha 850 triple cylinder. She was 23 years old and was getting on up in years. However she ran good and sounded good. I used to like to ride her at night after work and after the traffic died down. I knew other cars were biggest danger to a biker, and avoided traffic by riding late at night. After 11:00, and on the back roads, I would ride old Thunder in just about all kinds of weather. So cold that it was frankly miserable. Or so hot that I would sweat even after midnight. I didn’t care. I loved old Thunder. I loved the freedom. I would ride by the old neighborhood where I went to elementary school, where we used to live. It brought back memory’s, mostly bad. I was past that now and had a good motor to ride and money for beer if I did not have some in my pack. I would clean old Thunder up. Shine her and polish her. Then with a tank full of gas, and the tires checked, I would listen to rockabilly music, and drink beer, homebrewed ale, and mabey smoke a joint or two. When the time was almost right I would put on the perfect music for being a heathern, thingy Dale and the Dell Tones, and open another brew and I was living my life. When the moment was perfect I would push old Thunder off the porch and out into the yard, get set. Key, gas valve, lower kick starter, take a deep breath and kick her over RRROOOOOOMMMMMM! RROOOMMMM! AND BRING OLD Thunder to life, after warming her up and getting the oil to flowing over the cylinders. We were ready! I would head down the private dirt road, and out into the world.
The boxcar was a, well, a boxcar taken from an old train, sitting out in a field under some trees. It had a few other rooms built onto it and had been out in the country for many years. I never went to bars because as I told someone once I don’t like being around a bunch of drunks, at least a bunch of other drunks. But after my hounds had all been poisoned and shot by the cowardly Hall brothers who are in the penitentiary now and will never get out. I bought old Thunder and went on a drunk for 12 years till I was poisoned myself and crashed old Thunder and almost died. The boxcar was a place to go, a place to ride Thunder to where I could charge up the old battery, and stay off the street. I only knew Scotty the cop, and Rick the roofer, and chicks who worked behind the bar. I don’t remember any of their names as they were always changing. I used to ride up there and drop a few beers down me but I had better beer at home and it was cheaper too. But it was a familiar place to go and back off the busy roads. I sat outside on the pack porch and just thought about what I did today and what I would do tomorrow. It
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