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Motorcycle morning
Amazingly, I woke up this morning to the startling sound of relative silence. No constant rolling Harley thunder, that is. Not that I have anything against it, but a quiet Saturday morning is nice. This one was not only peaceful but warm enough to have coffee outside. Evidently bikers don't get up real early, but when they head for breakfast, you'll know.

About 90 minutes after I got up, the rumbling began. Eventually it settled into a river of exhaust roar that ebbed and flowed with each cycle of the traffic lights two blocks away. When I walked out to the corner around maybe 10 o'clock, I took the picture you see here. That's maybe half of all of them there were, parked up and down the street near Michael's restaurant. I have no explanation whatsoever for the suddenly empty street, either. But that's a lot of (mostly) Harleys, hoo boy, and it got me to thinking.

In the course of a pleasant evening of real-time email exchanges, Del Miller told me the Yamaha Road Star out-harleys Harley and costs a lot less. As long as it goes thump-thump and feels good on a slow ride. That's important, the slow ride. The overall feel, in other words. The way it looks and sounds. What goes through your mind every time you start it up. (Listen to me, the freaking expert. I don't think my butt has ever touched a Harley saddle, but I rode a buddy's Norton once.) So what's the point of all this?

Real cat, fake reporter
I think I need one of these. Call it organic therapy. Call it Freddy, I don't care. Something tells me a new 12-inch PowerBook would fit right into one of those saddlebags, too. You see, I just know all this would be immensely satisfying, and how many things really are these days? (Speaking of satisfied, just look at the little bastard below: no possessions, no health insurance, just a pile of leaves on a warmish day and he's out cold, not a line on his face! Wow.)

The regional newspapers have committed the usual Memorial Day weekend idiocies with regard to who they suppose actually owns all those bikes you see up there. Did you know they all belong to lawyers and doctors? That's right. Over the weekend just past, the whole of the Southwest is completely emptied of lawyers and doctors, as they all hop on their Harleys and ride to Red River, NM ... Yeah, right. I have no doubt that more and more Harley-Davidson buyers are wealthy. But come on now, I've seen these people walking down the street here, and I venture to say you could lasso a good four or five hundred before snagging anything resembling a doctor. Besides, in this part of the world, lots of people own motorcycles. No steenking helmet law in New Mexico, and you can ride almost every day of the year.

The stupidest article was in the Albuquerque Journal. Their reporter must have gone up to Red River, asked where the AMA beer blast was, and found an actual doctor and his wife astride their high-zoot Harley cruiser. "Why, this cost $25,000," the wife exclaimed. "Who ELSE can afford to ride them?" Makes you wonder how long it's been since she actually paid for anything herself, doesn't it? (Oh, the sheltered lives of the privileged classes.) Heck, I saw a group of "doctors" walking across the plaza a little while ago who would cause the spontaneous evacuation of any hospital they walked into. Puh-leaze!

Just a-walkin' in the rain
As anyone can plainly tell, I don't have too much to say this time. (Burned out on socialism for the rich, fascism for the rest of us, no new Macs, bleah.) Got plenty goin' on here, though. Besides all the motorcyclists in town, it rained today. No, really. On our way down to the south end of town to score a bag o' burgers from Sonic Drive-In, I even had to turn the wipers on. I mean, a person could have gotten wet out there: pouring, pounding, gully-washing RAIN! Man, I hardly knew what to think .("What this, water fall from sky?")

Later in the evening, I decided to go for a walk and found it was still raining, this time a steady, soaking, moderate rain. No wind, just rain, soft and steady. As I carefully avoided things I hadn't seen in a long time (puddles), I noticed everywhere the unfamiliar sounds of water pouring off flat roofs, running down the curb, dripping on the bushes, hissing under the tires of passing cars. Water. The sounds of splashes. Occasional thunder. How very, very odd, and actually rather enjoyable to one who hasn't had wet feet in three and half years.

Maybe this is a sign. I haven't been soaked in the rain since way after I got the Power Mac I'm typing this on. Maybe, maybe ... Maybe this is the start of something new. Half the drivers in Taos will be buying new wiper blades tomorrow, because they just discovered late this afternoon that what they have is crap. THAT's new! Come on, work with me here. I have a javelina skull. New, yes. The one-word title's new. Oh, and I just got a gig as "program curator" for a local summer writers series. More new. Let there be new, by God.

We all could use a shot o' that.

Senior Applelinks editor and columnist John H. Farr invites your emails.

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