HUNTER S THOMPSON, “Song of the Sausage Creature”
On my tombstone they will carve, “IT NEVER GOT FAST ENOUGH FOR ME.”
HST has always been one of my favourite writers. When I first discovered Gonzo, I rejoiced that there had been others. Much of my life has been Gonzo. It’s been a weird shit life, but boy has it been fun.
Ialso love thompson’s work covering motorbikes. he seemed to have a real grasp on what we enthusiasts are after.
I am spending this week being a road person. Though I began my riding career in the dirt, the road is probably where I will end. Here’s some of what Hunter had to say about people like us:
“Balls,” I said. “Never mind the track. The track is for punks. We are Road People. We are Café Racers.”
The Café Racer is a different breed, and we have our own situations. Pure speed in sixth gear on a 5,000-foot straightaway is one thing, but pure speed in third gear on a gravel-strewn downhill ess turn is quite another.
But we like it. A thoroughbred Café Racer will ride all night through a fog storm in freeway traffic to put himself into what somebody told him was the ugliest and tightest decreasing-radius turn since Genghis Khan invented the corkscrew.
Particularly, this is true of my northern bretheren. We have to ride 100 miles just to get to the beginning of the good roads and then ride all day after that. As hard and fast as we can. It’s probably dangerous; it’s definitely illegal. In our defense, we try to get to the track as often as possible, where safety and legality aren’t issues… but those roads… they call to us- we can’t stay away. Who would want to?
I get a little bleary-eyed over cafe racers, having one cafe Monster myself and all the ducatisti devotion to the machine that comes along. I like the torque, the speed, the hairsplit maneuvers. I like that I can climb all the way off the bike until I’m only holding on with my knee and toss the bastard sidewise in a turn. I like when the back wheel breaks loose, just a little. I don’t feel fear I only feel the vibration of the bike. I don’t hear the cocophany of sounds usually in my head, only engine.
Revving too high: shift.
Revving too low: shift.
Revving just right: hold on, hold on, throw bike into turn, accelerate, push down, shift.
It’s only physics when I’m on the bike and I spend my time in the seat grasping for those few perfect moments when time stops. Trust me, it does. In the dirt, when you go airborne and your feet come off the pegs, everything stops. On the road, when you slide through a turn perfectly one with the machine, time stops.
And you breathe.
That one breath of alive.
The one those stuffy zen masters are always talking about.
There is a fundamental difference, however, between the old Vincents and the new breed of superbikes. If you rode the Black Shadow at top speed for any length of time, you would almost certainly die. That is why there are not many life members of the Vincent Black Shadow Society. The Vincent was like a bullet that went straight; the Ducati is like the magic bullet in Dallas that went sideways and hit JFK and the Governor of Texas at the same time.
