picked clean of anything edible. She’d been in places like this before. It was starkly beautiful in the beginning. There wasn’t much to see but nothing you wanted to miss. The brush was small, scraggly, and tough. The trail had been originally cut for wagons. Now it was groomed by the semi- annual Jeep. It hadn’t been especially chal- lenging for the two BMW street bikes, but you didn’t want to drop one in here either. She didn’t expect to find much. She really
wanted to just get far enough away to see how the guy could handle himself alone. The tent was his. He’d gone on about it for a week.
shocked…more by the fact that there was no chicken wrap and lemon cake for him, than by the fact that she had it at all. It would be one more long day before
they got to the rally. It would take her a whole morning to lose him in the crowd. The rally was like any other moto func-
It was a radical rhombohedron
design, with a trapezoid vestibule. It was made of a space-age polymer that kept moisture out and intimate thoughts in, or some nonsense like that. The sun was set- ting, and this place was starting to stir. She’d been gone about 45 minutes when she heard him calling. The tent was sort of up. It was one of
those springy tent pole arrangements where each fiberglass rod was 18 feet-long when joined and had to be threaded through the red sleeve into the blue sleeve, or the gray sleeve into the green sleeve, then bent dou- ble and inserted into badly-sewn cup attachments. When properly erected, the tent would have the tensile strength of a snare drum, providing plenty of interior room for three circus midgets to perform a trapeze act. Naturally, this was the first time he’d had
it out of the bag. The pole segments didn’t seem to fit anything, let alone each other. He’d joined them with duct tape. The tent hung like a half-spent weather balloon. He was calling her to dinner, which was ramen noodles simmering in a pot. And also because he wanted her to do something about a huge centipede, which had been chasing him around the campsite. She drained the simmering noodle pot
on the centipede, which she kicked into the brush. She passed on the ramen noodles, going for a chicken wrap and a slice of lemon cake she’d tucked into a soft cooler earlier that day at a Starbucks. He was
tion dedicated to the exclusive adoration of German-built motorcycles. There were the usual sessions on maintenance, on riding alone, on riding through lava, and on riding in countries where the roads were paved with skulls. There was supposed to be a ses- sion for women “K” bike riders looking for “K” biker men who looked like baby harp seals…but it had been cancelled, as some thought
the content “inconclusive.” And
that was the one she’d wanted to attend. Still, she was going to meet “the guy who
wrote those peculiar stories” in the maga- zine. He was autographing copies of his new book, Fat And 62 Is The New Thin And 37. He didn’t look thin and 37. He looked more like half man and half eclair. He glanced up and locked eyes with hers. It was the damnedest thing. He did look like a baby harp seal. He smiled and extended that smile through his outstretched hand. “Care for a bite of eclair?” the smile
asked. “My name is Jack,” is what she heard. I hope this story satisfies the Ladies’
Anti-Pillion Society… I hope to see you at the Salt Lake City Rally.
www.epmwilbers.com
www.gotournz.com
Jack Riepe’s last surgery has left his head fac- ing backwards. He can no longer tell if he’s coming or going. There is no book: Fat And 62 Is The New Thin And 37. However the revised edition of Conversations With A Motorcycle is out, and from a new publisher, too. The new edition explains douches in New Jersey and answers many questions about the Garden State. Want one? Email your name and address to jack.riepe@gmail. com. Put “Book Order” in the subject line.
www.legalspeeding.com March 2017 BMW OWNERS NEWS 97
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