Six months. It has been six freaking months since my last
blog. Holy poo in a pie hole. It’s been busy this side with a new job, new
house and a two percent hike on the repo rate…it’s all kept me quiet. However, I
met up with Matteh on Thursday night and after the 10th tequila and
a loud conversation regarding the size of my ears I realised something: Shit
happens. I went there for a quiet dinner and a bed to sleep on…not for chaos. Shit
happens - Run with it. Same as this blog – shit happens – so let’s run with it.
So where to now? The written blog is almost dead. The written
word is almost dead to be honest. However this blog is more for me to chronical
my retarded escapades so that 80 year old me gets to have a giggle on the potty
one day.
Anyways, De’Wife and I are hitting the USA for an epic, epic
West to East ride. We land in Los Angeles on the 5th of June and saunter
through 4000 miles of the best America has to offer flying out of New York on
the 5th of July. Getting geared up to do this journey on a bike made
me recall my first ever ride on my XL500S.
I was 14. Knee high
to a duck and full of exuberance. My Pops, living out his childhood miss-adventures
through me decided this is the bike for me. My Honda XL500S. A bike known for its immense thumper motor
that renders the front wheel rather useless. My Pops wouldn’t start me off on a
PW80 or a little YZ with those kiddies tyres, oh no, it’s go big or go home
with him.
We head down to a nice quite stretch of road, near Skye road
in Witbank and he hops off the bike. “Right son, get in front there” he says to
me as I slide from the pillion position. This bike is massive. My feet don’t reach
the ground, my arms a stretched out to the max and my arse hole is nipping
properly. “Now, don’t worry about the accelerator, she is warm enough. Just
slowly release the clutch…slowly” he reaffirms me while holding the bike
steady.
Ok. So I am 14 and full of myself. If you had to see the gangster
lean ass photos of me in school you would understand. So when my Pops says “release
slowly” in that parenting tone, my brain hears “You’re a little wanker and this
bike is too powerful for you, I dare you to prove me wrong”. Fine, eff you too
china. Its go time.
I twist back on the throttle and begin to let the clutch slip
slowly out and BOOM! This explosion of power is exorcized from the motor as my
clutch hand slipped off. Dumping the clutch throws my body backwards on the seat
which, in turn, sends a meaty wrist twist to the accelerator hand and it’s freaking
go time!
The front wheel took off skywards, the back spring sank in
to allow the fat knobbly tyres to really dig in. The tarmac must have rippled
as this hellcat ghost rider monster hurtled down the road with this stupid,
skinny twat hanging on for dear life. I am so effed.
I remember looking up at the havens with my ears about to
explode and my arse hole clenched so tight I could crack wall nuts when I heard
this voice: “Cluuuutch! Pull in the effing clutch!” with my Pops running and
screaming in full red-face mode.
I yanked in the clutch and She flicked back down to earth
which threw me forward, onto the handle bars, where I ploughed my nuts into he
speedo. Somehow I kept her upright long enough to jut out a foot and fall
gently down to the side. Still in first gear with my heart in 6th,
she gave out a little evil cough and stalled.
That was the moment. My balls dropped an inch, hair sprouted
out like hot silicone from my chest and I felt the most alive I had ever felt.
So: What has this got to do with anything? De’Wife and I are
hitting the US of A in a big way. 4000 miles, 30 days, VTwin, two saddle bags and a hit list of all the big daddy sites. Follow us on:
@banddamerica on twitter and banddamerica on Instagram.
The
account with kick up active on the 1st of May.
It’s going to be massive.
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