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Some where in the US Motorcyclist ghostwriter

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Member for: 15 years, 183 days
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  • Home Base: Some where in the US
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What's in my Garage? alot of junk

A Novel in the making

Lucky's Ride
By Ghostwriter

The names have been changed to protect everyone, nobody's innocent

This book is dedicated to the Psychotic Society
Thanks Guys

Chapter One

West of the Pecos

The night air was a balmy 101 degrees as I pulled out onto 17 South heading to Phoenix. The Chrome Stallion Saloon was this little do drop inn I had been told about. The big inch shovel screamed as I shift into fourth. I twisted the wick till the speed odometer showed 110. It had been a hellva week already. I made the trip out to Phoenix in record time considering the stops along the way. I had left the Carolina's on Tuesday and stopped in Montgomery AL for business. Next stop El Paso to see this knucklehead about another job. The Silver Stampede Restaurants; what a pitiful excuse for a choke & puke but it pay's the bills. Now it was my time to play, I could see the neon sign ahead; coldest beer west of the Pecos. I let off the throttle and down shifted. I could already taste the cuervo gold; straight up with a corona chaser. The minute I pulled in I could tell this wasn't any fuckin old skool joint. It looked like something straight out of the Custom Chrome catalog, every bike in the parking lot had every doodad ever made; chromed. God what a sight, good thing I still had had my sunglasses on or else I would have gone blind. I found an empty spot between a bagger and a low-rider; I threw the kickstand down and leaned the ol shovel over. What a beauty she was, black and lean with apes that reached for the sky. It had taken me nearly two years to rebuild her since that fateful trip to Daytona. Daytona; well that?s another story for another time. The pipes cooling down sounded like crackling embers in a fire. I could hear Stevie Ray Vaughn's 'If the house is a rocking' blaring off the back deck. I hit the door and straight to the bar, I was on a mission. My throat was parched worse than the Mojave Desert in August. I found a seat at the end of the bar an ordered up. The firstbeer went down like ice water, now the fun part cuervo gold, this little amber fluid is what starts most bar fights and makes the girls go crazy. I had come in so fast that I hadn't really looked the place over good. This place was definitely a RUB hangout. I was starting to feel a little out of place. Every one in the joint was sporting a new HD shirt and polished boots, I was thinking to myself they probably had their trailers hidden in the back and just unloaded them for looks on Saturday nights. Here I am, old Levis, Boot Hill Saloon tank top and engineer boots that had more miles on them than every bike in the fucking parking lot added together; except mine. I'm sitting here pondering the RUB's and sipping my secondbeer when out of nowhere appears this little angel love. She looks at me and says; I'm Melanie are you a real biker? Lord have mercy; I'm starting to think that this must be a mirage or something. This young thing is about 24 and built like a brick shit house wearing a tank top and daisy dukes; more like a blue jean thong. Jet black hair, jade green eyes, and tits like ripe melons, an ass you could bounce a quarter off of. I look down at her and say I am an old skool biker. I buy her a beer and we sit down to talk. Melanie tells me she going to the University of Arizona, she's a sun-devil cheerleader. Looking at her I can feel the little devil (horny) coming out in me. She wants to go for a ride. I suggest that we might need to see the safety inspector before embarking on this little journey. She just looks at me inquisitively. I say to her come on it will be alright. She takes my hand and we walk outside into darkness. I do a quick search of the parking lot then reach into my pocket and pull out a stick of Mother Nature?s finest green and fire it up. I inhale deeply and offer it to her; she takes a big toke and immediately starts choking (amateurs). I tell her, you got to get some wind. She passes it back to me, I take another tokeand pass it back to her. The full moon in the Arizon skylights the night like the sun in the day. She climbs on the back fender as I fire the old shovel up.
Every dog has his day. My name is Lucky!

Chapter 2
Daytona Bound

If you haven?t guessed by now I travel for a living. Home base is the Carolina?s. I work for an outfit known as S.A.G. Sorry Ass Group (just kidding). Actually stands for Systems Analysts Group. We work heavily with the Silver Stampede Restaurant chain making sure they stay out of hot water in a financial aspect. Work is hectic but I do get to see the whole U.S. What a life, drive around look at pretty women and spend the companies money, does it get any better than this?

This years trip to Daytona started out like every year, one big cluster fuck. I had just rolled back into town from a Silver Stampede Restaurant in Kentucky with two days to spare before we leave on the big sport about. Snapper was calling me on my cell raising hell about not being able to find the tents that were suppose to be at the office. I ride with a motley crew of guys that you will here me refer too throughout. Snapper, 6'4' 275lbs of cigar smoking (Padron 1964 anniversary edition) Michelob Lt drinking and self appointed road captain, a good guy with a heart of gold. There's Doc Emmett, proclaimed pharmacist extraordinaire and wal-mart hunter. You can get anything at wal-mart he says, and then there's Carnac the magnificent; this motherfuckerremembers everything and is usually right about 95% of the time the other 5% I truly believe his brain just freezes up. GB is an ex-bail bondsman and lawn manicurist to the stars; he's always up for a ride. Last but not least there's the King of England. Rip was born in the wrong century, instead of riding an iron horse he should have been riding a real one with Gingus Khan raping and pillaging the countryside. He has a low tolerance for stupidity, and is normally heavily medicated for your protection.

After running around all day getting my shit together; you know the drill; washing clothes, running to the bank, returning phone calls, packing the bike. I'm ready for a cold one or two, after that a hot shower and off to bed. Tomorrow will be here sooner than I realize. I get up around 7:00 am, damn what a good night's sleep will do for the road weary. Daytona here we come, 10 days of titties and beer, every mans dream. I fire the ol shovel up and let her warm up and head out for Snappers. The weather this morning is a little cool but sunny as hell. The cagers going to there nine to fives are all jockeying for position as I roll south down 77. I look like a vagabond rolling down the road; I've got more shit tied on this scoot than a mayflower moving van going across country. I get to Snappers and there's the rest of the crew drinking bloody marys and having the first of many safety meetings. This is going be a good trip I can feel it.

Chapter 3
Red Eyed and Rolling

Bikes loaded we are off on a new adventure first stop gas for the bikes. We pull into a Love's truck stop for fuel; Carnac is raising hell because they don't have any racing fuel. Snapper's giving him shit saying that you don't need that high octane shit, 'it'll ruin your motor'. All I hear is a resounding fuck you. We pull out and hit the highway, pipes screaming and gears jamming. Snapper seems to be on a mission to see if we can beat last year's time. He twists the throttle and the big road king screams down the highway with the rest of us in hot pursuit. The white lines on the highway are just a blur now; almost like one solid white line I look down at the speedometer it's 105. I'm thinking to myself, damn are we trying to see how many tickets we can get before we get there. He finally lets up a little as we roll into Columbia. Columbia SC is a hot mother in the summer. Sand, heat and mosquitoes; just where I'd want to live. Fifteen minutes later we pick up 26 south heading for Orangeburg S.C. We make a stop here for gas and a safety meeting. Snapper say he's a little low on oil and asks if anyone has a quart. No one does; Emmett pipes up and say's I bet there a Wal-mart around here somewhere. Snapper hollers back you know I only run Harley oil in this bike. I think he was born with HD20W-50 in his veins instead of blood. You can get some when we get to Savannah. 'Genius'; Snapper fires back. Back on 26 red eyed and rolling we pick up I-95S in about 30 minutes. I-95 or better known as the Peruvian Flake Parkway, This asphalt corridor moves more shit than any other highway in the US. Whoever said it doesn't snow in Miami. This is the biggest police convention if there ever was one. FBI, CIA, DEA, probably even got some of those double naught spies somewhere. These sneaky little bastards are around every corner marked, unmarked, SUV, Camaro's, Mustangs you name it. We back it down to about 75 and keep rolling south. The ol shovel is running like a sewing machine, I just wish I had a five speed tranny for trips like this. Traffic is starting to pickup now with more packs of riders heading for Daytona, chrome glistening, pipes thundering down the highway; what a sight. The cagers have their windows rolled up, doors locked and telling their kids not to look at the low-life on the motorcycles. I guess they think everybody that rides a motorcycle has long hair, tattoos, and does drugs. I guess two out of three ain't bad, I'm bald. We're passing a minivan; looks like there on vacation to some unknown destination, the kids are waving at us; I wave back and twist the wick a little more so the ol shovel screams a little louder. You can see the grins on there little faces and the frowns on the parents.This will probably be all that's needed for that little kid to bethe next generation biker.

ghostwriter has been a member of our motorcycle community for 15 years, 183 days. ghostwriter's home location for riding is Some where in the US.

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