Weekend Warriors
Urban legend has it that every year during Bike Week in Florida, the bikers
trash some jap wheels, fire it up with gasoline and hang the carcass
like a badly cooked side of beef from a tree
I've been down there a few times that time of year
Seen a few sights but never that particular rite of passage
Mostly what I've see are some weekend Road Warriors trying to pass as the real Thing
Strolling the grounds of some Roadside Attraction
Combination Crafts Fair and Flea Market getting into a real Florida frame of mind
Which is, "If a field ain't occupied throw up a tent, fill it with junk and call it a flea
market and they will come"
And sure as shit, they do
The weekenders are easy to spot, walking around in uncreased leathers that have never
so much as seen an unpaved dirt bike track much less tasted concrete
He's probably a bond trader on a weekend excursion with the mistress along for
ritual exchange of bodily fluids and for help pressing on the temporary tattoos
They're so obvious everyone has to struggle to keep a straight face whenever their
around
Which the hard core mostly do, for the potential entertainment value of having the
phonies around
And the odd chance the dude might be talked into hanging out at one of their hideaways
One that has posted outside: Bikers Welcome All Weapons Must Be Checked At the
Door: that is guns, knives, chains, brass knuckles-------
The list is so long, half the potential customers would practically be naked before they
got inside if they could read
The phony slicker might be dumb but they aren't stupid enough to actually go inside a
place like that
Hell, they'd been warned enough times about shit like that when they were kids they
have an instinctual fear but somehow a few do and are never seen again
It's probably their bikes that get burned every year
On our block the bikers all have crotch rockets that do zero to eighty in the
time it takes to get from Becker Street to the bottom of the Furman Street hill,
about four seconds or sixteen houses. depending upon how you count it
They're passing by leaves a brief after image
A blur in our heads where the blind spot on the hill is
Where all the cars double park and do dope deals
Just passing the time of day
While we wait
And listen for the crash
Urban legend has it that every year during Bike Week in Florida, the bikers
trash some jap wheels, fire it up with gasoline and hang the carcass
like a badly cooked side of beef from a tree
I've been down there a few times that time of year
Seen a few sights but never that particular rite of passage
Mostly what I've see are some weekend Road Warriors trying to pass as the real Thing
Strolling the grounds of some Roadside Attraction
Combination Crafts Fair and Flea Market getting into a real Florida frame of mind
Which is, "If a field ain't occupied throw up a tent, fill it with junk and call it a flea
market and they will come"
And sure as shit, they do
The weekenders are easy to spot, walking around in uncreased leathers that have never
so much as seen an unpaved dirt bike track much less tasted concrete
He's probably a bond trader on a weekend excursion with the mistress along for
ritual exchange of bodily fluids and for help pressing on the temporary tattoos
They're so obvious everyone has to struggle to keep a straight face whenever their
around
Which the hard core mostly do, for the potential entertainment value of having the
phonies around
And the odd chance the dude might be talked into hanging out at one of their hideaways
One that has posted outside: Bikers Welcome All Weapons Must Be Checked At the
Door: that is guns, knives, chains, brass knuckles-------
The list is so long, half the potential customers would practically be naked before they
got inside if they could read
The phony slicker might be dumb but they aren't stupid enough to actually go inside a
place like that
Hell, they'd been warned enough times about shit like that when they were kids they
have an instinctual fear but somehow a few do and are never seen again
It's probably their bikes that get burned every year
On our block the bikers all have crotch rockets that do zero to eighty in the
time it takes to get from Becker Street to the bottom of the Furman Street hill,
about four seconds or sixteen houses. depending upon how you count it
They're passing by leaves a brief after image
A blur in our heads where the blind spot on the hill is
Where all the cars double park and do dope deals
Just passing the time of day
While we wait
And listen for the crash