LeafPeeper

LEAFPEEPER

The Keed with the dreaded D100.

Yesterday (Sunday, October 21, 2007), it being 80 degrees with not a cloud in the sky, I encountered an almighty torrent of blatting GeezerGlides during our journey to peep at leaves.
Our journey started innocently enough (in the CR-V), as I turned left from our driveway onto State Route 65, and then motored south in the brilliant sunshine the half-mile to Route 65’s intersection with Routes 5&20.
I then turned east (left) onto 5&20, and within one-half mile a giant rat-pack of noisy GeezerGlides fell in behind, lead by a sullen ride-captain doing his best Peter Fonda Easy Rider imitation.
Ride-Captain was wearing shades and a chromed Nazi Wehrmacht helmet with a spike on top. He had a greasy skull-and-crossbones T-shirt.
A glowing Marlboro cigarette was dangling languidly from his lips, which he would occasionally dislodge to flick off ashes.
His hands were attached high-above to ape-hangers at least a foot above his head.
I ride motorbike myself, and even though ape-hangers look cool, I wonder how you initiate a turn with arms at full extension way above your torso, far from the input-point.
So I wicked it up to 60-65 mph, but the noisy rat-pack stayed glued to my bumper, a frightening movie-poster of grizzled road-warriors in my mirror.
We traveled east on 5&20 about 10-12 miles to Toomey’s Corners, there intending to turn south (right) onto State Route 64 up into the Bristol Hills, and past Bristol Mountain Ski Center.
At last, I thought; perhaps I could leave the rat-pack behind, but they were turning onto Route 64 too, as Ride-Captain and shotgun had their left-arms upraised in the right-turn signal I used to do on the Norton, even though it had turn-signals (the lead GeezerGlides didn’t).
So we all turned south onto Route 64, and suddenly Ride-Captain decided to put the move onto me, shifting his weight, and then blatting by in an angry cascade of sound.
Route 64 does a long open section south of Toomey’s Corners, so Ride-Captain was quickly followed by the entire rat-pack.
“Well, I gotta let these guys by,” I thought. “Don’t want them to smash up — they’re all gonna pass;” (TESTOSTERONE ALERT).
I moved slightly to the right, aware that some lackey might try to pass on the shoulder.
But all passed on the left; although a car was coming in the opposing lane as the final bloated bagger roared by. (The car had to move right to clear him.)
We then headed south on 64, me carefully following the rat-pack; we seemed to be doing about 55.
But I was laying back. One GeezerGlide kept crossing the yellow-line into the opposing lane, so I was afraid of him clipping opposing traffic and dumping his GeezerGlide in front of me.
64 follows the floor of a long valley, before finally threading a notch into the Bristol Hills. —Our destination was Ontario County Park past the notch.
But before threading the notch we pass a ramshackle road-house and tavern called “Lock, Stock & Barrel.”
Lock, Stock & Barrel is one of the many dives I used to run in my “Night Spots” in the Messenger’s weekly Steppin Out magazine. —Although I had to call them, beginning the usual fevered discussion about those in “Night Spots.” NS was a free ad — I shouldn’t have to pull teeth.
But pull teeth I did; NS wouldn’t have been anything without pulling teeth. Some dives had web-sites I could access online, but most didn’t.
Lock, Stock & Barrel was out in the middle of nowhere, but along the road to the ski-center.
And so the noisy rat-pack turned into Lock, Stock & Barrel, although 89 bazilyun GeezerGlides were already there, leaving us to wonder where the rat-pack would park.
Inside to macho-preen, and down shots of Jack Daniel’s.
And pick up drunken floozies for thrill-rides on the GeezerGlides, and perhaps scratch themselves and belch loudly and spit on the floor.
After passing Lock, Stock & Barrel, we continued past the ski-center and on up through the notch to Ontario County Park.
But GeezerGlides were everywhere; noisily serenading all-and-sundry.
At Ontario County Park a metric GeezerGlide parked next to us at the overlook (pictured); a Suzuki Intruder (Ugh!).
At a pond, a gigantical Gold Wing, big as the Queen Mary, parked along the shoulder.
Toward Canandaigua (we were also going to Weggers) a bunch of Big Dog-type customs passed — wheelbases in the Forrestal-class, gas-tanks at eye-level.
One custom passed: everything emerald-green — even the cylinder-head fins.
My niece’s husband has a Big Dog; a gigantic motorbike with a wheelbase about seven feet long, and tiny skull-heads as turn-signals.
He noisily claims 152 horsepower from it’s gigantic 114-cubic-inch Harley-based V-twin. “$50,000,” he bellows.
It has a rear-tire at least two feet wide. “How do you turn this thing?” I asked.
“Rides SMOOTH,” he said. He then started displaying all the trophies he had won.
“But I’m takin’ it back,” he said. “Won’t shift out of second-gear. I had to get it into the garage locked in second.”
The dreaded LHMB cost me about $6,000, and is much more rider-friendly than any Big Dog.
And I doubt I intimidate people like the rat-pack wannabees. It also doesn’t destroy shrubbery when you rev the motor.

The “D100” is my Nikon digital camera; now abhorrent to all my siblings.

“GeezerGlide” is what I call all Harley Davidson ElectraGlide cruiser-bikes. My loudmouthed macho brother-in-Boston has a very laid back Harley Davidson cruiser-bike, and, like most Harley Davidson riders, is 50 years old. So I call it his GeezerGlide.

“The CR-V” is our 2003 Honda CR-V SUV.

We live on “State Route 65.”

“5&20” is the main east-west road through our area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road. 5&20 is just south of where we live.

My first motorcycle, in 1978, was a 1975 850 “Norton” Commando Roadster.

“Bagger” is a Harley-Davidson ElectraGlide with saddlebags.

The “Messenger” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired almost two years ago. Best job I ever had. It had a weekly tabloid-magazine called “Steppin Out,” in which was a section I did called “Night-Spots.”

A “metric GeezerGlide” is one made by the Japanese: a so-called Harley-imitator.

“Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at. They have a store in Canandaigua.

The U.S.S. “Forrestal” is a Naval aircraft-carrier.

“LHMB” is my 2003 Honda 600-cc CBR/RR motorcycle. Seeing a picture of it, my sister-in-Floridy declared “Lord-Have-Mercy;” and my loudmouthed brother-in-Boston, a macho Harley-guy, seeing it was yellow, pronounced it a “Banana.” So LHMB equals Lord-Have-Mercy-Banana.