Like a bat out of hell
“If it looks like a fish, and smells like a fish, it may just be something slippery. If it swims, grab your pole and your tackle box.”
-Ancient Proverb
Like a bat out of hell, he screams through the night. Cutting through the air on his impossible machine.
This is what they think of me as I enter the scene. But alas, it’s a big fat fucking misconception. You can read a book by its cover, but its contents and its actual nature will remain obscured.
Many have seen me in my vest and mistaken it for a kutte. They see the knife inked on my right arm, in the crevice between my forearm and upper… arm (upper arm?). They see other pockets of ink, stickered about the visible portions of my skin. The beard. They think, “this man appears before us now, and did so on nothing less than a bat out of hell.”
The truth is, I did not come here on a Harley or an Indian. I did come here in a Honda but with double the wheels and triple the windows. My M1-Class license is but a figment of some cold fantasy I amuse myself with as I grip the wheel of my Civic.
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One day, I will ride with the brethren. But for now, there are circumstances to consider deeply which have prevented me from committing fully.
Harley-Davidson, the Patron Saints they are, offer education in this sort of thing. Which is not surprising at face value, but is surprising when you consider how organized it is. I guess it’s best for business: create a breeding ground for the next generation to fly high.
You can book a class somewhere relatively close by. We’re talking just a 4 hour round trip. You’ll also need to be available for the short period of a full weekend. Or nights on a succession of weekdays. The booking costs roughly $250 cold ones.
Then, you must bring the following:
-Gloves
-Boots
-Helmet
The collective amount of that trio, if foraged in the right quality from the right sources, will set you back another $250.
That’s before getting into the financials of procuring the beast itself, or insuring it.
There’s also the added layer of being a mechanic: a good rider will know how to mend his steed should they become dislodged somewhere far outside of Dodge, far beyond helping hands. Perhaps this is not a requirement, but it feels important.
Now, all of this feels attainable. Just not at any moment soon. When your old lady wants you to buy property out in this forsaken desert, and a brand new truck is calling your name, prosperities have to come into play and the motorcycle endeavor winds up taking a very distinct low point of the list of priorities.
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I was invited on a ride recently, through the winding wonders of Topanga Canyon. We’d spit out onto PCH, and feed right into the westside. We’d roar pass the cliffside cafes and the gas station and that little strip of port-a-potties and the lookli-loos pressed against the perilous edge looking down on the rocks and the sand and the Pacific, parallel to an endless amount of parked cars.
The ride exists but only in the future, in a place I know I must catch up to.