So a fleet of biker veterans called Rolling Thunder rode cross-country to deliver a personal endorsement to President Bush. Check out the Reuters pictures of Bush shaking hands with the guy on the Harley. Whatever you think of this administration, you have to admit that that is wicked bad-ass. It's wickass!
I have to admit that I have a terrible longing to be a biker. Mostly derived from Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, but also from driving up by Canton, GA and seeing a fleet of 50 bikers pass my dad up. Like a big iron flock. I want to be a part of that! Unfortunately, I don't think I'd fit in to the biker culture. I'm not worried about the physical stature or the tatoos or the hair. No, bikers know that the trimmings aren't what makes the biker. It's a way of looking at the world in the morning, a peculiar way one smells a rose, the way one guns the engine especially when passing mini-vans and other pussy equipage. I don't think I'm capable of that worldview, but I'm trying. I have ideas for my own iron flock. Picture: we ride around in 10-speed Schwinns, NO HELMETS, the bottoms of our pant legs frayed even though they might get caught in the pedals, the length of our hair as long as our velocity. And we're all listening to iPods! Sometimes Springsteen, but we only have half of one of his albums, and we can't concentrate with White Snake, so we listen to emo. But emo at really high volume! So it's EMO to the MAX!! Also we might listen to Bob Seger, because we know if he had been born a few decades later, he'd totally be playing emo.
That is my dream. Maybe, like Rolling Thunder, we'd make our final stop at the White House. The President would come out to personally greet Iron Flock. We wouldn't make a big political statement, though. I know what we'd do. I'd coast up to the front of the fleet, and I'd hand him... a mix tape. "Track 3,4 and 8 changed my life," I'd say. "But listen how Joy Division flows into The Smiths on 5 and 6. Oh, listen carefully. Then you'll know what to do."
"About the war?" he'd ask, taking the mix.
"Didn't hear it from me," I'd say. Then, turning the Schwinn in the direction of the opposite coast, some might say Frisco, I'd yell, "IRON FLOCK, HO!" And we'd be gone.
That is my dream.
I have to admit that I have a terrible longing to be a biker. Mostly derived from Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, but also from driving up by Canton, GA and seeing a fleet of 50 bikers pass my dad up. Like a big iron flock. I want to be a part of that! Unfortunately, I don't think I'd fit in to the biker culture. I'm not worried about the physical stature or the tatoos or the hair. No, bikers know that the trimmings aren't what makes the biker. It's a way of looking at the world in the morning, a peculiar way one smells a rose, the way one guns the engine especially when passing mini-vans and other pussy equipage. I don't think I'm capable of that worldview, but I'm trying. I have ideas for my own iron flock. Picture: we ride around in 10-speed Schwinns, NO HELMETS, the bottoms of our pant legs frayed even though they might get caught in the pedals, the length of our hair as long as our velocity. And we're all listening to iPods! Sometimes Springsteen, but we only have half of one of his albums, and we can't concentrate with White Snake, so we listen to emo. But emo at really high volume! So it's EMO to the MAX!! Also we might listen to Bob Seger, because we know if he had been born a few decades later, he'd totally be playing emo.
That is my dream. Maybe, like Rolling Thunder, we'd make our final stop at the White House. The President would come out to personally greet Iron Flock. We wouldn't make a big political statement, though. I know what we'd do. I'd coast up to the front of the fleet, and I'd hand him... a mix tape. "Track 3,4 and 8 changed my life," I'd say. "But listen how Joy Division flows into The Smiths on 5 and 6. Oh, listen carefully. Then you'll know what to do."
"About the war?" he'd ask, taking the mix.
"Didn't hear it from me," I'd say. Then, turning the Schwinn in the direction of the opposite coast, some might say Frisco, I'd yell, "IRON FLOCK, HO!" And we'd be gone.
That is my dream.
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