Oh-oh.
It's a Harley hip dip fag, looking for trouble.
If you're riding anything other than a Harley, at least you know your bike will start so you can get the heck out of there.
If you're a Harley hip dip yourself, well, grab your ankles, Bubba.
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Here is the very first motorcycling story that I can remember having happen to me:
It was the summer of 1982, not even a year after I'd bought my first motorcycle, an oldie called a 1972 Yamaha AT-2.
It was a pile of crap, basically, and I rode it off-road on the trails near my house by the local town reservoir (something you couldn't do today without the police being called) and at the nearby off-road riding spots (gravel banks) about 5 or 6 miles away (where the bike would have to be pushed there along the side of the road).
Yes, that's right - I had no driver's license, no car or truck, and my dad was in no way involved with my motorcycling.
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My older sister, who is one year and one month older than me, had a boyfriend in the summer of 1982 who was much older than herself.
Quite eye-opening, really, because she was 17 and he was 30.
Yes, you read that right.
They'd actually met the year before, so they got involved when she was 16.
If I had a pic to show you of this hip dip loser, you'd probably want to run to the bathroom to throw up, too.
He looked very much like the spic half of the comedy duo Cheech and Chong.
He looked like a Mexican version of Jesus Christ, long hippy-dippy hair down to his shoulders and all.
He was short, too, about 5'5".
Thoroughly disgusting, thinking back on it.
But, you know how kids in their teens are - the know it all, they know what they're doing, and don't try to tell them anything because they've got it all under their control.
I'd hang around at the local swimming hole, a bend in the river (more like a brook than a river, being about 30 feel across at it's widest and 5 feet at it's narrowest) where the current slowed and the bottom was a bit deeper.
There was a rope to swing off of, and it was generally a good time being there.
The trails I'd ride went right past it, too.
Me, my older sister, and her boyfriend were often there, as well as some of the boyfriend's hip dip Harley buddies who were also grubby-looking dip dips.
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You see, 1982 was past the official hippy days of the mid 1960s to mid 1970s, but there were sitll plenty of hangers-on who just wouldn't get a haircut or a proper job.
Or bathe.
Or shave that snotty mess of a tangled beard.
They just kinda' bummed the summer away, taking each lazy day as it came.
Smoking lots of pot and getting a decent buzz off beer were important things to do, and as long as this was done every day, things were OK by them.
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One day, a kid about a year younger than myself, who I recognized through school, was there, talking about motorcycles with the boyfriend and his hip dip Harley buddies.
None of these guy owned a bike that was not a piece of shit as far as I know (if they even owned one at all), but that wasn't the point - as long as you acknowledged Harley Davidson motorcycles as the king, you were OK by them.
You also must realize that these were the days where even Harley fans will tell you the quality and reliability of Harleys was at it's low point, even leaking oil brand new on the showrooms.
Yes.
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Well, the hip dip Harley buddies and the boyfriend basically started yelling at the kid because the kid had the nerve to suggest that Harleys weren't all that great, and a nice Yamaha or Honda was a lot more to his liking.
The hip dips shouted things at the kid, all amounting to:
Buy a Harley, or else you're some kind of Jap-loving traitor to the USA.
Harleys are for real, patriotic men.
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I remember wanting to puke, not only because I didn't agree with Harleys being desirable (I still think they're not for me, to say the least, and even back then, I knew that for the riding I was doing, they were below useless), and not only because the hip dips were a bunch of grubby, filthy loudmouths, but also because they also had trouble conjuring-up the words to state their point.
Must have been all of that pot and beer, because they could only muster a 4th-grade vocabulary during their shouting match.
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I never forgot that moment.
That was my first incident of supposed Harley superiority from the mouth of an idiot, an idiot who probably couldn't ride to save his life.
Even to this day, I'll still think back to that time on occasion when I hear some retard spouting-off about how great Harleys are supposed to be.
It's most humorous the more the retard looks like the pic above:
A true Harley lover's delight. :)
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Off to jerk,
-John
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