Whispers shared in tight embrace
Transport me to mecca, This idyllic place Reverting back to childhood dreams When all was possible And could be redeemed Far detached from man’s global stress His reaching, achieving futile fame Impressed by numbers, legends, names I have my purpose, I need no other I caress her body, my soul recovers On Midnight streets, along curving shore Moonbeams dance as they seduce the waves Combining with colors both ivory and pure An ethereal garden, her elegant allure From surface above we survey below The ocean’s religion, the haunting night chill Floating leviathans, passionate waves As lovers and beggars, with their fortune and chance Pass by the moon, with its slivered romance With ambrosia consumed, I reach for her fingers Together we hold, as each kiss still lingers A mixture of desire, thoughts intense living present A crescendo of nature, a sacred glorious hour What else could import, no news could matter Her beauty dictates, her spirit delivers All else is extraneous, inconsequential chatter The Sea surges madly, as stars lit by heaven Travel their distance, on a journey forever On Moonlit sheets we now rest together I indulge my passion, my incessant desire For her immaculate body, her exotic rhythm She beckons, I surrender I lose semblance of name Ego dies, walls removed She conquers my world And I enter her temple No thoughts to impede, no logic to persuade This flow of emotion, this transcendent night She grants me my freedom, she delivers the promise Of God’s ancient gift, the potential, the reason Later I awake, still breathing her air Her tender perfection waiting and bare I patiently wait, as time disappears With her arms wrapped around me And mine around hers I look once more as she opens her eyes And happily, peacefully retreat back to sleep TDR tale
Christian Slater Knox I had lived without a car or a motorcycle for over a year, I couldn’t take it anymore. In Costa Rica I gazed at Lilliputian Chinese made single-cylinder machines with lustful eyes. Compared to riding the insufferably hot, crowded and antiquated bus, the tiny Asian bikes seemed as exotic to me as a new Ducati, well, almost. In the states I had owned a litany of bikes ranging from a Ducati 900ss, a brand new Kawasaki ZRX 1200R and even a 1971 Moto Guzzi Ambassador I bought for $100. I sold my last bike, a beloved ’91 GSXR-1100 after discovering that my dream of obtaining a place in corporate America would never happen. I figured if after obtaining my MBA that if big business didn’t want me, I’d head South…….as in South America!!!! After a three month stint in Costa Rica and a brief sojourn in Buenos Aires I made it to Chile. In the desert coastal town of Antofagasta in Northern Chile I knew my bus riding days were over. I couldn’t decide which was worse, the lumbering, ancient diesel-powered buses or the black and yellow Nissan Collectivos. The collectivo concept was unfathomable to me as I would pay $600 pesos and cram into the back seat of a second gen Nissan Sentra with a huge sweaty guy and a woman holding a screaming baby. That was just more humanity than I could take. Luckily, I stumbled upon a position teaching English at a local university and immediately started scouring all the classifieds. I was confused regarding the Chilean currency and looked at the prices which all had the dollar sign. I saw a ’92 GSXR-1100 similar to the one I used to own. Price? $3,000. I thought wow!! Just like in the USA. Later, I realized that the price was in Chilean pesos and converted into US dollars would be over $6,000!!!! I was depressed immensely after discovering this. I reassured myself that I could find something, some rare gem out there waiting for me…. I was ready to spend $2,000 US and looked at every ad on www.yapo.cl . It came down to this decision: either buy a brand new 200cc Chinese single or something older, faster and more interesting that needed a dose of what my father used to call my “car ministry.” I saw these new bikes at a department store downtown. I had a friend who had purchased one of these bikes and he let me ride it. It was slow; hideously, mind-numbingly slow with its pathetic ohv single blatting away at the salty air blown off the Pacific. That would never do. I found another website called Chile autos and zoomed in with my bike radar. I discovered one machine of interest which intrigued me. It was a black and yellow 1989 Yamaha TDR 250. The bike resembled an enduro bike and had aggressive off road tires. I had never heard of this machine as it was never imported to the USA thanks to the censorious hegemony of the EPA. The reason for its exile was because under its Black and Yellow livery resided a liquid cooled two stroke parallel twin derived from the GP bikes of the day. The seller was asking $1,200 US for it and I gave him a call. With my broken Spanish I was able to get him to text his address to me and I looked it up on Google. I rode my newly purchased bicycle north along the shore for miles and gazed at the lumbering cargo ships waiting patiently in the bay. I found the street where he lived, if you could call it a street. It looked like an alley with barely enough space for a small car to get through. On either side was a block long stretch of two story homes crammed in together. Each had a miniscule slab of concrete complete with prison bars. This was the north side of Antofa and I had heard it was the ugly side of town, now I knew exactly how ugly. I spotted the TDR resting on its side stand on one of these slabs of dust-covered concrete. I gazed at the bike for a minute before a woman came out holding a baby. “Soy Christian” I said with my pathetic Spanish, “Busco por marcelo.” Marcelo came out with his bright red hair and skin paler than mine. “Hola Christian. Que Tal.” He wheeled the machine free of its confinement onto the increasingly crowded street. As he moved the bike around I saw various faces peering from curtained windows curious to discover what was happening below. I was filled with adrenaline as I examined the bike. It was old and had seen better days but, I was mesmerized by its twin flat black expansion chambers which swept up on each side and ended in a pair of high mounted exhausts. He straddled the Yamaha, flicked the choke into position and kick-started it to life with a quick downward thrust of his right foot. Then I heard that old stroke magic, the symphony of “ring-ding”, a glorious cacophony which hearkened back to another age…. when machines were still mysterious contraptions which emitted plumes of smoke, could raise the dead with their shrieking howls and each journey was an adventure. I thought of the old days when Moto GP consisted of 200 hp 500cc two stroke bullets and to those suicidal maniacs who piloted them to famous victories, those were real men. I had been indoctrinated in the cult of the increasingly forgotten two-stroke years before, twenty years before to be exact. I was 19 and was at Road America with my father and another guy who had a BMW K75s. Over a Wisconsin Brat I discovered that he had a cousin who not only had a ’72 Kawasaki Mach III triple, but that he would give it to me for free!!!. These were and are magical words to me and within days I had one of the legendary 500cc two stroke-triple powered machines in my parents’ garage in Evanston, IL. The tires were twenty years old, the fork tubes were pitted and the black paint was imperfect but none of that mattered. I cleaned up the bike, removed the three black expansion chambers and lovingly sanded and repainted them and installed a black fairing I bought at jc whitney. I also cleaned the three individually air-filter equipped carbs and installed a new set of points, triple points. I had never seen that before or since. I started the bike up for the first time and my dad had his gleaming bright red ’90 Kawasaki Concours parked nearby. Big Mistake. As I started the machine for the first time I recalled the words of the previous owner. He told me that the bike sounded like 100 angry bees buzzing under water. I looked at the tach and reveled in the moment. I always felt a moment of pure, unadulterated glory when getting a newly acquired machine to start for the first time. It was like a military triumph, my small conquest over the inevitable process of decay, destruction and annihilation we all will eventually face. But for now, I was beaming, until my dad yelled “Chris!!! Shut it off!!!” I did as he asked and turned around to discover that in my moment of glory I had inadvertently covered my dad’s concours with a sheen of two-stroke oil. I later adjusted the injector pump, pumped up the ancient tires and slapped on a license plate from another bike I owned and hit the streets. It was fast, loud, dangerous and all mine. I rode it back the 600 mile trek to Oxford, Ms where I was attending University. My father followed closely on my ’82 GS1100E as we headed South along the monotonous and seemingly endless stretch of Interstate. The bike was incredibly light, simple and revved like crazy. At one gas station I noticed the front tire was flat and despaired. I pumped it back up with air and carefully continued on another ten miles on I-55 to a truck stop. My dad and I propped up the featherweight machine on a milk crate; I removed the front wheel and handed it to a mechanic in a truck stop. The man had massive arms and was coated with grease as he repaired the inner tube within minutes. Later on we were nearing Effingham in Southern Illinois when the usual manic howl of the two-stroke triple shifted into a deeper and truly deafening madness. I pulled over and discovered that one of the baffles flew out. I ran back along the highway dodging semi-trucks and retrieved the beat up baffle tube. I stuffed some paper towels in my ears and we rode on. Later that night my Dad and I sat in the parking lot of the hotel with a large hammer and an anvil. I watched as he meticulously beat the metal back into shape with visible pride. I made it to my Southern home the next day and rode the bike through the undulating roads outside of Oxford. Onetime I had my dad ride it and as I stood outside my apartment I could hear the unmistakable howl of that triple from miles away. I eventually traded the bike for a credit at a liquor store after several times discovering the limitations of its lightweight and flexible frame, but that’s another story. So with my fill of two stroke nostalgia I turned my attention to the 250 cc twin as it chattered, spit, barked and erupted into a fury which gained the complete attention of every living creature within a radius of one city block. Marcelo handed me a helmet and he piloted the TDR through the narrow alley onto the main street. He turned right at the crest of a hill and opened up the throttle. I nearly fell off the back as the two stroke screamed into life with defiant rage and tore at the evening air. I was sold. I called him the next day and we agreed to a price of $500,000 Chilean Pesos or $1,000.00 US. I was filled with anticipation and lust as I thought of my new machine. I met him at the local notary on the plaza Colon and he signed the bike over to me. I was now the owner of a two-stroke Yamaha in South America. There was hope for the world yet! As I rode the bike home I discovered I had overlooked a few points in my moments of excitement and blind obsession. The shifter was reversed and I had to go all the way up for first. Ok, I could deal with that I thought. I went down a broad street with various potholes and unpaved sections and the knobby tires seemed like a good idea. As I sped up I noticed a very noticeable wobble through the handlebars. It was the front wheel, something was wrong, seriously wrong and in my frenzied state I had not even noticed it. I made it back to the south side of Antofa and parked the TDR outside of the house where I rented a room. Feeling a little crestfallen and tired I went to bed. The next Saturday I removed the expansion chambers and sanded them with a religious and fanatical attention to detail. I was going to bring the bike back, no matter what. It would be my challenge. I hung the exhausts from a tree and painted them in the afternoon heat as I looked at the ocean spreading out before me like a vast, blue and infinite table. To me they resembled some form of modern art as I watched the flat black high temp paint dry. The exhaust turned out beautifully and I felt that I could return this special machine to its former glory one piece at a time. After all, it was the process that mattered. Right? I cleaned the carbs, repainted the handlebar and became more acquainted with my new bike. The black bodywork had some cracks and there was no air filter!!! In a state of panic I asked a biker in the neighborhood about it. He told me to use something, but I couldn’t understand what the word was he was saying. It had something to do with women and their legs…..ok, two of my favorite subjects no doubt but what do women’s legs have to do with the air filter in my Yamaha TDR 250?? Pantyhose!!! That was it. Then I had to figure where to buy the pantyhose and naturally overcome the strange sensation of asking someone for some pantyhose. I went to the neighborhood grocery store and examined every aisle all in vain. Why in God’s name didn’t they have f###ing pantyhose???? I had to go downtown to a larger store and finally I found a pair of pantyhose and looked at the woman in the checkout for a reaction. Why did this Gringo want a pair of pantyhose?? I looked at her nervously and said “por mi moto” as she probably thought….yeah, sure……. With my newly fitted pantyhose air filter, repainted exhaust and still wobbly front wheel I hit the streets of Antofagasta. No more bus for me!! I felt like I was fifteen again riding my first bike, a ’71 Honda CB 450. I felt liberated, alive and wonderfully macho as I penetrated the environment with this blasphemous two-stroke relic. I rode it to the University and parked it below my building. In between my classes I would look at it lovingly from above filled with a warm, fuzzy feeling of satisfaction. Some forces in this world would not be stopped….and for me, even thousands of miles from home, devoid of a driver’s license, riding a nearly twenty-five year old machine with a dangerously wobbly front wheel, no turn signals and fighting the hordes of malicious street dogs intent on attacking me as I passed by…..despite all these malevolent forces I was still riding, living and tapping back into the mystical two-stroke religion which I had first been baptized into when I was nineteen. Now at 39, thanks to my perfectly imperfect TDR, I rediscovered not just the magic of riding, but of enjoying each and every moment, despite all the problems, the failings, the broken, mangled and worn out parts of the world or my machine….the world was and is a magical place….. Ode to the Desert-
Ancient rubble attacks my feet From this grievous surface, no retreat A violent sun with searing face A bitter night with frost embraced A Martian beauty, an idyllic space The lunar detail and sense of place I feel serene, I eschew my fear Perhaps find Buddha residing near I rearrange the dust, I carve my way Past the town and man’s delay I seek the source, the beginning - end To perilous heights I shall ascend The moon delights on every fissure Seeking life, but not a slither Creatures none, an ocean dry Movie vistas to life deny Starved of water, certain death Storms of dust and mirage do bend My fragile truth, my limited scope A Deathly wasteland, devours all hope I seek the moment, I want to say I sought the chance, I shaped this clay But in this cauldron, now I feel But broken cog to fortune’s wheel A garden of not, a mummified tomb A lasting taste of mortal doom Clouds evade, they shelter far To escape this temple, this malevolent czar The poignant question, my tumultuous stare Man’s colossal ego, his incessant dare To conquest time, to vanquish God To worship legends in altars far The dust returns with savage wind The rocks perplex, the sun sinks in Determined I follow, stubborn I seek, Beyond the shroud, this obscure peak Willing to risk, ravenous to know All I can achieve, before I go Ode to Desire-
Perfect smiles from perfect face Polished aluminum and shining paint Crystal glasses filled with vintage wine Vaunted mansions with antiques fine I wake, I stumble, I grasp and moan I lose the path in ventures unknown Amidst the darkness and tangled weeds I call on death to rescue me To exile me from life’s despairs Endless torment and broken stairs Then I detect a voice, I see a shape I hear the note of exotic take Potent engines, sculpted form Music sonorous, music bold Elaborate structures to me reveal A female figure, the setting sun Cloud filtered Luna that fortune’s won A child’s laugh, an ocean’s shore I feel the laughter and I want more I see the world revolving in her eyes It reminds me then why I’m alive To chase the dream, to hunger more To yearn for love and what I adore To face the struggle, to defy it all For one more shot to be enthralled To go beyond all mortal care To lay with beauty in temples bare To stroke her locks and caress her flesh Become two souls intermeshed Roman Columns, ivory, stone and fire On Persian carpets and never retire Feast on meat and Pompeian vine To feel alive would be so divine Relieved from pain and idiot advice I see the light amidst the pain I crave her sustenance and seek to gain Forever new, forever fine Heroin hit and whisky shine The South of France The Chilean shore The artist’s promise Ghiberti’s door Her promised love and the hint of more I want to whisper, I want to soar To want it all and enter time The entire universe intertwined With my story and my tale Gasp of crowds that mythic tell Airplane power and train defeat My hate of tedium, my ignorant feet To stretch beyond what I knew To fortune’s glory or unknown tomb With the music blasting in my mind A millionaire symphony that’s always mine The face of Venus, the taste of fame The love of potential, the death of same With the challenge won and the trial over Now I rest on Aphrodite’s shoulder |
Fortes Fortuna Adiuvat
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