Conway May 15
The noise comes from behind. First you think it’s another logging truck, one of the endless train that plies these narrow roads. Focus on what you’re doing, you tell yourself. What’s the roadside look like should I need to dive for safety? Brace yourself for its piney air-wash wake that can unsteady a bike.
But no, it has a different sound, much throatier. It grows louder. Much louder. Soon you’re swallowed by 31 motorcycles with wide-bottomed riders. They rip past, their machines farting beastly exhaust noises to satisfy some deep psychological need to be noticed. Here I am world, listen to my mechanical flatulence. That means I’m important.
It is Bike Week in Myrtle Beach. Conway is not far from Myrtle Beach. I’m told for a biker this is an important rally, not on the exalted level of Sturgis, SD, but one you can brag about. So, given the number of black leather-clad iron horse riders who attend each year, the overflow spreads inland to places like Conway. The innkeeper said I got the last room.
Thirteen motorcycles were parked in a special area right outside my room. I got some long looks from do-rag-wrapped heads when I rolled my noiseless steel steed into my room. Two more riders blasted into the parking lot. They opened the back of a shiny trailer behind an SUV with PA plates and rolled their bikes into it.
Man, those guys can’t even ride their cushy, super-suspension, radio-equipped muscle machines down from PA? Hey, wanna talk about REAL ridin’? I got a thousand miles on my butt and some stories tell, but I’m tired and going to sleep.
No comments:
Post a Comment