Inside the biker's den. Shocking revelations

Dinner with the bikers! Having photographed the bike racers every month for the last year or so, I am finally invited to their inner sanctum for a group meeting. This is a big deal and I am not sure I am up to the challenge. They are hardened hard men who bite the heads off chickens for recreational purposes, break bones on a weekly basis and have road rash burns over more than 80% of their bodies. I, on the other hand, am a wimp. Still, I must do my best.

What to wear? I recall stories of bikers wearing jeans that have been soaked in urine, for reasons that are not obvious. Should I pee on my jeans before I go? I settle for having a pee and then putting on my jeans, not quite so radical but considerably less smelly.

The time given is 20.00, but I am sure that many of those attending will stop off on the way for a little pillaging, or will have inserted themselves and their bikes into walls, and will have to be extracted. So I arrive a little late to discover everyone is there and the party is in full swing. A biker’s moll is stirring a large pot of what I assume to entrails and assorted body parts. The bikers are drinking blood, no doubt some local virgin (now, there’s a challenge) has been sacrificed for the purpose. There is music playing, probably a death-thrash-metal band advocating revolution.

Then the preconceptions start to crumble. The pot of entrails turns out to be a most excellent chili con carne. The blood is actually a 2002 Napa Valley Merlot exhibiting ripe plum and berry fruit flavors balanced with soft tannins and smoky oak. The music, god help us all, is Shakin’ Stevens.

After dinner, we sit out by the pool where the conversation ranges across a variety of subjects, none of them bike related. This is all turning out to be a bit of a let-down. Then, a chance for devilment. The neighbour’s poodle puppy strays into our area. Surely someone will grab a convenient stick, ram it up the puppy’s bum and proclaim that we have something with which to scrub the dishes. But no, instead the poodle is taken upon a lap and give a thorough stroking.

Obviously, I have had to blank out the face of the poodle hugger, he is a well-known local bike racer and businessman; the shame of such publicity would ruin him. David Conquest.

Fired up by the bikers and their radical lifestyle, I throw a withering sneer at a passer-by on the way home; from the safety of my locked car passing at 80kph of course. Life on the edge, I’m living it.

Comments 🔗

2008-08-08 | Billy says

I think you confuse bikers with Hells Angels. Never mind, a five smile post. :-) :-) :-) :-) :-)

2008-08-09 | Siam Sunshine says

Thanks for a post that made me smile, keep up the good work.

Siam Sunshine

2008-08-09 | Spike says

Thanks for the comments. I aim to please, even if it requires fiddling with reality a little.

2008-08-11 | Jock says

Never let the truth get in the way of a good story !!

2008-08-18 | Umbala says

A very nice story of what would appear to be a bunch of civilised bikers. However it must be said that hard core bikers who usually travel 1000klms/day would have eaten the dog.

2008-08-19 | Spike says

Not the sort of bikers who go camping but give up and check into a hotel….?