Squid's Fortnight

by Nance

I live in a pretty spot and May is a luscious month here at the beach, but, ordinarily, I try to be as far out of the area as possible for all of May.  This year, with a wedding looming, we're staying put for the month and driving VERY carefully.

It's time for the annual Hog Invasion on the south end, followed immediately by the annual Metric Bike Rally on the north end, to borrow a couple of terms from the rich lode of biker slang.  It goes without saying that I'm entirely hip and in the know on these matters and, obviously, so are you, so I won't spare the jargon. [For the unhip, there'll be definitions at the end of this post. It might be more fun to try to pick up the meanings from context and photos.]

At one time, the motorcycle events were referred to as weekenders, but both events gradually turned into fortnighters as more and more riders tried to get here ahead of the pack.  Since there's usually only about two fortnights in a month, that pretty well shoots May for the locals--at least for the ones who don't own hotels, restaurants, or bars.  Some creatively named bars only open for the month of May; my all time favorite raunchy bar name is Suck, Bang, Blow, but The Beaver Bar speaks volumes.  Many of those business owners rake in the bulk of their annual income when the motorcycles arrive.  The rest of us have successfully campaigned for noise ordinances and helmet laws, which harshed out the rebel experience for many attendees, who preferred to ride without brain buckets or mufflers.  So we've pitted the retirees against the business owners and thrown in a half million sunburnt, liquor-swilling, Hell's Angels wannabes. We could give lessons around here on how to divide a town against itself.

Riders and vendors have both taken the drop since '08, when more than 500,000 cycle tourists swarmed the beach,  swamping the city and county services.  While attendance has declined, there are still enough bikes, booze, and babes headed our way this weekend to make a trip to the grocery store a potentially life-altering experience.  Outside the city limits, where I live, the new laws don't apply, so it gets very sporty on the roads for drivers.  When I'm traveling at 45-60 mph in my car and am overtaken  by 25 or 30 unmuffled four-cycle engines in the hands of drunk and bareheaded riders, I have a tendency to fluster a weensy bit.  People die on these roads each Rally season; I keep hoping no one will choose to perform a high-speed drop in front of my Passat wagon.

A Sporty is a Harley Sportster, the classic, lighter weight model (DH had one of these when I met him 34 years ago). The guys seem to prefer the heavier Hogs these days and the women sometimes ride Sporties, but there'll  also be plenty of road couches, Goldwings, and geezer glides clogging up the local slabs. Some bikes, like the custom job with sidecar shown here,  are nothing less than beautiful.  Bikers, on the other hand, aren't known for their beauty; they have a tendency to look a little leathery and not terribly clean. Bugs in the teeth, both smooth-style and crunchy, can detract from looks and are a bigger problem when helmets are eschewed...so to speak.  And it's hard to tell how old a biker is.  This fellow reminds me of a biblical patriarch, if Abraham had worn tats and colors. 

In between laughing ourselves silly at the sights, DH and I worry about the utter lack of protection most Rally riders prefer.  They think those of us who travel in cages when we're cruising don't know how to live right.  They look at us in our wagons and see squares; we look at them, many with nothing but t-shirts between their skins and the pavement, and see squids.

Some riders need to wear more clothes just to keep from offending everyone else, which has given us a wicked, be-ashamed-of-yourselves million dollar idea:  The Biker Suit.  Sort of along the lines of those Sumo wrestler suits people wear for keg parties so they can get drunk, run into each other on purpose, and fall over--only these suits would actually serve the purpose of putting abundant padding between the biker and the slab (rhymes with _____). 

Hey, somebody stole our idea!

 The prevailing joke amongst those opposed to turning the town over to bikers for the prettiest month of the year is that Harley riders are typically doctors, lawyers, and highly successful business folk.  The proffered proof is that the bikes are so costly to own, transport (or ride), and maintain, that those who are owned by a Harley (or BMW or Victory) have to have means.  So, what would you say:  doctor?  Lawyer?  Chiropractor, maybe?

Photo: D J Mick

Terminology:
Hog:  A big bore Harley Davidson.
Metric Bike: What Harley Riders call cycles made by foreign countries; for example,  Crotch Rockets or Rice Burners.
slabs: roads or pavement.
Suck, Bang, Blow:  A drive-through biker bar named after the processes of a four-stroke engine, including the intake stroke, the ignition, and the exhaust.  This leaves out the compression stroke, which would be step two, but who can count that high after so many tequila shots and brews?
Beaver Bar:  Gimme a break.
brain buckets:  Any sort of helmet, but particularly the type of half-helmet that is almost worse than useless.
drop:  What happens to a bike if the kickstand isn't engaged; also, what happens to an imbalanced and poorly controlled moving bike.  
high-speed drop:  When a bike is banked too far in a high speed turn, gravity goes to work.
road couches:  What you ride when you really should have hung it up about ten years ago, but you've got more money than sense.
geezer glides:  See road couches.
colors: Gang duds, like The Outlaws or The Hell's Angels wear.
cages:  Automobiles, to a biker.
squids:  Variously, as Squashed Kid; an overconfident biker with an attitude of invincibility and a preference for speed over skill; Stupid, Quick, Underdressed, Inevitably (or Imminently) Dead.
burnout:  Revving the bike to 7000-8000 rpm while slowly releasing the clutch, front brake tightly held. Back tire will melt and may blow.  One more reason you'll need that law degree.

Biker Bar Burnout