Triumph Rocket III: British Heavy Metal

The motorcycle bug is at me once again. Perhaps because I am beginning to smell retirement. Not quite there yet, but I can start to see it through the fog.

I’ve customarily owned a motorcycle the bulk of my life. I started young, when my father brought home an ancient ex-CHP Harley-Davidson 74 that, for whatever reason, he purchased when perhaps having had smoked too many cigars one day. I can still clearly recall that the bike had the throttle on the right bar-end, and a “spark retarder” on the left bar-end. Yes, the bike was that old. It also had a flat-metal coil spring right-side kick start which, if one didn’t retard the spark quite correctly, possessed the ability to fling you bodily up and over the motorcycle itself. Which is precisely what occurred to my father one time. I can still clearly envision that huge, square oil reservoir on the right side behind the engine, and those miniscule drum brakes. Because we had a gravel driveway in the back accessing Dad’s Shop, it also fell over on him at low speed a time or two. He sold it for — wait for it — a British MG-B with the horizontal wires in the doors to open the doors.

I used to sit on that huge black leather seat comprised of vast butt-acreage (to a young boy, at least) and see myself motoring down the road. Dad once, in fact, took me on a local ride atop the 74’s gas tank, sitting in front of him. We had no helmets, of course. The wind really rustled by. I loved it.
Pat Green later had a mini-bike powered by a red colored Briggs & Stratton engine. We both crashed it numerous times in the field behind the house. You could ride your bicycle faster than it would go — but it was a mini-bike so no one cared. It had an engine; that was the entire point.
Later, when my family moved to Ohio and Dad was assigned to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, I acquired a little 3-speed automatic Honda 50 mini-bike. We lived in Chatham Village on Harwich Drive. Dave Platten had his own red one, then Mike Vasiliadis got a larger, blue Honda 70 — larger than mine. That was patently unfair. So, not to be undone, I purchased Terrell Allen’s Honda 90 with the tank conversion kit, as the Honda 90 had a step-through (read: sissy) frame.

Just before leaving Ohio, I acquired a Yamaha 125 two-stroke with motocross handlebars. I can clearly recall buying a pair of Torsten Hallman riding gloves to wear whilst riding it.

After that, the bikes came cascading along. A series of Yamahas, a few Hondas, then my 1980 Yamaha XS1100 with matching Windjammer fairing, a 1984 Honda Magna and up to a gorgeous 1984 BMW R100RT in a shimmering silverish-blue. Heavy sigh.
I haven’t had a bike for a number of years now, and the bug is at me again. I have my sights set on, thanks to Tim Frazier, a Triumph Rocket III, which possesses the largest engine in a current production motorcycle. A bit about the assembly of the average Rocket III by Triumph in England:

Already you can see: an uncommon motorcycle and not for the neophyte.
A few specifications: with a final shaft drive, the Rocket III weighs 703 pounds, produces 150 ft-lbs of torque and 145 hp at 2,500 rpm, 0 to 60 in three seconds, and has not only a low center of gravity but a low seat for those of us — ahem — who happen to be “inseam-ally”-challenged. As my doctor recently opined with a straight face, I am not overweight, I am simply under-tall.

I’m still in the pondering stage at this point, and haven’t even thrown my leg over a Rocket III. Truthfully, I haven’t been able to find one. And ideally, I’d care to focus more on the Rocket III Cruiser which appears to be more in tune with my potential usage, following retirement — as I plan to scatter about with some of my fellow elderly ex-Sheriff reprobates, Silverbacks and current coppers on their metal steeds as well.
The Triumph Rocket III is, well, the embodiment of British Heavy Metal. And whilst we’re at it, perhaps a taste of the original phraseology?

Any of you owners of various motors have any thoughts or opinionationisms?
BZ

The Road


I’ve been reflecting recently, wondering quite where our collective national freedoms went and why, generally, I hear so few people bemoaning their loss and, additionally, why we’re not doing more to reacquire them.

Now, I don’t mean that the Obama’Stapo are kicking in our doors — although we’re not that far away. That is, if you’re really listening, if you’re really reading and — moreover, unfortunately — if you’re going out of your way to be aware and dig for information.

If not for concerted efforts, the DEM/MSM would rather — by way of the federal government — you simply be Mushroom’d: that is, kept in the dark and fed shit.

One blog taken down, lawfully-owned guns removed forcibly from a blogger. See Old NFO’s post here. Because of words. It isn’t “in the future.” It’s actually occurring now. Not in the UK. Not in Canada. In the United States of America.

The frog in the boiling pot.


One of the most prototypical of allusions.

I wonder how many of our minor freedoms collapse on a daily basis.

I went to the market today.

There were more “self-checkout” lanes available than lanes occupied by humans. For a moment I tried to check out myself. I unfolded two paper bags and placed them on the metal platen for filling. The machine told me there was an unanticipated weight and that I would have to start over.

I am so sorry, boys and girls, but I say FUCK THAT.

Texas Fred, who is occasionally to the Right of me in public, never uses such language. God bless him for that. He is much the level and I am apparently more emotional. He restrains himself. I won’t.

I repeat: FUCK THAT. And those who think that I’ll cast humans aside for the so-called “quickness” of techology. Except that technology always fucks up on the “self check-out.” The older I get, the more of a Luddite I become.

I know that a portion of my readers are disturbed when I fall back on so-called “foul language,” but you must know that I am an unrepentant cop and my macaca foul language comes with the game.

I attempt to make up for it, as I did on the street, with a plethora of multi-syllabic words that the bulk of America can’t understand. Because I was several levels in education above those whose calls I served. I have to admit: there’s nothing like excoriating ill-educated imbeciles and utilizing sarcasm at the expense of the dim-witted. It was illuminating and envigorating. I quite enjoyed it whilst in Patrol.

Bottom line, I write for myself. That said, I’m wondering what the extension is for Freedom.

True Freedom.

Freedom to the point that those so-exposed realize its origins and can appreciate its history.

Nah. Can’t happen. Our kids are too ignorant and too inculcated to realize any portion of True US History.

Which brings me to The Road.

The further you get from “civilization,” the more you get in tune with yourself.

Check out Neil Peart’s “Ghost Rider.”

Cameras in intersections. Cameras in stores. Cameras at ATMs. Cameras on common carriers. Cameras in the military. Dashboard cams in cop cars. Cameras cameras cameras.

And, for those few, there exists The Road.

Some roads are unmonitored. Some roads have no cams. Those are the roads I wish to travel.

In the meantime, in population centers, you are taxed and fined and cited for parking and existing. You park a few inches from a curb, you are cited. You are told, these days, what to eat, how to eat it, what to smoke (marijuana, not cigarettes), what to add to your food, how to access your food, how you will light your homes, how you will heat and cool your homes, how the government clearly knows better than you.

Give up your freedoms, Americans. You ignorant cunts.

Some roads represent freedom. Give them a few years.

I want to be on the road. I drive fast because, for now, I can. I pass cars because, for now, I can. I rapidly accelerate on on-ramps because I can. I live far away from oppressive population centers because I can. I keep guns because I can. I dislike the government because I can. I do what I choose when I choose because I can. I’m thinking that I’m becoming more Libertarian than Conservative these days. Because I can.

I recognize rights lost because I do and because I still can. I possess a sense of the present and the past. I do NOT have “Historical Alzheimers” as do most Leftists. And those in government.

And — for a while — I can still write about their circumstances here.

I REMEMBER how things were and dare to contrast the past with how things are NOW.

Stay with me, people.

I will not sell you down the river.

I walk down a road. It is predominantly a road that I mostly recognize alone. And the older I get, the more I realize: fewer and fewer people exist to even grasp awareness.

And this is the primal point: the fewer people realize and recognize what used to be, the easier it is to turn this nation on its head and proclaim victory and historical accuracy. For their own individual plots and plans.

Because it will be assumed: you are that stupid and you are that uninterested in history.

History becomes what only is recently stated and recently written.

Further: when you eliminate the physical and embrace the ephemeral — that is to say, do away with books and libraries and physical repositories of history — the easier it becomes to digitally adjust what you will when you will. And that is fodder for another post, of course.

Let me down the road. Let me access what are the last bastions of freedom. These freedoms must exist somewhere.

Because we lose freedoms, due to government, every damned day.

And I am the inconvenient elderly fuckhead who exists to point them out.

BZ

Olbermann Out At MSNBC:

Keith Olbermann, formers sports announcer-cum-self-envisioned-reincarnation of Edward R Murrow, told viewers on Friday night (January 21st) that the gig was up. He was dropped by NBC somewhat precipitously but not without a history of controversy. Olbermann was, ahem, polemic to say the least, but still somehow envisioned himself in the mainstream of thought — which he was, but only for the Elitist Left who elbow-rub in various parvenu and jejune DC soirees.

In a way, I’m going to miss Mr Olbermann — for a fraction of a second (ooops, there it went) — and his bombastic, high-decibeled pomposity. However, Olbermann does need to be credited for damned near single-handedly enabling whatever meager ratings MSNBC managed to dribble out per rating period. The dude had passion; that is indisputable. Rumors indicate he has another two years left on his contract, which will be paid at $7 million per year.

However, fear not; Lawrence O’Donnell will take over the 8pm slot, with Ed Schultz’s show moving from 6pm to 10pm. You’ll be pleased to know that O’Donnell is a tad more honest insofar as he labels himself a Socialist and is pleased to do so.

With $14 million dollars shortly in his pocket, I don’t fear for the likes of Mr Olbermann. He’ll find a place to land considering the current media climate.

BZ