Incidentally Most Bikers We’ve Met Have Been Really Nice Guys
It ain’t a weekend thing. It’s a lifestyle.
You see them weekend warriors on their ten speeds, talking about paint jobs and stickers. They got too much machine, they’re just too dumb to know it. Hey, just cause you can ride a bike, that don’t make you a biker. You know what makes you a biker? I’ll tell you, and it ain’t that little horn. Even though I love that little horn. squa-onk squa-onk Love that so much.
What makes a biker? A biker rides. You ain’t gonna see a biker under a bridge waiting for the rain to blow over. You ain’t gonna see a biker in a pickup truck with his old lady while his hog’s tied down in the bed. Not unless you also see blood everywhere and a leg in the gun rack. Because that’s the only way somebody’s gonna get me off my ride. By force.
You wanna have some fun, hey, it don’t bother me none. Do your own thing, Easy Rider. Long as you stay outta my way on the road, we ain’t never gonna have no trouble. But I ain’t no schoolteacher. You wanna ride with me? You better have what it takes and a place to put it.
That’s why I have this basket on the front. It’s where I put what it takes. You got a problem with that?
Wear this shirt: and don’t ever wash it. Shirt like this, it has to carry history.
Don’t wear this shirt: your very first day in prison. So many, many reasons why that would be a bad idea.
This shirt tells the world: “That noise you hear’s no joke. It’s down there in my spokes. The ace of spades. The ace of spades.”
We call this color: Baby Blue? Hey, She Said She Was Twenty One.
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