The other day, a woman named Oné Musel-Gilley invited me to
participate in a VIP motorcycle ride from a Preston Hollow estate to
Strokers Dallas, the somewhat famous bike shop out on Harry Hines
Boulevard. Now, the very important people would be riding Harleys, and
I don’t own a motorcycle. But I’ve got a rule: if a woman with both a
diacritical mark and a hyphen in her name invites you to do anything—even if she’s a PR flak trying to get you to cover the unveiling of a new custom bike—you do it.
So
I borrowed a scooter from a friend—a white 1995 Honda Elite 80, if you
must know. Also, I borrowed my friend’s helmet, which was white,
presumably to match the scooter. I think my friend is gay. The white
helmet—a big, bubble-looking thing—made me look gay, too. I mean, way
gayer than normal. To compensate, I wore a black leather vest and some
hard plastic elbow pads that looked pretty butch.
Thus equipped
did I roll through the front gates of the 17,000-square-foot home of
Steven Aaron, the refrigerated truckload carrier—or “reefer”—magnate.
Oh, and did I mention that under the leather vest I went shirtless? You
know, to show off my monster pipes. And each of my eight chest hairs.
I
parked the scooter in the motor court, next to some big, shiny
motorcycles, and found Musel-Gilley. She was a pleasant woman, for a PR
flak. I could tell my ensemble made her nervous. The other 20 or so
VIPs loitered by their bikes. Randy White was there, as were Richard
Matvichuk, Brenden Morrow, and Al Johnson, the Cowboys rookie center
who sat out all last year because of a knee injury. Musel-Gilley pulled
Steven Aaron aside and introduced us. He was a short man, for a reefer
magnate.
Then it was time to ride. Everyone mounted up, and we
thundered down Northwest Highway, riding two abreast, with police
motorcycle escorts racing ahead to stop traffic at the intersections. I
say we “thundered,” but I didn’t thunder. I whirred. When I opened up
the scooter’s throttle all the way and leaned into the wind, I could
barely keep up.
That’s what I was doing when the cop crashed.
Right before we turned onto Harry Hines, he went flying by on our
right, hit a slick patch, fishtailed, and lost control. He laid his
bike down at maybe 60 mph. Cars make a lot of noise when they crash.
This was oddly quiet. For an instant, I thought the cop was kidding
around. Al Johnson—green chopper, no helmet, no elbow pads—was right
behind the cop and locked up his brakes to avoid running over him. But
his foot slipped off his rear brake, and Johnson went down, too,
probably going about 30. I was just behind Johnson and remained upright
because I’m a very good rider.
After Johnson slid a ways with
his bike, he got to his feet and started cursing. He later told me,
“When I popped up, I knew my knee was all right. But, man, I was mad
about the bike.” The bike and Johnson both got banged up, but they were
okay. So was the cop. We all circled up in a gas station to gather our
wits and watch Johnson’s elbow bleed.
Turns out, it was his
first wreck, which is a rite of passage, sort of like a bar mitzvah,
only with less chanting in Hebrew. And more crashing. As we bikers say,
there are only two kinds of bikes: those that have been down and those
that are going down. At the gas station, Johnson accepted hugs. I kept my distance because I didn’t want to get any blood on my vest.
Then
we mounted up again and headed on to Strokers, which was quite a place
indeed. If you ever want to buy a $60,000 motorcycle or just hang out
and drink beer with a couple hundred guys with patches on their jackets
that say things like “I woke up this morning sticky, broke, and
confused,” I highly recommend Strokers. Everyone was real friendly. And
on Sundays they have a bikini contest.
I chatted with Randy
White about how often he works out, watched the unveiling of the very
impressive “Coors Original Six Pack” bike, and met a guy named Fred
whose folks used to ride in a real gang. Then I had to get whirring. It
was 7 o’clock, and I didn’t fancy the prospect of riding the scooter
after dark.
