Caution, Breezy Riders Ahead by Alduro
June/12/2012 Filed in: Event Summaries | Club Culture
http://gypsydroppings.blogspot.com/p/about-me.html
When I saw Alduro at our annual mandatory event last month (May 2012) we talked for a short time and I noticed he had his camera with him. I suggested he take some pics for the Int’l website and he agreed. You can see his work and that of others in the photo gallery if you’d like. Anyway, Alduro not only took a lot of great pictures but also wrote this, rather humorous tale, of his adventure.
Alduro, thanks from Raoul
And his tale goes like this:
As I was hunched over and throwing up in the royal blue porto-john urinal reflecting on my condition I asked myself “just how did this happen?” Thinking back I vaguely remembered that it all started a few hours ago when I bumped into Raoul. I was taking a few pictures of members at the main pavillion. Raoul said “hey, Alduro, would you mind sending me some pics for the international website?”
I replied “sure thing”.
Then, with a mischievous gleam in his eye, he said “great, see if you can get some of the campground too.”
“No problem” I said. Little did I know that the mischievous gleam in his eye foretold of what would become my “quality time”, getting to intimately know the inside of a urinal, saying little prayers between heaves like a sinner repenting in a stench filled, maliciously designed confessional. Was it the heat? Was it the apple pie? Maybe it was the margaritas or countless beers or possibly some of that top shelf Crown I had been handed mid-sentence while visiting the Big-D campsite. Whatever it was I was through. “I’ll never drink again!” I swore to the urinal. Did Raoul know this would happen? Probably not, but at the moment I needed a nemesis, a villain upon which to focus in order to stay motivated enough to survive. “Damn Raoul” I swore wiping my mouth off with a wafty, transparently thin piece of toilet paper.
Finally I stepped out of the porto-john, the breeze and fresh air assaulting my nostrils and filling my lungs. What should have been a relief instead served only as a reminder of where I had been, the contrast was as welcome as that 250lb bearded biker in a skirt standing about 50 yards away. “It’s a utili-kilt” he had commented. I may not have been at my sharpest at the moment but I did know two things, first, I sure as hell wasn’t in Scotland and second, kilts come in plaid, this one was black with pockets. Having chased a fair amount of them in my lifetime I was certain I could pick a skirt out in a lineup and this was most certainly a skirt, but I was in no condition to argue.
I seemed to have a hard time walking back towards the campsite. The world had shifted gravitational pull and everything leaned to the left. I had to angle my body leftwards and side step my way back to the campground, barely making it in time to finally sit in a lawn chair before it would jump out from under me. I looked up at the canopy tent above me, grateful for its shade and, at least for the moment, my stomach ceased to attempt my imminent demise. Having rinsed my mouth out with water and sitting in the shade I closed my eyes for a moment - time ceased to have meaning.
“Breezy ride!” the call snapped me awake. Being that I do not remember sleeping and not being exactly sure of where I was I made no immediate movement. I searched my surroundings and moving nothing but my eyes I scanned for danger or familiar objects. There was a soggy box of hotdogs on the ground that not even the ants would eat. A couple of tents, the smell of the outhouse septic tank overflowing and several empty lawn chairs. Finally I spotted Billy’s beer bong, complete with orange top funnel and 3 foot tube and a random, single shoe on the ground. Yep, I was in my camp.
“Breezy ride starting in two minutes!” I heard someone yell. Oddly enough I had only a slight headache and was fairly confident I could get vertical without undue suffering. I stood and saw a crowd to my left walking, stumbling or otherwise ambling their way down the dirt road towards the seaside bar. Curious I followed along. It was dark out and I knew it was close to midnight. That’s when breezy riding occurs - after the children are put to bed and the crazy antics of naked adults riding their bikes through the campground won’t permanently scar their young psyches. I remember picking my steps carefully as not to step in any of the evil smelling watery substance near our campsite that was the overflow of the outhouse septic tank. “Who picked this campsite?” I asked myself as I carefully stepped over the bubbling recess in the ground.
My journey ended at the intersection between the main gravel road and the dirt path that served as a drive when not filled with drunken Gypsys teetering along like ants from a freshly kicked mound. Everyone was going in a hundred directions, I’m not sure why, but I sensed they were all very determined to get to where they were going.
The revving of motorcycles grabbed my attention and I turned to see a row of headlights. I could only make out the menacing shadowy figures behind the freight train of headlights. The engines roared their indignant challenge to any and all, daring anyone to step in their path. A traffic director, our International Sergeant at Arms, stood before the bikes and yelled “go!” waving his left arm forward.
The bikes began to move forward, lurching into the pale, yellow street light that stood adjacent to the seaside bar. The spectacle on display before our very eyes was too shocking for words to describe. Some that came to mind were, “wrinkled”, “jiggly”, “pale” and “wrong”. It was like a train wreck, too horrifying to watch, too fascinating to turn away. Quickly they passed, circling the main area of the campgrounds and made their way back up the hill to the starting point. In case anyone might think that their eyes were playing tricks on them and the riders were in fact, not “breezy” one colorful man stood up on his bike to moon the crowd, his posterior sending a baleful, one eyed wink to the cheering audience that stood mere feet away from his position.
And that was my first time watching the breezy ride. So if you hear the words “breezy ride” being called out in the darkness and you hear the roaring of engines topped with the drunken and maniacal laughter of Gypsys, just be aware, some things cannot be unseen.
As I was hunched over and throwing up in the royal blue porto-john urinal reflecting on my condition I asked myself “just how did this happen?” Thinking back I vaguely remembered that it all started a few hours ago when I bumped into Raoul. I was taking a few pictures of members at the main pavillion. Raoul said “hey, Alduro, would you mind sending me some pics for the international website?”
I replied “sure thing”.
Then, with a mischievous gleam in his eye, he said “great, see if you can get some of the campground too.”
“No problem” I said. Little did I know that the mischievous gleam in his eye foretold of what would become my “quality time”, getting to intimately know the inside of a urinal, saying little prayers between heaves like a sinner repenting in a stench filled, maliciously designed confessional. Was it the heat? Was it the apple pie? Maybe it was the margaritas or countless beers or possibly some of that top shelf Crown I had been handed mid-sentence while visiting the Big-D campsite. Whatever it was I was through. “I’ll never drink again!” I swore to the urinal. Did Raoul know this would happen? Probably not, but at the moment I needed a nemesis, a villain upon which to focus in order to stay motivated enough to survive. “Damn Raoul” I swore wiping my mouth off with a wafty, transparently thin piece of toilet paper.
Finally I stepped out of the porto-john, the breeze and fresh air assaulting my nostrils and filling my lungs. What should have been a relief instead served only as a reminder of where I had been, the contrast was as welcome as that 250lb bearded biker in a skirt standing about 50 yards away. “It’s a utili-kilt” he had commented. I may not have been at my sharpest at the moment but I did know two things, first, I sure as hell wasn’t in Scotland and second, kilts come in plaid, this one was black with pockets. Having chased a fair amount of them in my lifetime I was certain I could pick a skirt out in a lineup and this was most certainly a skirt, but I was in no condition to argue.
I seemed to have a hard time walking back towards the campsite. The world had shifted gravitational pull and everything leaned to the left. I had to angle my body leftwards and side step my way back to the campground, barely making it in time to finally sit in a lawn chair before it would jump out from under me. I looked up at the canopy tent above me, grateful for its shade and, at least for the moment, my stomach ceased to attempt my imminent demise. Having rinsed my mouth out with water and sitting in the shade I closed my eyes for a moment - time ceased to have meaning.
“Breezy ride!” the call snapped me awake. Being that I do not remember sleeping and not being exactly sure of where I was I made no immediate movement. I searched my surroundings and moving nothing but my eyes I scanned for danger or familiar objects. There was a soggy box of hotdogs on the ground that not even the ants would eat. A couple of tents, the smell of the outhouse septic tank overflowing and several empty lawn chairs. Finally I spotted Billy’s beer bong, complete with orange top funnel and 3 foot tube and a random, single shoe on the ground. Yep, I was in my camp.
“Breezy ride starting in two minutes!” I heard someone yell. Oddly enough I had only a slight headache and was fairly confident I could get vertical without undue suffering. I stood and saw a crowd to my left walking, stumbling or otherwise ambling their way down the dirt road towards the seaside bar. Curious I followed along. It was dark out and I knew it was close to midnight. That’s when breezy riding occurs - after the children are put to bed and the crazy antics of naked adults riding their bikes through the campground won’t permanently scar their young psyches. I remember picking my steps carefully as not to step in any of the evil smelling watery substance near our campsite that was the overflow of the outhouse septic tank. “Who picked this campsite?” I asked myself as I carefully stepped over the bubbling recess in the ground.
My journey ended at the intersection between the main gravel road and the dirt path that served as a drive when not filled with drunken Gypsys teetering along like ants from a freshly kicked mound. Everyone was going in a hundred directions, I’m not sure why, but I sensed they were all very determined to get to where they were going.
The revving of motorcycles grabbed my attention and I turned to see a row of headlights. I could only make out the menacing shadowy figures behind the freight train of headlights. The engines roared their indignant challenge to any and all, daring anyone to step in their path. A traffic director, our International Sergeant at Arms, stood before the bikes and yelled “go!” waving his left arm forward.
The bikes began to move forward, lurching into the pale, yellow street light that stood adjacent to the seaside bar. The spectacle on display before our very eyes was too shocking for words to describe. Some that came to mind were, “wrinkled”, “jiggly”, “pale” and “wrong”. It was like a train wreck, too horrifying to watch, too fascinating to turn away. Quickly they passed, circling the main area of the campgrounds and made their way back up the hill to the starting point. In case anyone might think that their eyes were playing tricks on them and the riders were in fact, not “breezy” one colorful man stood up on his bike to moon the crowd, his posterior sending a baleful, one eyed wink to the cheering audience that stood mere feet away from his position.
And that was my first time watching the breezy ride. So if you hear the words “breezy ride” being called out in the darkness and you hear the roaring of engines topped with the drunken and maniacal laughter of Gypsys, just be aware, some things cannot be unseen.
0 Comments