I rarely read product reviews these days. They are all advertisements and we know it- pure fantasy. On the other hand, there's the 'discussion forums' where you can read countless essays written by lonely males holed up in their mancaves about the products they've purchased, sharing with others the ins and outs of why the product they invested in is so great. Of course it's great, you bought it and you're actually wasting life hours writing about it. We beat our chests about the little gizmos and gadgets we've been able to scrounge up on our hunting and gathering missions out in the shopping wilderness. Heading back to camp with our gear speared on a stick- which is really a lonely little desk away from the kids or wife - we review the goods, inspect it, try it on, pose in action shots in front of the mirror, perhaps in our underwear, perhaps dressed up in our leathers in the garage. Then, as if to map out a terrain that no other fellow savage has explored, we set up to transpose our inner most thoughts on digital paper about whatever it is we just bought, signaling to other tribe members where to go and what to see along the adventure.
If you want to read a good helmet review of the AGV GP TECH helmet, click that link.
My story begins on HWY 85. Five o'clock, time to head home. With the Norton warming up, I sketched out a quick map in my head of where I might go, what indirect route would take me home this night, before collapsing in front of the TV to cool off from the day with a half bottle of wine, a pizza and a beautiful young woman named Morena- brown hair, dark eyes and tan everywhere, draped over me on the chaise lounge.
I slipped my AGV GP Tech helmet on, the Rose one, but just as I did, my cell phone rang. It was Johan, my Germano/Chinese business associate. I owed him money. "Where are you?" he piped. "I'm at Disneyland." I lied. "Last minute idea. We rode. I'm with Morena, rode all night and slept on the beach," I said. "Did you hear about the earthquake? Tens of thousands wiped off the face of the planet and the world goes on like nothing happened." The 2008 quake in China had just hit, thousands of people died. This just days after another 80,000 wiped off the earth from the Myanmar cyclone.
I hopped on the Norton, gave her a few threatening revs and head out onto the road. We motorcyclists have a small guy complex, we have to. We ride 300 lb motors with wheels attached with them at 70 mph in the middle of semi-trucks and madmen and women, drunks and blind people. We therefore need to pretend we 'own the road'. If we didn't you wouldn't see motorcycles on the road.
It was one of those days where the world on the freeway seemed off kilter, like it had an inner ear infection. These are deadly days to be out on any motorized vehicle let alone a motorcycle. I pulled out on to the freeway feeling like I'd just walked into a retard parade. Brake lights flashing without warning. Turnsignals left on, cellphone conversations going on in every car but one that I saw. Speed up, slow down, swerve this way, miss your lane, tail gating, rubber-knecking, going too fast in the slow lane, going to slow in the fast lane. It was a motorized vomit salad on wheels. My helmet was beginning to steam up a little, so I cracked the shield and adjusted the vents.
Those types of ridings days scare the crap out of me. It's not till I get into some open road that I decide to let it hang out. Duck on top the tank and crank the throttle back, superman style, a rolling bullet, up hill and in to some other zone of speed. It seems that at this speed others on the road lose consciousness of my presence. I'm out of their space zone. The helmet was quiet at speed.
In my rear view I noticed a mini cooper in hot pursuit on this open stretch of road. It's always a mini cooper buzzing behind me. This particular one I've seen before. All black, piloted by a long haired black haired damzel with dark sunglasses on, sitting low in her captain's chair, zeroing in on me. Squinting to concentrate on her and the road, it seemed to me that she was smiling as she stalked me. Was she chasing me? Was she madly in love? Did my ass really look that good that day?
I was told by a girlfriend a few years ago that women love to check out guy's asses on their bikes. Not something I'd thought about before.
She was luscious. I could see the red of her lips. Desire. Lust. I projected whatever lust energy I could back at her.
I slowed down a bit and she narrowed the gap some but kept her distance. What was she thinking? Would she stalk me to my house, patrol my street until I pulled off my helmet and make some lewd remark indicating the desire to get it on? That would be fine with me, but she'd have to be ready for a little threesome action with my girlfriend.
She eventually peeled off the road and re-entered the zone of the stop and go world. I was sure I'd see her again.
I saw a couple of bikes on the other side of the freeway heading the opposite direction. 3 bikes total. All of them gave the standard 'biker solute, a wave or a nod, one finger, etc. I've never understood this ridiculous practice, so I gave them my middle finger. I wouldn't say a word to most of these individuals at a cocktail party or newspaper stand. Why should I wave at you from 200 feet away while going 75 mph in the fast lane? That same nut who just waived to me will no doubt be the same jack who steels the helmet off my bike if left unattended, but some how you feel the need to waive to me? I really don't care if you're on a bike or car or on foot. You're just one more retard in the parade.
dispatched by James Hunt.
......... Part 1, in the Series AGV GP-Tech Helmet Review