Well according to Suzuki, I can. Not the most macho strap line for a company selling high performance motorcycles. However this is essentially undiluted testosterone pumped through a CNC machine at a million PSI.
It’s just a big mountain bike.
It’s kind of my middle aged Ferrari meets fiscal reality fantasy. Once I find the right time to mention it to my wife (around the year 2040 after buying a new house with a swimming pool in it), other F words may follow. I’m trying to figure out how to explain the ambiguity in the phrase “No, I’ll never buy any more motorbikes now we have kids.”
I just kind of popped into the dealers and had a quick sit on one and then found out they were interest free for three years and ….. you know how these things go. Maybe I could buy it and pretend I’ve always had it. That’s got to be a flyer, surely? No?
Death by rolling pin awaits.
Riding the winds of change? reminds me of The Scorpions. You know, crap German metallers, big in the ˜80™s, famed equally for their big hair™n™lycra combinations and their crimes against pronunciation.
And, of course, for that sodding awful song with its dreadful whistling. Just on the grounds of music alone it was already on the cusp of inclusion on the list of Top 10 Shit Records Of Our Time, but it™s the lyrics that really make me wince. I™ve heard some rum stuff in my time, but even Captain Beeefheart at his most crazed would have struggled to come up with let your balalaika sing what my guitar wants to say?. Even after allowing as much leeway as possible for the fact that English isn™t their first language, just trying to imagine a balalaika singing to a somewhat tongue-tied guitar makes me realise I™m not taking nearly enough recreational drugs. Your guitar isn™t expressive enough? Sorry, you™ll have to get a balalaika to express all that pent-up emotion. Mr Henrix, you were doing it wrong all this time “ forget the Strat, you should have been using a plinkety-plinkety instrument that sound like my mum made out of bits of cardboard.
Al, don™t buy the bike. You™ll end up listening to I Heart Awful Power Ballads Of The 1980™s?. There™ll be the increasingly frequent re-tuning to Galaxy FM, and, worse, the occasional thoughts that Cindi Lauper was all right really. There™ll be the furtive meeting of sadly middle-aged men in pubs, the telling of improbable tales of high-speed banditry with the police. You™ll never ride in the winter, ˜cos it™s too cold and too much like hard work. Worst of all, you stand the real chance of turning into a beardy retro biker, which is the motorised equivalent of singlespeeding ¦¦.. you™ve escaped once, you don™t want to go back there.
🙂 But it’ll look shiny! And make me more windswept and interesting. That’s what the salesman said anyway. Having bought a copy of MCN and furtively lurked on some bike forums, I’m inclined to agree with your analysis of the breed as a whole. I thought MTB’r were geeky but no “you’ve got to bevel you inlet valve using the skin of a recently culled otter, reflange the 3/8th gripley and ensure the recripricating widget doesn’t ride over the cam assembly”. I mean really.
Scorpians. Gorky Park. Holiday. And German. I’d rather listen to Kraftwork.
Good luck in the Marathon. I’ll probably be having a lunchtime beer as you barf up your energy drink and collapse into the hairy facial embrace of the St. Johns ambulance. 🙂
That strapline reminds me of when Spinal Tap turned up to play at Springfield, and Bart got to join in for the Encore song…”Break like the wind”
Sad to say, have had to scratch from the Marathon – got a horrible head cold, and there’s no point doing it if you’re ill.
Still, deferred to next year, so I can have all the joy of anticipation.