Sexy, slinky, curvaceous, long-legged, built for speed ... and the model's not half-bad ei
And it's too damned loud.
The problem with committing to the dance floor at that club you should have stayed out of is there's no graceful exit once you're dizzy and out of breath. The youth will stomp your tattered carcass into the parquet, laughing and shakin' it down.
I want to want a Streetfighter, but mostly I want to re-visit that place in my life where I would have killed for 20 minutes with a young Duc, when I circled Ducatis at a reverent distance, wondering how to talk to them; when my reflexes didn't tick slower than a rusty metronome and fighting in the street sounded cool and tough, not dung-candy stupid.
The 'Fighter immolates the shreds of my mental overhead the way an escort service burns through walkin'-around money. It's Angelina Jolie at 19 when my tastes run more to Sophia Loren at 36 ... and Dr. Lee prescribes Kathy Bates, more fiber and gentle constitutionals.
And ibuprofen. Lots of ibuprofen. Who needs kidneys if you can't walk to the latrine?
For the first time, it occurs to me why Harley-Davidson names so many of their bikes "Glides." Might not be so bad to ease back and glide around, smooth as Clyde Drexler working the key. Maybe geezer clichés exist for a reason.
Sure would be nice to ride a Streetfighter now and then, though. I want one bad-just not right now.
I want this bike 27 years ago. Why, if I'd had this bike when I was a teenager, instead of my 40-horse Yamaha RD400, I would've ... well, okay, I'd probably be dead. Long before "back in the day," I used to wonder why silly old fossils rode mighty torque beasts like the Suzuki GS1100E when they should've been plopping their bran muffin-bloated butts over Honda Gold Wings and Harley Super Glides. Weren't they embarrassed?
Well, no. They were buying the overdog bikes they wished they could afford when they were lean. Because they could, that's why. Anyway, nothing really embarrasses you after the first endoscopy.
Stopped at a light while headed back from my test ride, I watched a girl sashay across the parking lot, honey-blonde hair swaying heavy and rich, and reconsidered whether the Streetfighter should make an old man want to try again.
My insurance rates are much lower than they used to be. Maybe in a few years, when the kids are grown and the mortgage is beaten back... A full-pate helmet ought to cover my bald spot, and earplugs are cheap.
Then I smiled down at my own Black Betty, grumbling under me, always ready to go, low-maintenance, comfortable and pretty.
Curving sweetly under my hand, she took me right on home.
Enjoyed this Post? Subscribe to our RSS Feed, or use your favorite social media to recommend us to friends and colleagues!