Like delicious barbeque, blues music . . . and, ummm . . . deafening noise, alcohol . . . and, uh . . . road rash, and enough leather to shoe a small dictatorship.
This weekend is Fayetteville’s annual festival of Bikes, Blues, and Barbeque. Motorcycle lovers from all over the U.S. roll into town on their machines for a three day celebration.
Some think this festival is a good idea. Money, along with some of the world’s most amazing bikes, come into town. People get to celebrate. For many it is a chance to step out of their work-a-day lives and rebel a little. Grow stubble, gorge on sugar, fatty red meat, and beer, listen to loud music, and dance in the streets before going back to their real world of mortgages.
However, you can always tell the Wannabe’s from the True Bikers.
Wannabe’s are people who normally make house payments, work at a desk, and have healthy children and grandchildren. You can tell who these are at a glance. Their motorcycles cost more than my parents’ house. Their stubble is all one length and clean. Their leather is more supple than a designer sofa. Their skin gets plenty of Omega-3 oils from their diet of grilled Mahi-Mahi. And they wear jewelry that doesn’t have skulls worked into the precious metal.
A true biker is also obvious at a glance. A true biker has a motorcycle that scares most sane people. As to stubble, the women are hairier than the men. A true biker’s leather looks like Naugahyde that’s been hit with grapeshot, and they have all obviously spent their lives eating, bathing, and finding love at gas stations. They are a virtual symphony of Budweiser, Cheetoh’s, and Slim-Jims. I’m especially taken with the food-festooned ponytails, the facial tattoos, and the women. The women range in size from scraggly to Shamu, and they are very gracious, especially when they swear like . . . well, a biker, and flash people on the highway when they ride pillion.
You mix these two elements:
In theory, this festival should be a good thing. But in reality, you cannot invite all of America’s bikers to one small area and not expect to get a staggering amount of ex-cons, pre-cons, and fugitives attending. I am hearing several sirens blaring as I write this. This is a common sound during Bikes, Blues, and B-B-Q. I am thinking that we should rename this event ‘Organ Donors, Dregs, and Bounty Hunters Festival.’
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And now . . . to prove my point, actually . . . click on the link below and watch: