Friday, June 12, 2009 – ROT Rally

[snoof]

Like last year I didn’t plan accordingly and got a late jump on this year’s 15th Annual Republic of Texas Biker’s Rally. The ROT started on Thursday, a very busy work day for me so I missed the opening festivities. With nine appointments scheduled today it appeared unlikely that I would make it out to the Expo Center until tomorrow. But when I heard the roar of the bikes riding toward the lakes on my way to the office I knew I had to rectify the unacceptable situation.

I cancelled every appointment using the lie that the Pope had requested my lobbying assistance to ensure that the local Bishop be granted the higher appointment of Archbishop of New Orleans. It took less than an hour to place the calls and I did not feel guilty. I was soon back home donning my biking duds, checking out RK and then leaving from:

Home to the ROT Rally at the Travis County Exposition Center to Cedar Park to FM 2222 to home to the downtown area back out to the rally to back home. Surprisingly 93 miles since the Expo Center is less than thirteen miles away.

My timing must have been right because there was no backed up bike traffic on Decker Lane like there was last year. I rode right in, parked and walked to the registration area where I got my tee-shirt and wristband. It was hot but I do not complain of the heat. Riding on the main street I dodged bikes, golf carts, ATV’s and moon buggies until I found suitable parking in the vendor area.

As I hoofed it among the peddlers I was impressed that last night’s weather with its torrential rains, lightening, tornados, hail and locusts had done little damage to the wares of these purveyors of all things motorcycle related and none to their enthusiasm. In fact a tattoo artist was doing a brisk business inking “I survived the great ROT storm of 09” with accompanying lightening bolts and dark, ominous clouds on the asses, necks and backs of revelers.

I found my favorite tee-shirt booth and bought my wife and son shirts, completing that self-imposed obligation. “My husband/dad went to ROT and all I got was this lousy tee-shirt.” Actually they were very good shirts which my family will value and appreciate.

I bought a $3.50 Diet Coke, my first and last one. It hadn’t tasted any better than the cheaper ones I buy. Following that extravagant purchase, whenever the need for a Diet Coke overcame me, I just walked back to RK and grabbed the delicious thirst quenchers I’d brought from home. They remained chilled in the cooler in my saddlebag and the exercise did me good.

I worked my way through the outside vendors that installed LED lights, ape hangers and pipes on bikes, ran dynos, changed your oil, and sold all manner of shit until I came to the inside, air-conditioned vendors. I examined their stuff. Good leather goods, patches, chains, sunglasses, doo rags, and more tee-shirts. There was a lot of other stuff that was appealing to bikers even if much of it was not absolutely necessary. Were the economy better I’d have considered buying some of the fashion apparel, engraved jewelry, armor, and shoe inserts.

But I didn’t understand the teeth whitening place with the blue glow contraption shoved in people’s mouths as they sat in dentist chairs while thousands of people mill around them. I had trouble with the chiropractors too. People must wait all year for a motorcycle rally to come to town so that they can get their teeth whitened and their backs popped back into alignment. Maybe next year we’ll get the high colonics people with their cleansing, refreshing rectal washes. I can hardly wait to mill around that.

After I checked in with my good friend Craig who is an eleven year ROT vendor who does massage (I can understand that after a long, hard day in the saddle) and sells really cool stuff I headed to RK for another Diet Coke. On the way I noticed several Christian Biker’s Groups booths. I, for one, was glad they were out there.

Most people think they came to proselytize and moralize to the masses; to denounce the booze, the naked breasts, the debauchery, the chemically altered states, the lust, the vulgarities, the obscenities, the decadence.

Note: Last year some whiners who had brought their young and youthful children to ROT complained about the nudity their little ones experienced. I thought that ROT handled it very well. “Fuck you” ROT said and made 21 the minimum age for entering the event this year. It’s a bike rally you, idiots. Were you thinking your six year-old would get to see a damn purple Barney riding a three wheeler? Go away and leave us alone.

The Christian Bikers were not there to judge but to do battle. With the daemons that flock to ROT. It’s not the bikers that cause problems and troubles, but the daemons. Invisible to most, the Christian Bikers can see the bastards as can I. The hideous creatures with their bloody, snot spewing, flared noses are the catalyst to all difficulties that arise. Any time two bikers fight you can be sure that it’s because a daemon had rammed his mutated finger up one of the biker’s asses and put the thought in his head that it was the finger of the other biker.

The daemons force the excessive drinking that creates rivers of vomitus and further fisticuffs. The daemons plant the thoughts of fucking around with someone else’s old man or old lady.

They also do physical shit like tripping the partiers, whacking them across the back of the head, squeezing their various body parts, licking them with their vile, forked tongues and atrocity of all atrocities, knocking over bikes. The bastards. There is no good to come from the presence of the daemons. But come they would in full force to attempt to spoil the good times of the rally goers.

Their numbers had already increased from the time of my arrival to the downing of my fourth Diet Coke. The Christian Bikers had sharpened their broadswords, anointed themselves with holy waters and oils, and prayed as they awaited battle. I hoped for myself and all the ROTers that the Christian Bikers would prevail. I also hoped I would not be dragged into the melee.

On my way back to the main arena to see the custom bike builders and their creations I chanced upon George and Kellie. Fine and wonderful folks these two who I had the good fortune to meet last October and have had the further pleasure of seeing twice, before today, this year. They were at the quality designer stuff booth of lovely Trish.

Companion TexasFatBoy was also in the booth. The two were working their asses off creating as fine products as I’ve laid eyes on. Really groovy, yet sophisticated clothing that could be personalized with one’s unique message including everything from Shakespearian quotations to “Lick My Pussy”. For all their hard work, creativity and imagination I hoped for them a successful and prosperous 2009 ROT.

I wished George and Kellie adieu and planned on seeing them later at another biker friend’s home. I made my way to the big building to check on the incredible and incredibly expensive custom bikes made by some of the country’s best builders. I saw more exhibitors and stuff to spend money on. But then the announcement blared over the sound system that told me how right I was to play hooky today. It announced a happening that just may have been the highlight of this year’s ROT. I shivered with anticipation.

Midget wrestlers.

The Micro Wrestling Federation had brought the “Greatest Little Show on Earth” to Austin and I spouted tears of joy as I made my way mini-ringside. I had not been much of a wrestling fan since the very early ‘60’s, but that changed with the arrival of these little guys. I was right on top of the action, front row as the little guys came out to fight. A couple wore “Support Midget Violence” tee-shirts and one of them, heavily tattooed with shoulder length hair, couldn’t have been four feet tall.

They were good, throwing what little weight they had around. They smashed each other with food trays, chairs and clip boards. They jumped off the ropes. One of them actually flew above the ring which invoked the wrath of his opponent. They performed the same scripts and maneuvers that as a kid I remembered wrestlers doing with one addition: they kicked, elbow slammed and head butted each other’s balls. I didn’t remember the wrestlers on the black and white TV doing that. Ironically I had rented the movie, The Wrestler, only last weekend. In this reviewer’s humble opinion, the Midget Wrestlers deliver more bang for your buck.

About 3:30 I got the need to ride so following my guzzling of a Diet Coke, which went down so smooth and easy on the hot day, I entered the madness on Main Street with its circling bikes, minibikes, and anything else capable of burning petrol on my way off the grounds. I headed for Cedar Park to Dan’s place to say Hi. Dan and Beth had slaughtered a cow, a goat, a pig, and a dozen chickens and were in the process of preparing the delicious meat stuffs for the guests from out of town he had intended to house for the extended weekend.

Traffic on highway 183 was a stop and go bitch and I didn’t think I’d make it to Dan’s but I did. Instead of throngs of happy meat eaters there was only a sweaty Dan and an air-conditioning repairman. Of all the times, his AC had crapped out. Or had it?

I believed that the daemons, the same ones in town for ROT had fetched the despicable heat gremlins to Dan’s in an attempt to foil his festivities. The bastards. Is there no limit to their evil?

But Dan took it in stride and just took care of business. A cool head in the face of deadly heat. Because it was so damn hot, I bailed like a chicken-shit and rode over to the air-conditioned Comfort Inn where Dan’s guests were now staying. Anyway, I planned to ride with Dan tomorrow. Hopefully he and Beth would have a good 6th Street evening watching the bike parade followed by a restful night in pleasantly cooled and conditioned air.

I went to Comfort Inn hoping to find Mike and Sheree, but when George called them on his cell they didn’t answer. Probably they were in the throes of hot monkey sex or taking a shower while in the throes of hot monkey sex. Either way I’d try to see them tomorrow. I wrote a cryptic message which Mike would have no trouble encoding but which would prove indecipherable should it fall into the wrong hands and left it on his bike.

Then on I rode in the traffic to 620 and finally on FM 2222, an increasingly busy but still popular road for bikes. I was surprised at how few motorcycles I was seeing out here. I hoped it was because people were at the Expo Center and preparing for the parade and not because the economy had cut the number of attendees.

After stopping by my house to get a bite to eat, which I washed down with Diet Coke, I rode the city streets toward the downtown area. Getting as far as I could before hitting the street closures I headed the back way and reverse route of the bike parade to the Expo Center. The parade route is about eleven miles but with 15,000 motorcycles participating could take several hours.
I had no intention of subjecting RK to the possibility of overheating while trudging my way downtown, even if the spawn of the deceased Evil Knievel was jumping over a couple of beer trucks in front of the Capitol. Besides, some of these guys on bikes would have been drinking in the heat all day. I didn’t need one dropping his bike into my Harley. I’d have to kill him and with the legal ramifications of murder my ROT weekend would most likely be ruined. So no parade for the Snoofster. No problemo.

I pulled up at a red light next to a most luscious goddess riding bitch on a too loud bike ridden by a Neanderthal looking fellow. Her legs were long and beautiful and luscious. As I admired them she picked up her sunglasses, winked at me and then raised her top exposing a set of tits as luscious as her legs. My mouth dropped open and drool ran down my chin. She seemed to like that.

The light turned green and caveman (no wiser to the antics of his woman) grunted and roared away. I sat at the light for another minute as cars behind me honked while I pondered the miracle to which I had just been the grateful recipient. Then I rode on to the Expo Center.

I entered the whirl of the circling Main Street parade until I could peal off into the vending area for a better place to park. Woman on golf carts were flashing their breastware for free. They demanded not even the colored beads sold by some vendors. Cheap trallops.

Walking onto the grounds the daemons, invisible to everyone but me and the Christian Bikers, had tripled their numbers. They rode the backs of unsuspecting men and women sticking their fingers in human noses and ears, they slapped and taunted. The only effect that the unknowing would have noticed of the growing menace would have been a growing irritability of the bikers. But it would become much worse before the weekend ended. It would become deadly and souls would be in danger.

The Christian Bikers were already locked in mortal combat with the beasts. To the unknowing it appeared that the bikers were merely executing skilled martial arts moves or engaging in mock renaissance battles with no one. But I saw the heads lopped off the daemons, the bloodied testicles, and severed hearts on both sides. It was shaping up to be a gargantuan battle of good versus evil. I, for one, hoped for good to arise the victor.

There were a lot of naked tits also. I tried to calculate the number of women attendees by counting the tits and dividing by two. But I lost count. There were fat boobs, skinny boobs, boobs as hard as rocks. Sagging boobs, perky boobs even boobs with chicken pox. ROT Boobs, Austin ROT boobs, the boobs men love to bite.

I was tired. I saw several lightening bolts flash through the gray sky to the north and decided to make my way home. I didn’t want to get caught in another storm. I also wanted to try to get some rest so I could do some serious riding tomorrow. Dan, Beth and the out-of-towners had mentioned leaving for a ride at noon tomorrow. I’d try to get in a solo ride before that.

Besides, I had my own set of tits at home.

As I entered the sweet zone that precursed sleep, I wondered what Saturday, ROT day 2 for Snoof, would bring. I wondered.

[FATboy05]

"Note: Last year some whiners who had brought their young and youthful children to ROT complained about the nudity their little ones experienced. I thought that ROT handled it very well. “Fuck you” ROT said and made 21 the minimum age for entering the event this year. It’s a bike rally you, idiots. Were you thinking your six year-old would get to see a damn purple Barney riding a three wheeler? Go away and leave us alone."

Totally agree the Snoof :evil:
Your note was easily decipherable, great work as usual on your part :grin: Was Great seeing/Riding with you again!!
Look forward to Saturday's accounts :grin:

[Hellswraith]

Hehe , I love reading your posts and good seeing you again ...

[Mominatrix]

Thanks for your picture of the ROT. I love to read of your adventures.

Some day I'm going to make this trip. I've only been trying for 5 years but hey it's only time and miles right?