TWI-110 A Real Gone Goose

Excerpt

He skidded to a stop about 50 feet ahead of me. I didn’t hurry none trying to catch up with him because right then I wasn’t at all sure a motorcycle was what I wanted to ride on even if the seat was padded with the softest foam rubber in the world. He asked if I wanted to go down to Mexico with him and I said that was sure the way I was heading, but that I’d fallen down on a rock and hurt my butt a little and I didn’t think I could stand straddling no two-wheeled gas burner. He asked if I could run a motorcycle and I told him I could run anything that had wheels on it and some that didn’t. So from the edge of San Diego way down past Tijuana, along the coast near a place called Ensenada, I tooled that machine, sitting on a nice soft saddle, while old Pony Cove—which he said was his name and which was sure a phoney-baloney if I ever heard one—hung on behind. Sometimes he’d get hanging on so tight and sort of grabbing in the wrong places that I’d have to elbow him to make him relax. I didn’t care too much whether he groped around or not, but after 3 days in that Cadillac and those motels my family jewels were too sensitive to put up with anything more than just gentle petting and a rockin’ rollin’ motorbike isn’t no place to be gentle.