Brilliant … But Bouncy

I’m Not Ready to Go Home.

One Saturday afternoon, Larry and I went for a ride in the country. We were in a forest when I started begging to stop for a drink.

“There’s nothing out here!” he said over the roar of the Harley. “Just Seven Springs, and it ain’t cheap.”

“Let’s go there,” I said, having no idea that ski resort drink prices meant we’d run out of money before I could drink my fill. Of course, “my fill” was never possible – but my feeling of deprivation would happen a lot sooner at an expensive resort.

A minute passed. “I guess we could have a couple,” Larry said.

Within half an hour, we were pulling into the Seven Springs parking lot and clomping out of the sunshine into a dark cabin-style bar. Except for a handful of young guys at the end of the bar, the place was empty.

A couple drinks later, Larry and I were chatting with that group of guys; they were all college kids.

They were my age. I suddenly felt less alone than I’d felt in forever.

Within an hour, I’d begun ignoring Larry, who was sitting to my left at the bar. My stool was turned completely to the right, my back to Larry, while I chatted with the guys … some of whom had moved closer to be better able to hear me over the music.

Interacting with these college guys was thrilling. We talked about spring break and dorms and parties and compared and contrasted our schools. We talked about whatever songs played on the jukebox, which inspired conversation of the bands we’d seen in concert, our favorite classics, and the worst songs ever made (“You Light Up My Life” topping that list). And when I learned that the guys were from Pittsburgh, we talked about our respective high schools, our (mixed) reviews of Vincent’s Pizza and what sports we all played, even though I no longer played sports.

I was having the time of my life in that bar, just hanging out. And Larry uncharacteristically allowed our banter to continue without interjecting. The fact that they all happened to be rather attractive young men did not elude me, nor did it elude Larry, but we were just having fun.

I think Larry realized, after Florida, that I needed something more than he could provide.

Larry didn’t push me to shorten the visit, nor did he insist on being part of the conversation. He was smiling and seemed to be having a good time – which I noticed whenever I turned around to look at him. He didn’t appear to be unhappy or agitated in any way.

In fact, Larry allowed the guys to buy us beers and shots – lots of beers and shots. But after two or three hours, Larry was finally ready to go.

Like any good drunk, I would have started chopping off my fingers if it meant that I could continue to drink right where I sat. “Please, can we just have one more?” I begged. “I’m not ready to go home.”

Larry had heard it all before, and sometimes we stayed. Sometimes we left anyway. But on this particular occasion, we did something we’d never done before.

Larry turned to one of the guys and said, “You can get her home, right?”

My jaw dropped.

The guy next to me blinked. “I’ll make sure she gets home,” he said. They shook on it.

I was flabbergasted. “You’re gonna leave me here with them?”

“They’ll getcha home,” he said. And he sauntered out the door, leaving me behind.

Maybe I’d Done Something New!

“I’m going home,” Larry announced one night as we sat at the Sharwood.

“Why?!?” I whined. “It’s barely 10:00!”

“Gotta get some rest!” he laughed. Larry handed me ten dollars, kissed me, and left.

I remember ordering a shot of root beer schnapps with my new money and then I remember: nothing.

A blackout. A big, empty space appeared in my memory where my life should have been.

I awoke on a floor, desperately dry-mouthed, willing my eyes to open so I could find my cigarettes. I reached out and clonked my arm on something hard – a table maybe, or a wall.

Then someone snorted.

My eyes flew open: I was not at home.

I was among the bodies on the floor of someone’s living room. There was a guy snoring on a couch – likely the noise I’d just heard – and two more guys and another girl were sprawled around using jackets and magazines as bedding.

We were all still clothed, which I found to be a soothing revelation. I was still wearing boots, and my hips hurt where the studs of my jeans pressed.

But I had never seen these people before in my life. And I had no idea where I could be.

Maybe I’m in Ohio, I thought. I’d often gotten drunk and asked someone to drive me to Akron to see Bonnie. And the people around me were young enough to be in college.

I had no idea how much time had passed since I’d bought that shot of root beer schnapps. It could have been hours or days; I could have flown on a plane and never known I’d done it.

I had no idea what day it was. I wracked my brain for a clue; nothing appeared.

I could be anywhere, I thought. Hawaii or Myrtle Beach, or maybe I’m in Ireland! I’d always wanted to go to Ireland.

As I fumbled to quietly light a cigarette, I acknowledged this exciting notion: maybe I’d done something new!

It was still dark outside. I pulled myself up, then stepped over bodies to make my way toward what turned out to be a kitchen.

Thirsty.

I opened the refrigerator door: no Diet Coke, but at least a dozen Budweisers inside. I grabbed one, feeling guilty for stealing from the Irish strangers.

I didn’t want to wake anyone by cracking it open, so I stepped outside. I stood at the top of a wooden staircase, streetlights sparkling in the distance. This house was on a hill, overlooking at least a hundred houses below.

The world was dark and silent.

I plopped down in the doorway, imagining. I could be anywhere. If I’m in Ireland, I’m never going back.

As I sipped my beer, light appeared in the distance, slowly brightening the city beneath me. It took me awhile to realize I was watching the sun rise.

Everything was breathtakingly glorious; the world turned orange and caught fire as I watched.

The houses became clearer. They were older homes so – maybe Europe, maybe Ohio. I thrilled myself by being simultaneously nowhere and everywhere.

Then, just as I was wondering how I’d ever get home, I saw something familiar: an American gas station.

So much for Ireland, I thought. And then it dawned on me with the force of a nuclear blast: I knew that gas station.

It was the only gas station in town. I was still in Pitcairn.

My travel dreams crashed around me, irrevocably destroyed. I finished my beer, grabbed another beer from the strangers’ fridge without remorse. Then, devastated, I headed for home.

“Hey.”

One night, Larry and I were at a bar – one we’d visited a hundred times, with the live country band and all the old people dancing. I got up to use the restroom.

Larry had learned to occasionally follow me when I headed off. Otherwise I sometimes did cocaine without him, or I passed out on the floor and he couldn’t figure out where I’d gone, or I walked out the back door and got locked out. Any number of things could happen.

So Larry was following me to the restroom, as he sometimes did. We walked past two booths that were tucked just outside the restroom hallway, where people were sitting, laughing, drinking. It was dark and loud and I barely noticed the tables.

A biker looked up as we walked by. Bikers were very easy to identify, thanks to their unruly facial hair and leather vests. Being Larry’s ol’ lady meant that I felt confident in what I did next.

“Hey,” I said with an easy smile.

“Hey,” said the biker with an easy nod.

Larry and I continued into the hall toward the restroom.

As soon as we’d rounded a corner, Larry grabbed my arm – hard.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he growled.

“I’m going to the fuckin’ bathroom,” I said. I thought he understood our current mission.

“Back there! What were you fuckin’ doing with that guy?”

It felt odd, after all the cheating I’d done, that Larry was going to be upset about the word “hey.”

Confused, I stammered, “He’s a biker?” I thought we said hi to our own kind. Plus I thought saying “hey” was socially acceptable. Heck, Larry said “hey” to everybody!

Still holding tight to my arm, Larry shook his head. “He’s a fuckin’ Hells Angel! You don’t fuckin’ talk to a fuckin’ Hells Angel! Don’t even fuckin’ look at a Hells Angel!”

I knew that “Hells Angel” meant “biker” but I had no idea what made that particular biker different than all the other ones. Nor did I know how I was supposed to know the difference, since all bikers looked pretty much exactly the same.

“Okay?” I said tentatively.

Larry was still in panic mode. “He coulda pulled a knife on you! Or fuckin’ shot you right where you fuckin’ stood!”

“Why would he …” I stopped myself. Larry was completely out of control, detailing the horrors that could have happened because I said “hey.” He went on and on and on.

He concluded with: “Don’t ever fuckin’ talk to a Hells Angel! Got it?”

“Got it,” I said. “Never fuckin’ talk to a Hells Angel.”

I still had no idea what I was supposed to do when confronted with the dreaded creature I’d just seen, and I was baffled as to how I would ever recognize the difference between that bearded man and all the other bearded men, but it was no use discussing it with Larry any longer.

I went into the bathroom, walked out of the bathroom, and walked back past the table where the Hells Angel still sat. I did not turn around.

But as soon as I got back to my table, I stared at the man who could have killed me for saying hello. He was chatting with his friends, just like everyone else in the bar, drinking his beer, smoking a cigarette. I looked for some kind of sign that identified him as The Devil Himself, but found none.

From that moment on, I just didn’t say “hey” to any bikers who didn’t say “hey” to me first.

Problem solved.

I Severely Lack Dopamine.

I am fairly certain that my dopamine system was broken when I was born.

Maybe I didn’t have a sufficient number of receptors to channel the dopamine to the proper places in my brain. Or maybe the base of my brain, where the soon-to-be-dopamine neurons were stored, didn’t have sufficient space for all the dopamine I was likely to need.

Or maybe I made plenty of dopamine but used it all up too fast which caused my desperate need for more.

I learned about dopamine when noticing that video games, especially when played for more than an hour a day, will suck up every ounce of dopamine in the brain and cause a desperation for more. This was obvious when my sons would suddenly become grouchy and rude after a four-hour session on the Wii.

I also learned about dopamine surges when researching my son’s ADHD. People with ADHD generally have insufficient dopamine, too, which is why they move around a lot. They use movement to create mental stimulation.

Interesting side note: sugar has the same effect as video games and movement.

I am addicted to any video game I like (so I try not to play) and, in spite of my intolerance for a variety of foods, I also eat too much sugar.

I am certain, even before any autopsy, that my brain severely lacks dopamine.

When I was small, I spun around endlessly so I could get dizzy and fall down, then get up and do it again. I wanted some kind of rush even at the age of four.

There is much research on how alcohol artificially provides surges of dopamine, too. That dopamine rush is what I was seeking when I drank. It was like my dopamine receptors were broken.

In fact, in 2023, long after I figured it out for myself, NIH finally identified the genetic markers for addiction – and verified that the dopamine system plays a role in that disorder.

And to worsen matters: alcohol, when consumed regularly over a long period of time, completely interferes with the body’s ability to create dopamine. So as I drank, seeking more dopamine, my body became more and more incapable of producing its own dopamine – making me even more dependent on alcohol.

In other words, the very thing I used for a dopamine rush killed my ability to naturally create dopamine.

And, in the vicious-cycle way of all things, I believe I was lacking the ability to properly process dopamine when I was born, so in my attempts to get more dopamine, I actually cost myself the very tiny amount of dopamine I was naturally creating on my own.

Did I mention: sugar has the exact same effect on dopamine depletion as alcohol? So when I wasn’t drinking, I was eating candy, desperately trying to always feel good.

The biggest challenge I had when I was drinking – and, quite honestly, for my entire life – is that I believed I always, always needed to feel good. Feeling “down” was unacceptable.

And I was born “down.” I was a moper and a whiner and a pessimist from birth.

Probably because I didn’t have enough dopamine.

The good news: there are other ways to increase dopamine levels naturally. Eating healthy foods, meditation, and exercise are all great dopamine-boosters.

I didn’t do those things. I drank. And drank and drank and drank and drank and drank.

I Saw Myself As She Saw Me.

One day during a long ride in the country, Larry and I stopped to admire a lake. Since it was mid-summer, the place was packed with people running up and down the shores, drifting in and out of the water, waiting in line at the stationary ice cream truck. We were just two bodies amongst the summer crowd.

Larry went to the port-o-johns and I was standing, smoking a cigarette and staring at the water, when a little girl walked past me. She couldn’t have been more than eight years old, happily sucking on a freezer pop, her wet hair still dripping down the back of her orange one-piece.

In her youthful innocence, she reminded me of myself at that age.

As she trotted past me, she glanced up and caught my eye and I gave her my biggest, friendliest smile. The little girl’s eyes widened and she instantly started to cry, transforming her walk into a run as fast as her little feet would carry her – back to her family, back to safety.

I’d scared her.

I’d smiled at her, which terrified her.

Suddenly I saw myself as she saw me: standing in the sand wearing torn jeans and black boots, my hair disastrous, a large black helmet in my hand, skull rings on my fingers, a cigarette in the other hand. I stunk of ash and filth and stale beer; I hadn’t showered in days. I probably hadn’t even brushed my teeth.

On the inside I was still a little girl, toddling down the beach with my popsicle. But on the outside, I was revolting.

I’d spent much of my youth wanting to be a teacher; I so adored children. But I scared this girl without trying. I couldn’t have children with Larry, and I knew that, but I’d always thought I might someday teach. Another dream dropped by the wayside that day.

“Ready, Baby?” Larry asked, reappearing.

“Yeah,” I said.

It wouldn’t have helped to tell him what had happened. Larry didn’t see the world the way I did. He’d been loud and crooked and harsh for years; he probably wasn’t even aware that he scared small children. He wouldn’t have understood why this was a new experience for me. He didn’t understand that leather and boots didn’t fit on a family beach.

On the way home, Larry and I had sex in a cornfield somewhere near Grapeville, Pennsylvania. Afterward I wrote a poem in my head as I rode on the back of the motorcycle on that beautiful summer day.

It’s one of the few poems I can still recite from memory.

You Give Yourself Away.

Larry and I no longer argued after the bars closed, because I would never again keep him from sleep. He went to bed and I stayed up listening to music.

As the angst of living with Larry while being very much alone began to take hold more permanently in my brain, I turned to the one thing that kept me functional: music.

In 1987, U2 released The Joshua Tree album and I bought the cassette. Its lead single, With or Without You, held a special place in my heart. Something about that song made me think it was written specifically for me, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it might be.

Night after lonely night, I would put my tape in the boom box and hit “play.” At the chorus, I would scream-sing at the top of my lungs:

I can’t live … with or without you ….

I did not know to whom I was singing. I only knew that I felt deeply, painfully, excruciatingly torn, like my life could never be my own because something was pulling me in opposite directions. I felt like I was dying but had no idea why.

Sometimes I believed it was Larry who was holding me back. It had become difficult to live his life, but I had no life of my own to live.

Sometimes I believed it was my parents. I couldn’t live their lives either, but I was miserable living without the people I so dearly loved for the first 20 years of my life.

Maybe I couldn’t live with or without The One from college. Or maybe it was Bonnie. I just couldn’t live the way I was living.

The deepest, most profound meaning came to me from the song’s refrain:

And you give yourself away … and you give yourself away …

At this point in the song, I crumbled completely. I had numbed myself for too long to be able to cry, but I would wail like a wounded animal in a steel trap: “And you giiiive yourself awaaaaaay…!”

I knew, deep down, that I had given myself away, lost myself completely, misplaced my very soul.

This had happened for no discernible reason; I was just gone. The person I’d been had completely vanished, even from my own view. Yet I had no idea where I’d gone, or if I’d ever be back.

And you give and you give and you give yourself away ….

Maybe I’d given my soul, as the retreat pastor had said, to all those men with whom I’d had sex. That felt true, but something else felt like it was truer; I just didn’t know what it was.

Mostly I just randomly moaned aloud in tune, knowing the song was deeply, powerfully, inextricably linked to me.

And immediately, at the song’s last note, I rewound the tape and played it again. And again.

I wallowed in the song like a pig in a mud bath. I played it again and again and again and again, every single night, all night long, for months.

I had no idea – truly, not a clue – that I was singing With or Without You about alcohol.

I Saw My Reflection.

After several days of complete madness in Daytona, it was more than a little disheartening to arrive back in Pitcairn.

The Sunshine State – even though I’d avoided all sunshine – had reminded me what it was like to have fun, to party all day and night, to be amongst people who drank like I did, who proclaimed freedom as a mantra, who thought I was a superstar just for lifting my shirt.

Now I was returning to the doldrums of work and empty bars. Reality hit like a sledgehammer.

The apartment was dark and dingy, a reminder of my agonizing loneliness. The garbage reeked in the kitchen since no one had emptied it before we left, and the bathroom smelled as moldy as ever. The stench of stale cigarettes and ash would have been unbearable if I hadn’t been smoking a cigarette when I walked in. The thin carpeting was filthy and my bare feet felt grittier than when I’d been romping in the dirt outside our tent.

Larry clomped up the steps behind me, tossed some stuff onto our bed and went into the kitchen to make a sandwich. He didn’t seem to notice the condition of our apartment, or the smell.

Until I’d had this one day without alcohol, I’d somehow not been aware of the state of our apartment.

My home was embarrassingly disgusting. I wondered for a moment why anyone would want to live here. How would it appear to other people? This place was gross. But I’d never noticed it before.

A week away, and one day without alcohol, and … here I was.

I was sad to be home, disappointed in what I’d come home to, apathetic about Larry, excited only about going back to work where I could see my friends, get high at lunchtime, and earn another few dollars so I could drink for another few days.

I stepped into the bathroom and, for the first time in a week, I saw my reflection in the chipped bathroom mirror. I dropped my cigarette into the toilet and stared.

I hadn’t seen my own face in a very long time.

I’d spent a week ignoring my pain with the help of countless cans of beer, and some root beer schnapps. I’d had sex with Larry several times in the pup tent without a single thought about how I appeared.

But back at home, with the offending bedroom nearby reminding me of Larry’s fists, and the offending window reminding me of my suicide attempt, I was stunned into stillness.

I was no longer listening to the solid roar of motorcycle engines or enjoying Lookin’ Out My Back Door on repeat. I wasn’t the suave character who’d had such fun dancing in the bar with the guys in Daytona. And I wasn’t the sexy girl I imagined I’d been as I randomly flashed bikers, strolling coolly and confidently through the masses of black t-shirts and tattoos.

In spite of so much time passing, I still looked like someone who’d been pummeled in the face then dove out a window. In other words, I still looked like me.

And I had exactly one shot left on my roll of film.

I Was a Toddler Without a Toy.

On our way home from Daytona, I was distressed. We had barely enough money for gas, and no one would buy me any beer.

Danny was driving as I whined all the way through Georgia. “I gotta get back to fuckin’ work,” he growled. “We’re not stoppin’.”

“Let’s just pick up a 12-pack,” I moaned, my hangover screaming for redemption.

Larry said, “We’ll get a fuckin’ case when we get home.”

“I can’t fuckin’ wait until we get home,” I moaned.

I spent hours contriving new ways we could get some beer without taking any time:

“There’s a liquor store at the next exit!”

“Let’s get a pizza!” (No one ate pizza without drinking beer.)

“We could say we got a flat tire and spend the night in that hotel!”

I was a toddler without a toy. I couldn’t think about anything else.

Danny finally snapped. “There’s a fuckin’ beer right there! Just drink that!”

Coincidentally, there was one can of Miller Lite in the car.

No one knew how long it had been there or from whence it came. It had definitely been there for more than 24 hours, in the closed car, in the blazing Florida sunshine. No doubt that one beer was rancid.

But like any good alcoholic, I considered Danny’s suggestion.

The beer had been rolling on the floor of the car for days, flitting under the seats, then rolling back into view. Even if the beer hadn’t been the single most puke-worthy beer ever, the rolling meant that the carbonation would cause the can to explode if I opened it.

And if I survived the beer explosion, what was left would be half a can of rancid foam – meaning, not just awful but virtually impossible to drink.

Still, I seriously considered this option.

The Crux: there was only one beer. And I knew that one beer would never, ever be enough.

At that point, the rancid, rolling beer was the only beer on the planet. It was certainly the only beer I was going to get during the full-day-long drive to Pittsburgh.

So I didn’t open it.

And I stopped asking for beer.

Instead, I thought back to my childhood. How did I survive long car rides in my youth?

I remembered singing with my family, reading books, playing a variety of games, having a great time riding in the car.

I desperately loved family games.

“Let’s play the alphabet game!” I suggested.

Danny and Larry – to shut me up – begrudgingly agreed. I taught them how to play.

“I packed my suitcase and in it I put …” Danny needed something with the letter A. “An apple.”

Larry went next: “I packed my suitcase and it in I put an apple and … a banana.” Letter B.

It wasn’t a great start, but by the eighth letter, we were making the game into a little song. Things rhymed. There was a real rhythm to the “suitcase” we were building. I’d never played the game this way before – and it was awesome! An extra challenge!

By the end, when someone sadly broke the game, we had a fabulous suitcase packed.

After the success of the game, beer was no longer necessary. We had a fun drive home without it.

Show Him Your Tits!

Danny, Larry and I camped in two tiny pup tents with no sleeping bags at an official Bike Week campground. During the day, Danny did his own thing. He’d wake up and disappear, and we did, too.

Larry spent much of Bike Week wandering around and looking at motorcycles while I compared myself to other biker chicks.

Unlike me, many biker chicks were dressed in whole-body costumes. Some were head-to-toe in leather and chains, complete with a studded collar. Some were pierced in places I didn’t even know could be pierced – and every last piercing was visible because of their lack of clothing. Some were tattooed on every inch of bare skin, making it hard to tell where their original skin might be, wearing only a thong and pasties to “cover” themselves. Others were literally chained to the old man, being dragged around like a dog. Still others had their own bikes: sparkly purple Sportsters or pastel pink dressers with shag-covered seats, the women wearing glittery chaps and a sleeveless leather vest.

Somehow in the midst of these women, who for all intents and purposes were dressed like prostitutes, a biker with a gray beard aimed his disposable camera at me. Then he just stood there staring at me and smiling.

Larry noticed. “Show him your tits!” he said.

“What?”

“He wants to see your tits!”

Dumbfounded, I lifted my shirt revealing two small breasts; I never wore a bra. The guy snapped a picture, gave me a thumbs-up, and walked away.

Another guy saw this exchange and rushed over with his camera, too.

I looked at Larry for verification. He nodded. I lifted my shirt again.

I have never been particularly proud of my body, nor did I ever consider my breasts interesting, so I found the “tit shot” phenomenon to be an amusing pastime. As I was wholly detached from my own emotions, I had no idea that it should concern or humiliate me. I mentally categorized these frequent shirt-lifts as representing freedom from social constructs.

The only part of Bike Week that bothered me was Florida’s ridiculous open container law. We weren’t allowed to drink beer while we walked around gazing at motorcycles.

So, after a few hours of hearing about the legendary Boot Hill Saloon, we went for a visit.

The Boot Hill Saloon was my favorite part of Bike Week. We went inside (air conditioned!) and Larry ordered a couple of Miller Lites. We never left. We drank and chatted with the other bikers. We explored the walls, which formed a giant collage of junk: old photos, magazine clippings, license plates, graffiti. We played pool and danced with a guy wearing a Budweiser box on his head.

For hours and hours and hours, the jukebox played CCR’s Lookin’ Out My Back Door. Sometimes people groaned, “Not this song again!” and walked out. It never occurred to me to leave. I decided that Lookin’ Out My Back Door was my new favorite song. I adored the guy wearing the beer box on his head. And I decided that I would never again drink somewhere without a pool table.

None of these resolutions lasted beyond Bike Week.

Missing daylight in Florida made me happy, so much so that Larry and I hung out at the same dark bar all day every day during the time we were in Florida.

And by the end of Bike Week, I could give a side-style tit shot while holding a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, smiling for the camera in the dark.

I’d become an expert.

Everyone Wore Chains and Leather.

Within days, I’d forgotten about jumping out the window. I was too drunk to care.

Bike Week is, essentially, a week-long party that takes over an entire town – in this case, Daytona, Florida – terrifying local residents and sending them indoors, or enticing them outdoors to drown in the deafening roar of engines that never stops.

Bike Week is an experience that would be best finished for bystanders in one day. But for those who partake in the multitude of activities offered to the throngs of bikers who attend, one day would be insufficient.

Motorcycles lined the streets, parked three- and four-deep along the curbs with a never-ending line of bikes cruising past.

Everyone wore chains and leather. Men had scraggly, ridiculous beards of all shapes and colors. Women wore virtually nothing – and, sometimes, nothing at all.

Shops on the main drag sold everything from food, jewelry, and official Bike Week gear to leather jackets, swimming pools and vintage motorcycles. The most popular thing to buy at Bike Week, by far, was a tattoo. Lines for the pop-up tents and vendors offering tattoos snaked into the streets, blurring the line between “queue” and “crowd.” Most of the people in the lines were already covered with ink – brightly colored birds and flowers on the women, skulls and knives etched into the men. Some of them were completely covered – meaning, I couldn’t tell where they might get another tattoo, since there was no skin left on their legs, arms, torsos, necks or faces.

At one point, I decided to get a tattoo: a black panther, which would go on my upper left arm. Something about my seventh grade book report on wild cats made me believe this was a fine choice. And Larry – who already had some small, rather lame tattoos, promised to fund this effort if I wanted to stand in the line.

I did. Larry went off to look at the bikes, and I got in line.

Figuring it would be awhile, I stood prepared and double-fisted, not wanting to go without beer for a moment. After the first beer, I had to use the facilities – but I held it … just long enough to finish the second beer. I had to find Larry to get another one and by the time I did, I had decided the tattoo line wasn’t worth it.

While the main draw was walking up and down the street looking at all the different motorcycles (with me proudly yelling “shovelhead!” and “panhead!” at Larry), Bike Week also had fine recreational activities like motorcycle races, bike shows, light shows, mud puddle jumps, beach rides, concerts, and parades.

My least favorite activity – which took place at every large biker event I ever attended – was the Weenie Bite Competition. Bikers would ride through a field with a “chick” on the back, standing up, both of them cruising slowly under a hot dog, hanging from a string. Chicks were supposed to bite off as much of the hot dog as they could, sometimes being smacked mercilessly in the face until the bike spun out and pulled away. There weren’t a lot of actual bites taken from that hot dog.

I wonder if they switched out that disgusting hot dog for every rider. Probably not.

“Do you want to do it?” Larry asked.

“Fuck no,” I said.

Larry laughed. “You’d be good at it!”

“I am not doing that,” I said. It looked not only difficult but humiliating.

And I never tried it, a fact of which I am extremely proud. I was plenty humiliated by other activities.