1988, Summer. A warm night. A beautiful night. Three bikes. We idle slowly up highway six. West of Houston. You know the kind of night I'm talking about. It had been a hot and humid day. The early evening was fantastic. Not so hot, not so humid. One of those nights that just kind of reach out and wrap your being in softness. Three bikes. Pipes rumbling low and mean. Three bikes, three riders that tried to look so cool. Three bikes that struck fear into the hearts of the straights. Three riders that should have had real lives. Corky, ahh Corky, I miss you so much. Corky was riding his pride and joy, an almost new fat boy (he actually had a real job and could afford a real bike), it was about 2 years old and he had put some loud pipes on it, as well as a putting on another 20 horse's. Corky was about six foot three and weighed maybe one fifty soaking wet. A long tall drink of water. One of my mentors, and a really good guy except for a slight aversion to the rules of the rest of the world. Tiny was riding his beloved full chop. It had started out as a full dress back in 75 but not much was left of the original. Kind of like Tiny himself. Sometimes what is the beginning does not resemble what the finished product looks like. Tiny was maybe six foot six and had to weigh in a four hundred pounds. A mountain but a mountain with a heart and soul. He lived up to his name, aside from the fact that his heart wasn't tiny, it was as large as Texas. Me, I was riding a new to me panhead. It had belonged to Cowboy, until he had been given a jolt of 20 to life for torching a Chevy. Ok, so maybe there were a couple of guys in it at the time, but they had ripped Cowboy off for about three pounds of uncut coke the week before! Sometimes you have to stand up for your principles. Anyway, after Cowboy was settled into Hunstville for his term, his old lady (Tina) needed some bread to give to the bloodsuckers (lawyers) so she put out the word that his scooter was up for sale. We had a negotiating session on their living room couch and I ended up with a ride that would take me on my last ride. It wasn't to shabby, Cowboy had built it up pretty good. She turned a pretty decent speed and aside from a puke yellow paint job didn't look to bad. A three inch extension and chrome everywhere didn't hurt to much. Anyhow, 7pm Friday night. Riding north on hiiway six. Interstate 10. Onto the the ramp. My scoot leading. Listen. Just listen. V-twins turning it on. Heading west on 10. Rude, loud, inserting themselves into every inch of your soul. A four dour family sled filled with mom and pop and all the little kiddies cruising along at 60 mph. A roar, a rush. three outlaws flying past. Long hair flying in the wind. Idiot grins, pipes singing to the gods of foolishness. Daddy trying to keep the Ford station wagon pointed on the straight and narrow, trying to ignore the fool by his window that is rideing to hell. Mommy trying to keep her heart from beating faster as she watches the outlaws roaring past her window and learing at her with eyes that see thru her dress. Junior trying to imagine how it would be to be to be so invincible. I wind the motor up. My grin is covering my face. First Corky then Tiny then me, lead us down the road to hell. My scoots motor roars it's defiance to the real world. The straights see three horsemen riding towards the horizen. My colors say I am a "Righteous Brouther" "Houston MC" and my name is "Clown". They don't say, I am a fool and doomed. We roar past and into the night. Our lives are full and our lives are in front of us. Corky died of acute alcoholism in 1991. Tiny became an ordained minister in Huntsville Prison in 1993 while serving a life sentance for a triple homicide. I dream of warn summer nights on a scooter while sitting in my wheelchair, at the age of 55 wondering about what should have been.