Iceman: Snorting Chicanes on Dinosaurs Juice
P.S. Just like the title, half the stuff I’ll say here may fly over your head
And… if you are reading this after my funeral, I’m not surprised.
Where do I start? Wait, seriously, Where the fuck does it start, anyway? When did I catch this fever? Was it the old man, that damn snapshot of him popping a wheelie with a smirk plastered on his face? Or the tale of his first bust for liberating an unattended two-wheel thunder? Or 2003. MotoGP. Phakisa. Sete Gibernau riding Kato’s ghost rigged spec to clinch his first-ever Grand prix, while Rossi breathing down his neck, that fingered jab to the heavens - holy hell, a tribute to Kato. Ten-year-old me, eyes glued to the tube, and I knew, I just knew. There’s no pinning down when this contagious fevered ride truly takes hold of you. But wait, just wait, until you stumble upon the Isle of Man TT. That’s when the madness truly sinks its teeth in. After that, you are staring straight into Medusa’s eyes. HAHAHAHA…. Congratulations, kid. You’re a punk now. A goddamn, two-wheeled punk with a grin!
A motorcycle isn’t transportation. It’s the flame, and we’re the stupid moths. You don’t just ride it—you stare at it in the garage at 2 a.m. like a lovesick teenager inhaling that gasoline stink and suddenly you’re twelve again, high on glue and possibility. The non-petrol civilians will never understand. To them it’s a vehicle. To us it’s a chrome-plated god with anger issues and a hair-trigger temper. Twist the key and the whole world shuts the f*** up. The starter motor coughs, then the baleful exhaust detonates—pure, glorious, marauding antisocial thunder! La musica celestia….
Riding a motorcycle is like cutting through air and all of life’s bullshit, an escape to solace.
Click-Click; Downshift to second:
You lean in and the world tilts forty-five degrees. nose diving into hairpin like a junkie railing a line of fresh white chicane. Apex. Throttle. The rear clawing for grip, finds it, revs climb to balls territory letting physics runoff.
Now Third:
Sending it…Sending it…engine screaming like hurting banshees.
Bang, Fourth:
Tearing eye at high speeds. Fear? Yeah, she’s always there! Arms around your waist, whispering “faster, you p*ssy.”
For one heartbeat the bike is reading your fucking mind. Throttle, counter steer, knee down, asphalt hissing two inches from your skin, wind trying to peel your face off.
That’s the hit.
That’s why we keep coming back, half-terrified, fully alive, chasing a perfect corner we’ll never quite catch.
Say Hello to My Little Friend:
1979 Yamaha XS 650 - “The ICEMAN”
A cruiser chiseled into Café, Chopped the front forks two inches, stripped the factory black gloss to metallic gun grey. Swapped the whole rear swing-arm off a ’78 just so I could run proper spoke wheels laced with fat Dunlop whitewalls. Rear disc? Gone. Drum brake now; retro looks better when it’s trying to kill you. OEM drag bars got binned for low clip-ons. Seat shaved flat and stitched tight to keep the backbone line pure sex. Fresh Mike’s XS intake with filter, cams and ignition re-timed so it breathes non-stop at idle. Every last speck of metal sanded smooth and sprayed clear coat until it promises not to rust. Exhaust? Cut short! No muffler, no mercy, just open pipes that spits blue flame.
