Maxim

Finding your site is a breath of fresh bike exhaust! Too bad there aren't more ratbiker in my hometown of Toronto, Canada.
Too bad so many bikers here have to have their rides all shiny and brand new. Too bad they miss the ratbikin' point. Anyhooo, I thought I'd send a little story I wrote about why it's so good to be out there moto-streetfightin'.
Oh yeah, here's a picture of me on ''Blackie'', my trusty 81 Yammy Maxim 650.

thx,
baz - toronto, canada

ZEN AND THE ART OF PSYCHO RATBIKIN'
    By Motofreak

Daytona, Shmaytona. Geriatric media creeps interviewing millionaire bike racer kids who can't do razor commercial cuz they don't shave yet! Who's got the most expensive machine? Yeah, I'll take that 8 zillion dollar, 3 billion horsepower GSRXZX20000CBRRZVX.
There was no way I could sit still through the "race coverage" a.k.a. Parade Led by Nicky ''Be Like Nickeeeeeee, You Stooge!'' Hayden. Christ, he's cuter than a puppy!
Feeling like DOING rather than watching, I throw a creaky old leg over the peeling saddle of my ancient ratbike '81 Maxim 650 with ear-splitting, rusty 4-into-1 megaphone drag pipe featuring muffler cement patches, missing side covers, a single bar end mirror stuck on with electrical tape. I have tons 'o' fun annoying the corpulent, pasty-faced BBQ addict neighbours as I sit in my backyard gunning the engine for a while.
A lot of ugly stares come over the fence. I wave with a big smile. I can just hear them thinking: ''It's that goddamn psycho again...'' The poor bastards have probably never even been on two wheels.
Finally don the full-face. Those beany jobs are for geeks with the cliche goatees (Bald guy compensation). Anybody who falls off something as low and slow as a Harley pushrod wheelchair deserves what they get. I've wiped out often enough to know that the full-face is a good thing. And besides, it looks waaaay cooler.
Anyhooo, I finally go roaring out the dirt driveway, flinging mud and gravel at the miserable burnt-meat eating mugs behind me and head up Jane Street to the suburban wasteland full of similarly minded freaks who hang around sleazy old coffee shops waiting for somebody to show up and watch them pull really stupid stunts while screaming by at 100 mph.
The coffee shack parking lot is packed. (Actually, I've never been inside the dump. Is that coffee or brake fluid?!) A varied collection of superbikes, streetfighters, beaters, choppers, customs- and even a few ratbikes!

Some whacko doing uni-cycle type wheelies in the parking lot on a new Suzuki DRZ400. He hits a parked car and knocks himself out. "Aw, he's okay," somebody says as a crowd forms. And he was. Too bad the bike's forks got trashed. The car? Who cares!
Herds of fully blown liter screamers go hurtling past. You can hear the screech of brakes as they try to stop at the light about a 1/4 mile down the road. And not once on that hot sweaty night do we hear the EEEEEEK! CRUNCH! TINKLE, TINKLE of somebody skidding into the intersection and getting T-boned by a cage-driving retard. Must be a record!
It's on hot summer nights packed with my fellow flaunters of law and common sense that I once again realize what's so great about ratbikin'. Of course it's not the latest techno-marvel bikes or the titanium or chrome or bench racing or high tech gimcrackery. And neither is it the multi-colored leather clown suits or super cool carbon fiber body panels. No, it's never been any of that crap.
Rather, it's the sheer, unadulterated joy of roaring around on a noisy old machine that looks like hell while making a complete and utter nuisance of yourself. And those abovementioned similarly-minded freaks agree.
Now that's what I call a sense of community!
Okay, so sometimes there's a price to pay. I've had a few mishaps. (No baby, that ain't electrolysis, it's road rash!)
But give up ratbikin' now?! Christ, what for?! I'll be retired in another 20 years and then I can really cut loose!