Kelso was a hoot in the Sunday fishwrap out of Austin. The past weekend was the occasion of the annual Republic of Texas Motorcycle Rally. John Kelso and his south Austin pal, Big Edd O'Donnell, took a pedicab down to the main drag in downtown Austin where all of the hog riders had assembled for the "Parade of Thunder" up Congress Avenue toward the State Capitol. Wacked out bikers were in great profusion this past weekend. However, it's a tough call to determine who was more weird: Kelso and Big Edd in a pedicab or gum jockeys on tricked out bikes. If this is (fair & balanced) delusion, so be it.
[x Austin American-Statesman]
Is this a bike rally or a quilting bee?
by John Kelso
Pedicab driver Robert Martinez had his work cut out for him shuttling Edd O'Donnell, center, and John Kelso around the Republic of Texas biker rally along Congress Avenue on Friday.
Copyright © 2005 Andrew Price/Austin American-Statesman
(click to enlarge photo)
What ever happened to real bikers?
Ever since the price of rebellion went up and Harleys became too expensive for a wrench monkey to afford, some doctors and dentists are riding hogs.
Dentists? What is a gum jockey doing on a Harley? Now there's some serious irony. Remember when bikers didn't have teeth?
To show these Republic of Texas Biker Rally creampuffs what a real biker is all about, on Friday night my friend Edd O'Donnell and I rode into the rally of 20,000 motorcycles on Congress Avenue in the back of a pedicab.
A pedicab is one of those two-person seat-cushioned carts you see around town. The front end is a bicycle, and the guy doing the pedaling is the engine. Our pedicab came with a little rubber horn, in case one of these pretend ROT bikers got in our way.
Our pedaler for the evening, Robert Martinez of Capital Pedicab, picked Edd and me up near this newspaper's driveway on South Congress, at the top of the hill.
Between us, Edd and I are about 500 pounds of pulsating fat. So we figured we should get into the Pedicab at the top of the hill so Martinez wouldn't get a hernia.
Edd and I wore bandanas, with me opting for a yellow Jose Cuervo model. My biker name for the evening was Hell's Polecat.
Edd calls the new brand of benign bikers you see these days "Sweet 'N Low bikers." This is because instead of Jack Daniel's, they drink iced tea with fake sugar and swap photos of their grandchildren.
Come to think of it, we didn't see a beer can all night. That just ain't right.
I keep hearing on the news that the ROT Rally is bringing $33 million to the Austin economy. Remember when the success of a biker rally was measured in broken noses, fat lips and Tweety Bird tattoos?
Edd said he knew this wasn't much of a rally when he saw some bikers over by City Hall with their machines on trailers.
"I'm thinking, 'You got to be kidding,' " he said. "If you didn't ride it in, you're a (wimp)."
Real bikers don't trailer their Harleys to a rally. You're supposed to ride your Harley cross-country with insects in your molars. Ah, for the glory days of American motorcycling, when the difference between a Hoover and a Harley was the position of the dirtbag.
When we got to Fourth and Congress, we stopped and watched the parade of bikes roaring up and down the street. Let's put it this way: There was nobody here who looked like Marlon Brando from "The Wild One." In fact, I spotted an acquaintance in biker attire who counsels people on their family problems.
Used to be bikers were the family problems.
"This isn't much," Edd observed. "This is office managers, CPAs, gynecologists and hairdressers. Half of these people shouldn't be driving a car, much less a motorcycle."
Oh, there was one woman who flashed the crowd as she went by on a bike.
"She should have had the name of her plastic surgeon tattooed across her stomach," said Edd, who is good at marketing.
But for the most part, it was a pretty lame display. There was just too much equipment on these high-dollar bikes. Some of these Harleys look like they should have a soufflé pan and a plasma TV built into the back.
One bike was painted up to look like a cheetah. Motorcycles are supposed to be basic black, with accents by Quaker State.
"The guy with the cheetah bike probably owns a leather bar in San Francisco," Edd figured.
I even saw two bikes decorated with stuffed animals.
"This is like a real noisy arts and crafts show," Edd said. "Fifty dollars says there's a cappuccino machine in that saddlebag. Got to make a latte on the run, right?"
I mean, it was really embarrassing. I even saw a Suzuki out there.
John Kelso's column appears on Sundays, Tuesdays and Fridays. Contact him at 512-445-3606 or jkelso@statesman.com.
Copyright © 2005 Cox Texas Newspapers, L.P. All rights reserved.
