Beer Run

Yesterday, a cold front moved through Small Town Amërïkä. Refreshing north winds brought higher barometric pressure and clear skies. Perfect weather for baling hay and drinking beer. Every small town has a liquor store within walking distance of the surrounding trailer parks so the bitter residents who’ve lost their licenses can make their way on foot to purchase the necessary vodka and Slim Jims. In Jerkwater we have Lenny’s Liquors. A second generation establishment where the friendly gal behind the register happily bags up your purchase while calling you handsome.


The rooms above the store house a brothel by night and an illegal kidney transplant center by day. All made possible with payments made to the local constable. From the open windows a combination of stale perfume, cigarette smoke and chloroform wafts down to the street and mingles with abject desperation and discarded pizza crusts.

Last time I documented my trip to this establishment I cooked the tender skin of my right calf on the scorching hot tail pipe of my ratty big twin. Still bearing the scars from that incident, I took the Intergalactic Wart Hog with its catalyst exhaust covers, liquid cooling and plastic mud guards. I transported my precious cargo safely to the shop fridge in my aluminum top case. A true dual-sport adventure.