h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

He dreams of the wide open road
Away from the wind, rain and cold
With his lady behind
Together they wind
'Neath a warm sun the color of gold

While speeding along like a fool
He came up on a freaky green ghoul
Locking his gears
And fleeing in tears
Feeling safety should supersede cool

A chopper aloft in a tree
A touring bike sunk in the sea
A racer on fire
A bagger, flat tire
Seems to me, you see, I should flee

This crowd it seems too rough to me
That's no way for nice folks to be
To trash all our scooters
Like vandals and looters
Those villians from SpongeBob M.C.

Together we stared at the wreck
Wondering aloud "What the heck,
Made that squirrel dash into
The space we were going to"
Now it's dead and I've sprained my neck

Could it not hear us a-coming?
My big v-twin engine a-gunning?
A guy just can't swerve
As he's rounding a curve
And out comes a rodent a-running

My lady is scuffed and irate
Not what she calls a fun date
A squirrel makes a dash
And we're red with road rash
And to top it all off now we're late

Alone in his study he's dreaming
Of his cycle down the road screaming
O'er roads paved and gravel
Sunburned head to navel
Through valleys with cool waters streaming

You wouldn't have thunk it, I know
That the Yogabike ever would go
On the side was the seat
In the back went the feet
And the handlebars mounted so low

The frame is all twisted around
Not to mention the horrible sound
An upside-down motor
An inside-out rotor
The clutch nearly touches the ground

Could anyone shift it up there?
Transmission three feet in the air!
Psychedelic exhaust
On the tank is embossed
An inverted green solar flare

Candles instead of headlight
Small but uncannily bright
The horn whispers "peace"
It uses no grease
Just a mixture of oils and graphite

To mount this thing here's what you do
Spin around, bend half-in-two
Put your head in the seat
But don't let your feet
Touch the foot pegs what ever you do

You have to take off right away
For balance sake, please don't delay
The throttle, you see
Is worked with your knee
So waiting around doesn't pay

Stopping's a trick of its' own
Requiring an agile chin bone
A flexible spine
And a spirit divine
We suggest you don't practice alone

If you see us out Yogabiking
When you're driving, or walking, or hiking
Wave a Hello
To us as we go
Or join us if you take a liking

Ice on the roads all around me
Snow and chill winds surround me
But I just couldn't stay
So I went anyway
And in the ditch freezing they found me

As I ride Rozinante to Sturgis
Shaking she bucks and she surges
Rust and bald tires
The engine mis-fires
And the radio only plays dirges

Arriving safe up goes the tent
Among riders from cool to hell-bent
With them are beauties,
Big Mammas, and cuties
And ladies with evil intent

The bikes are a sight to behold
Ranging from brand-new to old
Big V-8 engines
To three-wheeled inventions
From flat black to inlaid with gold

The vendors are lining the streets
Shirts, helmets, vests, jackets and eats
Tattoos and rings
Unmentionable things
And big leather boots for your feets

The sun here in August is fierce
Beware if it hits where you pierce
Some lotion and shade
And you'll have it made
Surrounded by throngs of your peers

Mount Rushmore is worth the detour
Of the bad lands, I want to see more
But time is now short
So I have to abort
Besides, my butt's getting sore

Rozinante is taking me home
Two weeks since my hair's seen a comb
A trip to remember
In the month of December
When the weather's remindful of Nome

I've fitted my scooter with skis
For snow covered roads if you please
I look like a clown
Heading for town
But I'm riding so please do not tease

Stuck inside all winter long
Is just not where I belong
Wind in my face
As I ride place to place
And in my heart, always, a song

<peacedove.

The first hundred miles are a pleasure
An ideal spending of leisure
Gorgeous gold sun
I feel like I've won
The worlds most valuable treasure

Two hundred miles are a dream
Cruising by waters that gleam
Past cattle and deer
Who quizzically peer
At me as they wade through a stream

At three hundred miles I say
This bike trip is really okay
More animals, cute
A nice enough route
A good way to spend a Sunday

Mile four hundred I'm a bit sore
Don't worry, just two hundred more
Just gotta keep going
Mind what I'm doing
And soon I'll be at my door

I'm tired at five hundred miles
So much for waves and big smiles
Get outta my way
It's been a long day
I've no time for road-hogging rust-piles

Six Hundred Miles! At Last!
An entire Sunday has past
Wore out from the run
The week-end is done
With Monday morn coming up fast

The sun's out, the road's getting clear
The time to go riding is near
The snow's turned to slush
At the last sign of mush
I'll suit up and I'm outta here!

Johnny's a little bit mean
Don's kind of gross and obscene
Freddy's a slut
Bill's got a big gut
And Raymond's a bit of a queen

Maria is fast off the line
Sue's unbelievably fine
Jill likes to fight
Ann's likely to bite
Lil' Betty's a favorite of mine

John, George, Melinda and Me
Are the oddest group you'll ever see
Roll 'cross this land
A leather clad band
Of bikers, we're Aimless M.C.

I've checked out the roads and they're dry
No ice, only salt did I spy
Wool socks and long undies
Chaps, coat and sundries
Time to fly. You know why. So bye bye.

I'll return 'fore the frost bites my toes
'Till then, where I go, no one knows
Into town, maybe not
Some real secluded spot
Who knows, we just goes where we goes

John loves his new Indian
A shining bronze suped-up v-twin
Waxed to a gleam
A bikers' wet dream
And a paint job as evil as sin

The bike is just too nice to ride
It's kept safely sheltered inside
An old Honda gets ridden
The Indian stays hidden
Does that make sense? I can't decide

Steves' Victory is covered with mud
Its' paint job is hid under crud
The miles wet and dusty
Got chrome dinged and rusty
Months since it's seen a soap sud

Mikes' Sportster has got a bald tire
The turn signal's held on with wire
It wobbles a tad
The shocks are all bad
But its' spirit you have to admire

We ride what we got. We don't care
So long as we blast through the air
Triumph or Suzuki
BMW, Ducatti
Meet us down the road if you dare

Sam is quite proud of his bike
He converted it back from a trike
Chromed Valkrie engine
If you can imagine
A rear fender crowned with a spike

He shows it off 'most everywhere
He can find an observer to care
Points out the wheel
The painted blue steel
His passion he can't help but share

I have to admit it's quite fine
Much better looking than mine
So, let him enjoy
His wonderful toy
For a life full of love is divine

Our bikes are all parked in a row
We're dressed, psyched, and ready to go
But thanks to old Hap
We don't have a map
So we can't find our way to the show

Way to go, get us all lost
How much time's this going to cost?
Already it's late
We're getting irate
John's so mad his eye's have gone crossed

Hap's never been known as dependable
Little he's done's been commendable
Give him a mission
And he'll go off fishin'
We're beginning to think he's expendable

Too dam cold to ride so I write
Long winters make bikers uptight
Dreary and grey
We drag through the day
Sweet relief is nowhere in sight

A poet with a one-track mind
So he likes to ride cycles, well fine
There's more to a life
Like kids or a wife
A job, home, interests of some kind

I hear that he is kind of tall
And tends to hang out at the mall
He talks about bikes
It's all that he likes
An obsession like no other at all

But you've got to admire his zeal
To live life you have got to feel
That spark is alive
And gives him that drive
That keeps his life vibrant and real