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(posted to r.m.h. on Sun, Jul 21, 2002)
For the past several years, I have been most vigilant, resourceful and fortunate in avoiding that insidious, odious, odorous malady that orginated in the PNW and has spread like wildfire among even the most respectable of motorcycle enthusiasts. It's cancerous infestation has ruined countless families, lives and underwear. I speak, of course, of one of the most disgusting substances known to man ... the slime of the Pacific Northwest Banana Slug. Since I first read of its propensity for infecting the poor rider unaware of its highly contageous nature, I have always carried and used a wonderful product called Slime Screen 50+. I would profusely slather the cream version on my body and spray a specially formulated liquid solution on my bike whenever I suspected I would be anywhere near anyone or anything that might be a carrier. Through three SNDR's, a trip to Sturgis and the Buck 'n' Gator, visits to RE's, and assorted other eyeball opportunities afforded by gatherings of the denizens of rmh, HeD, etc., I was able to stay clean and unaffected. From every encounter I returned infestation-free, secure in the knowledge that the prophylactic properties of Slime Screen 50+ had done its job. That is ... until that fatal week I pushed my luck and made a trip to SoCal, whereupon I visited with StephG, RHSD, Papaboop and Mamaboop. As usual, before embarking on such a trip wherein I would be exposing myself to the potential ravages of slime, I went to look for my trusted Slime Screen 50+. Imagine my shock and dismay at discovering my tube of the cream was empty. And to make matters worse, the spray bottle I used for the bike had developed a leak and was likewise empty and useless as teats on a boar. ¡Carumba! It was too late to order more from my direct-mail source, and it's not carried by retail businesses due to some petty concerns of the FDA over possible side effects, such as forgetfulness, hair loss, weight gain, presbyopia and excessive flatuence. Hell, i've never been bothered by any of these. Have I? Hmmm .... Anyway, there I was on the eve of my trip with no protection, all packed and ready to go. What was I to do? Throwing caution to the wind, fueled by my determination to see my daughter who was working near Malibu, and perhaps even just feeling a little rebellious and eager to experience some risk in my otherwise mundane existence, I set forth naked and exposed. No ... not in _that_ way! Sheesh ... My visit with my daughter went well, except for the pesky business about kissing the rear-end of a Big Ass Blazer on "The 101" near Santa Barbara on the way down which resulted in a dented fender and my having to pick myself up off the freeway during a period of stop and go traffic. That's a story for another time, except that it should have been a premonition that all was not going to be well on this trip. After visiting my daughter, I rolled up to to Steph and RHSD's Casa de Diablos on July 4th. In true rmh tradition they welcomed the weary traveler and, luckily, their cats gave me permission to crash for the night as long as I didn't sit in their chairs or eat their food. I was treated to cold beer, a barbecue and a visit with Papa and Mamaboop. Later that night we strolled up the street to participate in a neighborhood fireworks celebration. Steph managed to hold his pyromanaical own as he drug along a box of assorted firey and sparkly shit. It was a very good evening in deed. But I digress ... Earlier that evening, standing in his garage viewing the bruised and battered Babe, i noticed some oil weepage from the breather that had dripped down on the engine and reached down with some sort of dry something to wipe it clean. Steph, abashed that I would treat my beloved bike in such a manner, handed me a spray bottle and a paper towel instructing me that I should at least do the job properly. Feeling momentarily chastised and chagrined, I quickly accepted the offered items, giving the bike a quick spray and wipe, including the bikes and oil tank that also showed risiduals of oil sprayage. In retrospect, what was I ever thinking? Here I was in the garage of a "known associate" of Slugs, indeed, a number-holder himself, carelessly something that had been passed to me without first inquiring as to what it was or what it might have mixed with it. Children, let this be a lesson to you! Never, ever, under any circumstances, accept anything passed to you and use it without knowing without a doubt what it is. There are too many people out there looking to draw you in to their disgusting, degenerate circle. I should have taken greater notice of the look on Steph's face as I wiped off the bike. At the time I just figuired it must have been indigestion, but in looking back on it, I see it now for what it was ... a knowing smirk of satisfaction that he had doomed another hapless victim to a lifetime of slimedom. I swear, the spray bottle was laced with slime spores! I didn't notice anything right away. In fact, as we loaded the bikes for the ride north to Gentleman Dave's Hollister party, nothing seemed remiss at all. There wasn't a hint of slime anywhere. However, after a few hours of riding the first signs of the "slime curse" began to manifest itself. At some point in the journey, slime at oozed its way onto the zipper of the left leg of my chaps, causing it to slide up up my leg while riding and eventually fly open at 70 mph. Needless to say, it makes for very distracting riding having the left leg of your chaps flopping around like a headless chicken, so we pulled over so I could correct the problem. Unfortunately, I didn't take the time to examine the situation carefully or I might have discarded the affected chaps right then and there. No, I just zipped them back closed and we were on our way again. It wasn't until we made our next gas stop that I discovered the second casualty of the sliming. When the chaps leg began flapping, the slime must have somehow worked itself into the little chaps pocket where I had stashed my bike keys, lubricating them to the point where they slid out and disappeared somewhere along the freeway. I now had a motorcycle and no immediate way to lock it up. The rest of the trip went pretty uneventfully. We managed to find Gentleman Dave's, grabbed something cold to drink, toured the horses and rested for awhile. Steph and RHSD pitched their tent for the weekend, and I finally departed for home just another 70 miles up the road. Now it was on this leg of the journey that I noticed the bike was handling a little funny. It didn't appear to be in the front end as one might think having hit the rear end of a Big Ass Blazer. Nope ... it was the rear of the bike. It kept slipping and sliding around, causing me to veer first to one side of the lane and then the other. I eventually just chalked it up the winds that the Pacheco Pass are known for, but I thought it odd that it happened even as I finished my ride on through the heart of the San Joaquin vally. By the time I reached home, I weas too tired to investigate so I took a quick shower and hit the sack. The next morning I found myself rolling out of bed later than I had planned and rushed to hook up with friends heading back over the pass to Hollister. I was going to ride and have breakfast with them, and then join the netscum at the 7-11 eyeball. Once again, I noticed a loose ride going over the Pacheco Pass and erringly passed it off as the the effect of the winds. it wasn't until later that morning just before noon, as i parked my bike a blcok or two away from the appointed meeting place, that I noticed it. My engine, saddlebags, everything was covered with an oozing layer of green goop. I coudn't believe it! After all these years of avoiding it like the ... well... plague that it is, I too had been infected. I staggered zombie-like over to the 7-11 and bought a cold drink to chase the cottonmouth away. I stepped back outside in time to see Steph walk up and greet me. Before I could say much else, he added those terrible words that will haunt me forever: "Oh yeah ... congratulations! You've been slimed!"
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