Hunter Stockton Thompson dies in Woody Creek, Colorado, of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.
I think it's fair to say that he liked The Edge and things that would bring him to The Edge and nothing got him (physically) there faster than motorcycles. And he had a long-time, passionate, often tumultuous, love affair with the 2-wheeled beast. A65 BSA Lightning, Triumph T120 Bonneville, Ducati 900 Supersport, numerous 1970's Honda 750 Supersport demo models (the salesmen are still shuddering), Harley-Davidson Softail, to name but a few. Instead of boring you with useless information about his bikes I thought I would share a few of his motorcycle quips/quotes...
“But with the throttle screwed on there is only the barest margin and no room for mistakes. It has to be done right . . and thats when the strange music starts, when you stretch your luck so far that the fear becomes exhilaration and vibrates along your arms. You can barely see a hundred; the tears blow back so fast that they vaporize before they get to your ears. The only sounds are the wind and the dull roar floating back from the mufflers. You watch the white line and try to lean with it . . . howling through a turn to the right, then to the left and down the long hill to Pacifica . . . letting off now, watching for cops, but only until the next dark stretch and another few seconds on the edge . . . The Edge . . . ” – Hunter S. Thompson describing riding his BSA in '..Hells Angels'
On riding his Vincent Black Shadow..."A genuinely hellish bike. Second gear peaks around 65 -- cruising speed on the
freeways -- and third winds out somewhere between 95 and 100. I never got to
fourth, which takes you up to 120 or so -- and after that you shift into fifth gear."
"Cafe Racing is mainly a matter of taste. It is an atavistic mentality, a
peculiar mix of low style, high speed, pure dumbness, and overweening commitment
to the Cafe Life and all its dangerous pleasures... I am a Cafe Racer myself, on
some days - and it is one of my finest addictions."
"I am not without scars on my brain and my body, but I can live with them. I
still feel a shudder in my spine every time I see a picture of a Vincent Black
Shadow, or when I walk into a public restroom and hear crippled men whispering
about the terrifying Kawasaki Triple... I have visions of compound
femur-fractures and large black men in white hospital suits holding me down on a
gurney while a nurse called "Bess" sews the flaps of my scalp together with a
stitching drill."
"That is the Curse of
Speed which has plagued me all my life. I am a slave to it. On my tombstone they
will carve, "IT NEVER GOT FAST ENOUGH FOR ME."
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