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Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming:
"WOW, what a ride !!!"

Where are we going now Soup?

Where oh where is my enigma? Just when I need you the most, I can only find a pixel or two traces of you. Elusive and taken she is, my trustworthy photogenic enigma….a match made in heaven, but for which earth we may never know. I miss you forever.

*Ring-Ring* “Good Morning, Mr. McCook”. Morning Sam, I said. “Your car is waiting at the gateway”. Thank you Samantha, I answered, Did Mr. Clark call? I asked. “No Sir, not since your last exchange”, she said. How about Hollingsworth? I asked. “No Sir, last call from Holli, he was busy razoring nubs off tires in the aviary”. Thanks Sam, keep me posted.

I look out for Mr. Clark as we’re in the same predicament, lost together and headed for a like-minded future. My Hospital practice and obligation in the northeast U.S. is close to fulfillment and like Super Steve Clark, I’m ready to move on. Something calm, spiritual and ultimately coinciding with the healthy consumption of dino fuel. Our mutual infatuation with water-carbon exhaust by way of two-wheel decibel producing propulsion, will take us away from it all. A plan you ask? Well, a plan we have, and in spite of all the Rat Bastard Lawyers, we’ll say goodbye in quite the Royal fashion, Ta-taa.

It’s time. Life as we know it just isn’t the same anymore. Sure, racing Vintage Motocross in North America has its place in one’s heart these days, but I’m sure many of you mid-term kids will agree, life in the 50’s lane with all its idiosyncrasies must have an escape hatch. Mr. Clark and I have found it.

I woke up face down in the muddy grass after a night of debauchery with PJ, Hollingsworth, the Roundsaville clan and the Stratton sisters at my Pennsylvania estate. A final celebration as my 30 some year residence now had a ‘sold’ sign proudly displayed just outside the gate. That night my elusive enigma had visited me in a dream and she was wet on my lips. I shivered; responding to her as the morning sun softly touched my awareness. I am ready to go…with her.

A cup of joe and hot shower brought me back out of the fog. My travel agent, Bud, had left me a voicemail with a confirmation regarding Soups and my airline tickets to heaven. Perfect!…Oh yeah, it’s perfect all right; my enigma is within arms reach. A 12 thousand square foot Dutch mansion on fourteen acres and the keys to a Vespa dealership….on the island of St. Maarten.

View from the new Estate

PJ Read turned me on to the availability of this unique sanctuary through an old friend of his, Geoff Tate from the world famous band Queensr˙che. Little did I know, the chap who ultimately owned the property was sent up the river for his role in an International scam involving the smuggling of Bundaberg Rum. Who drinks that swill anyway?…Oh yeah, Firko does…sorry mate. I guess the folks at Captain Morgan were upset enough to alert Interpol of the shenanigans and so this beautiful Dutch estate has become my reality.

Hollingsworth finally got back to me. His typical muscling into a situation rang true with a plane ticket of his own, meeting up with us in Miami to catch the Super Bowl prior to a stop in Mexico City and finally on to St. Maarten. Luckily a good friend of mine who works for the Indianapolis Colts was able to sneak me one more field pass. Nigel was also ballsy enough to claim the north third floor suite in the mansion as his home-away-from-home. If he didn’t have those ‘A’ list Hollywood connections…jeez, and come to think of it, every time I stay at his place in Beverly Hills, he makes me stay on a rollaway in the basement playroom. Wanker.

Our coordinated flights landed the three of us in Miami on the day before the big game. Having field passes was quite a treat. My only concern was Nigel. The open bar on the press mezzanine provided Nigel with cajoling fuel making him a handful when we made it down to the sidelines. Soup and I had some great pre-game conversation with Peyton Manning, helping him along with some passing tips and easing his jitters. Nigel on the other hand was arm wrestling with a cheerleader all the while nipping a tequila filled Gatorade bottle. The scantily clad cheer captain beat him five of six matches and you could tell Nigel was a tad angry… and shifted. Wobbling off, he stumbled into a TV camera stand, spun around and planted himself face first onto an audio mix desk and it’s operator. He was wheeled off on a cart and we didn’t see him for the rest of the game. Later, and I have no clue how he found us, a showered and pimp suited Nigel showed up at a post game party we were attending sponsored by Gillette. I still have a pocket full of their new eight blade samples. A late night made for a harried morning, as we had to catch our next flight.

Mexico City was a quick pit stop and a blip on our radar. On this quick skirt, Soup had become enamored with a young flight attendant. Their rackety yakking was chock full of ‘I did this’, ‘I did that’ and ‘me too’s’, and I believe he may have even proposed to her or at least invited her to the new estate for an extended stay. Nigel on the other hand was passed out with his head leaning on the shoulder of the cute Mexican fem sitting next to him who occasionally nudged him as he sporadically snored. I on the other hand was dreaming of my enigma, having breakfast with her on the terrace and the forever-elusive sunsets. She would soon engulf my soul.

A Chef Sammy breakfast on the Terrace

The elusive Sunset

Super Steve Clark relaxes beach side be continued in the next issue.

Michael #41

Next issue: Steps to the Top and fighting over the Track


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