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You know what I dig, man? I dig them beautiful customized jobs. You know why? 'Cause I look at a scooter, man, that's completely chopped, man, and every part on it he either made himself or bought special for it. Now you look at that dude, and that dude's an outlaw. Whatever he rides, man, part of that scooter is him, 'cause it's got his ideas and it's just him. Every scooter, see? Say you take a guy that buys a brand new Harley-Davidson, fully equipped. There'll always be a motherfucker comes along and says, well, I got one exactly like yours. 'Cause he can get it exactly like his. But all choppers are different. Every one of 'em, different. No matter how much alike you build, you know what I mean? They're all different. 'Cause everbody's melon's different. Everybody thinks different. So when I look at a chopper, man, I respect the dude becase he made his. The dude over there, this dresser rider, man, he bought his. Never done a lick of work on it but maybe tighten bolts. That's the difference.
We do this to have fun, hasten the upcoming tribulation, and save the children. Some of us are fighting for the right to party, others are partying for the right to fight, and it doesn't matter which is which. We clear a space for ourselves on the street, and we like to think that we're an inspiration to some of those who want to see a cycling revival (and an enemy to those who don't want the revival to be fun). In the end, it doesn't matter. We only do what we do because we can't help it.
It's ironic that the safest place to be on a bike in the city is in a pack of fucked up mutant tetanus machines. Isn't that backwards? Can there be any doubt that the slide into barbarism has already begun? Are you going to watch it on television and keep a straight face the whole time?
People think that the post-apocalyptic world will be all rough and tough, hard living and scrabbling for survival, but that's not true at all. It'll be a glorious paradise! People will look back at today and talk about how crazy we were. They'll ask why we had to scamper across a street and take our lives in our hands just to pick up a six-pack. They'll wonder why we lived in cities made for cars, on streets made for cars with little access corridors on the side for peds, in houses with big central front doors for cars and little side doors for people. They'll laugh at pictures of people eating in outdoor restaurants with hideous views and smells of streets and parking lots. They'll ponder the stupidity of neighborhoods full of parked cars that start blaring their sirens in the middle of the night for no reason. They'll wonder why manslaughter wasn't a crime when the killer was driving a car. They'll say, "no wonder civilization collapsed, everyone shut themselves up in big coffins when they wanted to go anywhere, nobody talked to each other - they could only say one thing, and that was HONK! HONK! FINGER!"