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WOO WOO SONG
WOO WOO The very 1st time I met you I wanted to take you home to go woo woo I wanted to make you scream at the top of your lungs woo woo I’m having fun Have you ever gone woo woo in your sleep or woo woo’d in the ocean deep woo woo woo woo woo woo woo woo woo Would you like to go woo woo in a plane or just woo woo until you’re totally insane We can go woo woo at my place or even woo woo in outter space I know you’d like to give it a try we can woo woo under the nite sky woo woo woo woo woo woo woo woo woo Let’s woo woo in my hot tub and make the water go blub blub woo woo in the shower and woo woo for an hour I want to woo woo everyday anywhere and every way The very 1st time I met you I wanted to take you home to go woo woo woo woo woo woo woo woo woo woo woo WHO ARE YOU ?
Who are you?
By Ken Mileaf
Everyday millions of people go to work or play.
The transportation most widely used is automobiles followed by buses and trains.
A small percentage ride motorcycles to their destinations.
A few get the privilege to experience the wind, the freedom and the oneness with the road.
Much like the automobile, motorcycles are also becoming status symbols.
They define our attitudes and personalities.
Even if it’s in a small way.
Your motorcycle says something about you whether you want it to or not. It may not come across
how you would like it either. You could have the best bike in the world and somebody is going to
read it wrong. At least wrong in your eyes.
When you see a Honda Goldwing with it’s owner dressed to the hilt. You know the
Calvin Klien riding outfit with the Honda logo on it.
The helmet with the built in intercom, fax cell phone.
Boots that really were made for style and not comfort.
That type! Do you think what a lucky bastard, wish I had one?
Or he wasted his money on all the exotic crap? If your like most people who ride you
could give a flying rat’s butt either way. At least that’s what
I hope.
Still you could picture the type with only a brief description.
How about the Harley rider with so much chrome on it you can’t see it during the day because
of reflecting sun light? And why does the bike have to sound like a fat man who ate some bad burritos?
Because. That’s the only reason.
What about the ladies who ride? From the dainty to the goddess to the large family size.
Or the ones that are more of a man than you’d ever hope to be. What makes them special?
Look how they dress, how they conduct themselves and their attitudes.
I forgot to mention the men come in various sizes and attitudes also.
Attitudes are sent out by the way we dress, the way we stand sit, drink our beer, smoke our
cigarettes or spit in the convenience store clerk’s face. But what type of attitude are you trying to send out?
I hate my job, I hate you? I love my bike, I hate dockers? I’m a yuppie bike owner with a gold card.
I have huge hooters and I share. All different attitudes.
Riding isn’t everything. It’s the only thing to some. Others it’s a passion.
Many it’s an opportunity to express yourself in a different light. Even if it really isn’t you.
A small majority it’s a way of life or a fantasy. A desperado with a steel horse.
The Lone Ranger and Tonto or maybe a farmer with his plow horse. Who knows?
Me, I was a pilot of a World War II Mustang fighter plane hunting for Japanese zeros (rice rockets) !!
You wouldn’t know it. I rode a Sportster and dressed like Jerry Lewis in a comedy movie (dorky).
Still I was every bit that pilot. Well maybe not to you, in my eyes I was.
I don’t ride anymore. Not that I don’t want to.....I do. I got stupid one day and sold my bike.
How much do I regret selling it? More than anyone can imagine. Now I have this burning feeling inside.
Not a passion, gas is more like it. When I hear the rumbling of a Harley it’s like the howling of the wolf to a dog.
A feeling of longing. A feeling of emptiness. I lost part of my identity and now I’m bikeless.
I don’t intend to stay this way. I’ll scrimp and save or win the lottery and get my ride.
I dream of a Low Rider but in reality I know it’ll be something less.
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