Spyke & Myke March Madness | Born To Ride Motorcycle Magazine – Motorcycle TV, Radio, Events, News and Motorcycle Blog
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Spyke & Myke March Madness

Published on March 18, 2020 under Blog
Spyke & Myke March Madness

Hey, there my BTR friends! It’s March Madness and that means the end of winter in Florida, spring breakers taking the place of snowbirds, the Strawberry Festival, and Bike Week in Daytona. Unfortunately, Mike and I won’t be attending this year. He’s still in rehab ‘cause his body is taking it’s good ole sweet time to heal.

Mike says it sucks getting old, but I don’t know what he’s talking about. I just turned 28 a couple of weeks ago and to everyone’s shock and awe, I popped a few eggs out of my butt during my birthday week! Yes, that’s what us hens do. No, it’s not my first rodeo. And, when we don’t see a cock, o’ excuse me, I mean a rooster, those eggs just lay there … I push them around in the bottom of my nest, hoping they will amount to something other than scrambled, sunny side up, or over easy. …

Mike did try a few years ago to find a mate for me, but it was destiny not meant to be. I kissed a girl and I liked it.

To tell you the truth, I’ve never really found love in another male bird, but I found it in Mike’s foot. … Yup, that’s my new boyfriend. It doesn’t squawk back, it’s always there for me when he’s around, and occasionally takes me out for a ride or to dinner! So, I go with the flow.

That flow took us a few weeks ago on Tuesday night to JT’s Roadhouse. It was there during Born To Ride’s radio live podcast with Dave “Flash” Morgan and Craig the painter that they debuted the airbrushed artwork on the tank and fenders. It was sweet, but the whole project is still months away from being done.

Since the scoot is in rehab like Mike, I can’t truly ride in the wind except when friends come by and take me for a two-wheeled ride. He just Bubers (new slang for Mike; Bird-uber) me around in the truck as I stick my head out the window and get some cheesy imitated wind therapy.

Mike breaks in, “Yes the paint scheme is definitely different but still looking just like you for the upcoming Fat Bird 3. But what about the rest of me? What am I chopped liver? Don’t you see anything else besides my foot? Just ‘cuz you’re not on my shoulder riding doesn’t mean I’m still not here for you. I think you need to stop taking advantage of my foot and appreciate your so-called imperfect wind time.

Keep it up, on my next trip to the grocery store I’m going to get a dozen small eggs, put them in the little nest that you’ve made, and watch you roll them around freaking out like a mother hen! Better yet, I’ll throw in a mini axe and make a YouTube video of you trying to hatchet them. …”

I cackle, ‘Damn Mike, I wish you’d take it easy on me and my peeps. I know they’re not going to hatch and little toes will not stick out of the shell that looks like yours, but at least let me feel like a proud mom! My biological clock is ticking at high-speed and I’m just trying to get the job done. You know we’ve been around since prehistoric times. What do you think the real Fred and Wilma were eating back in the day?’

Mike slaps his forehead and says, “Oh Spyke, you’re such a comede-hen. Right now it seems like you’ve got a bad case of restless egg syndrome. You know something, it’s a good thing I taught you how to type because no one would be able to read your chicken scratch.”

I squawk loudly, ‘Awwww Mike, I’m sorry to see you scrambling for a decent bird joke. You cannot seem to whip one up, I guess you’re just fried!’

Mike squints at me and says, “Well maybe I am, but at least I don’t have asphalt between my toes from crossing the road chasing those free-range birds. If you ever did mate up with one and get married, I bet you two couldn’t do the ‘people dance’ at your wedding! Also, I don’t have a butt that’s known as an egg-zit. Right now you’ve got me so hard-boiled I wish you were an evil bird so you could lay me some deviled eggs, I’m hungry!”

I crow, ‘Wow Mike, now we really can see your dark side and it doesn’t look like my back or thighs! You need to stop hen-pecking me and start googling stuff like: why do you have no friends, why is your poop green, why are the oceans salty, and what would a chair look like if your knees bent the other way!’

Mike scratches his chicken butt and says, “How do you know my poop is green? Anyways, I think we both need to get off these damned electrical gizmos and get some breeze medicine. You jump on the window sill of the truck and I’ll stuff my legs under the dash. I’m going to get your head in the wind, my hands out the sunroof, and the four wheels of the Nissan rolling down the road.”


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