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I'm not a doctor...: Motorcyclists cruise in circles for loud show

You hear me long before you see me.

There’s nothing faint about that distant sound. Suddenly, I come around the corner, and it’s almost deafening.


Down the street I fly, sounding like a bomber from the ’40s. You stop what you’re doing and watch me go past, because there’s no way for you to ignore such a force. It’s my favorite time of year, and I’m going to celebrate.

I love spring — the cool wind blowing through my hair (I don’t wear a helmet) and sending my shaggy beard over one shoulder, the acrid stench of diesel exhaust percolating through my bushy mustache and corroding my nostrils’ lining, the thunderous sound of my two-stroke engine announcing my presence like a police loud-hailer from hell.

I ride up and down the streets, the most badass man you’ve ever seen. My leather jacket hides most of my tats, but I make sure to leave a few uncovered so you can tell how hardcore I am even if you’re deaf. Because the real sign of my power is the volume of my bike.


And people look.

I pull up to a stoplight next to some wimpy kid driving an Escort from the mid-’90s. I snort with disdain and make sure to sneer since I know he couldn’t hear the snort over my bike’s boisterous motor. I don’t look at him, but he looks at me. As he stares, envious, I rev my engine once, twice, a third time. The sound is as awesome as the voice of God. The light turns green and I peel out, leaving the kid to slowly accelerate away from the odor of burning rubber in emasculated shame.

As I roll down the pavement, I see a girl talking on the phone. I don’t like that she’s paying attention to someone else, so I shift my hog into neutral and rev my engine a few times while I coast past. I am a jealous god, indeed. Looking in my mirror, I can see that she has taken the phone away from her ear and stands, staring at me. I’m too far away to see her facial expression, but I know how she feels: lustful.

After riding around the same four blocks for a few hours, I decide to head to new turf, a street I haven’t been down today. I spot a house with a spacious front porch where three people are quietly drinking beers. Perfect. I roar down the street, the picture of ferocity. I think their heads turn. They always do. But to make sure, I speed around the block and ride past again and again and again.

That sound could wake the dead. Now I know they noticed me.

The sun starts to set and I head to my favorite dive, knowing that nobody there will have a louder vehicle. As I ride west into the setting sun, AC/DC is playing on my chopper’s superfluous radio. I can’t hear it, but I know it’s there, reminding me that I’m the most fearsome man on the planet, and I’m riding the world’s loudest motorcycle.

Joe Fox is a junior studying online journalism and a columnist for The Post. Is that your motorcycle? Email him at

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