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Song of the Sausage Creature, Hunter S. Thompson (kulturminne)


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Jeg trodde jeg hadde publisert denne sentrale kulturelle hendelsen, men finner'n ikke på stående fot. Den er spesielt viktig i disse dager når nye sykler beskrives som smooth, ufarlige, enkle å kjøre, titall elektroniske hjelpemidler osv osv. Greit nok det, men gamle dager var annerledes....

Det var en ung Cycle World redaksjonell medarbeider som endte opp med å låne bort en 900SS til (den opprinnelige?) gonzo-journalisten Hunter S. Thompson.



Teksten fra artikkelen om artikkelen:

Hunter S. Thompson and Brenda Buttner

Then-Feature Editor Brenda Buttner on her strange trip into the world of Gonzo. Former Editor-in-Chief David Edwards recounted the editing

It would be a while before they did. The rhythms of the Owl Farm just do not echo those of the outside world. When I walked through the door, Hunter was still in his bathrobe, a young blonde assistant perched on his thigh. He shook my hand, smirking as I jumped when snapped by one of those buzzers you find in kids’ magic kits. With a trademark tumbler of bourbon in one hand and remote control in the other, he held court from his kitchen barstool. “Explain you!” he yelled at a CNN anchor, throwing a rubber ball at the TV. It missed and ricocheted instead off a nearby wall (which was adorned with a fax from President Clinton and a latex mold of a pair of breasts).

No, driving was not yet on the agenda of Thompson. There were guns to shoot and boxing to bet on. Theology to debate. “I figured out how that carpenter conned everyone about the fishes story,” he announced to no one in particular.

But I knew we had to get at least some photos that day or we would lose hope of ever completing the project. And finally, Thompson succumbed to the temptation of the Italian prize waiting in his driveway.

He is no stranger to motorcycles—at least one had graced his garage since he bought a BSA 650 in the late ’60s. An old BMW was there when I visited. But this would be his first spin aboard the rocket ride that is a Ducati, and he took care to do more than merely admire its elegant European lines. He scrutinized the engine intently and asked many questions, especially about the turning radius. “You don’t want to make a dumb mistake,” he advised. “Crazy mistakes are okay, but forget the dumb ones.”

My mistake was in turning away for a moment. With a thunderous boom, the bike burst down the driveway, and before I could jump on my Honda, he was a blur of crimson in the distance.

“Just showing off a little,” he explained later from another very fast, very red vehicle: his 1971 Pontiac after dinner with a few of his friends at a burger ’n’ beer joint. Hugging the yellow line, tires screeching in protest, we screamed through a corner barely keeping all four wheels on the ground.

That would not be the last time he scared me. I got to know one famous HST quote very well: “The Edge...there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.”

He took me right to the precipice of that cliff often after I returned to the office and waited to receive and edit the piece he promised after a week or two with his new plaything.

Again, Radio Silence from the Owl 
Farm. I remembered with a cringe his
 comment when he first saw the Super-Sport. “I hate motorcycles,” he grinned. “Yet I may just have to steal this one.”

My voicemails to him grew more frantic. One Thursday night, prime party time for Hunter, I actually got an answer, but not the one I hoped. “What do you want?” a voice frayed from what sounded like more than a few drinks. After I meekly reintroduced myself, he said, “Oh, Hunter says he doesn’t know who the f&*k you are.” Dial tone.

The Edge got closer as again and again we repeated this game. Finally, another man answered and said, with his hand over the receiver, “Give the girl a break! She got that cool bike for you, after all.” Thompson promised to fax what he had written so far.

The next day, admittedly to my surprise, pages of prose, seasoned with more than a few four-letter words, spewed out.

I will not say that editing Thompson was an easy task. There was so much that was just plain brilliant in what he wrote, but it was too long (with a bit too much salty language) for our magazine. Then Editor-in-Chief David Edwards stepped in to help get the final draft to the one that was finally published.

Then the God of Editors smiled on me. A British accent left a message abruptly telling me to check the fax again. I approached with more than a tad of trepidation. My worried frown soon changed into a wide smile. Among expense reports and press releases, the machine coughed up a string of cartoon pages, Technicolor splashes of art in a style I recognized immediately from the cover of many of Thompson’s books. “Steadman” was scrawled across the bottom. Steadman, as in Ralph Stead-
man. The award-winning illustrator, a pal and partner of Thompson. Over the years, his unique artwork had created a classic caricature with bucket hat, aviator sunglasses and cigarette holder.

“Oh yeah,” Thompson explained. “I asked him to give that to you—I thought only he could really draw me as the Sausage Creature.”

Of course, that artwork helped define the article published in this magazine a month later. But it is truly the Sausage Creature as pictured by Thompson that made the most indelible mark.

“Song of the Sausage Creature” became one of the most controversial articles _CW_has ever featured. Many who hated it questioned its veracity, skeptical that Thompson had the skill to do what he described. And, I suppose, you could wonder whether Hunter, hypnotized by the Creature’s siren song, really could launch himself on that terrifying flight over the railroad tracks, landing gracefully in a trick that would defy Evel Knievel. And who knows if, as he warned me, he did somehow sneak the Ducati onto Aspen’s airstrip. “Get going about 140 mph,” he chuckled. “That’s where that bike belongs. What could it be? A felony?”

I ask, though, whether, in the end, "Did he REALLY?" matters all that much. Gonzo journalism has always been a combination of fact and fiction, and that marriage, fans of Thompson understand, is exactly where truth is found.

All I know is that for those of us who take to the road on two wheels, whether we cruise down Main Street on a Harley Softail or knee-drag through the switchbacks that tumble like coiled snakes from the Angeles Crest or patiently change the oil on an old standard to commute to work, for all of us bonded only by the knowledge that we just gotta ride, Thompson captures that almost indescribable need that is like a siren song.

Call me what you will. Idiot? Insightful? I won’t say it was an easy adventure, but as hindsight blurs the frustration and fear that I would end up losing both a Ducati and my job in a crazy bid for a story, I’m glad I played some small part in bringing the Sausage Creature to life.

**Read "Song of the Sausage Creature" by Hunter S. Thompson in the December 2012 issue of Cycle World, available on e-readers and newsstands:


Brenda Buttner is now an award-winning business journalist, host of "Bulls & Bears," one of the top-rated business shows on cable, airing Saturdays, 10 a.m. Eastern, on Fox News Channel. She has been a Senior Business Correspondent for FNC for the past decade. Her more challenging work, bringing up two teenagers, is all the harder she says because it's difficult to say no to their crazier requests when they answer with, "But, Mom, you used to be really insane when you wrote for that motorcycle thing." A graduate of Harvard College and Oxford University (which she attended as a Rhodes Scholar), Brenda adds that she learned much more in "street smarts" while working at Cycle World and still pines for a key to its garage.

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ARTIKKELEN som har vandret ut og inn av kilden Cycle World så irrasjonelt at jeg synes vi nesten plikter å holde den tilgjengelig 😉 


Song of the Sausage Creature
by Hunter S. Thompson


There are some things nobody needs in this world, and a bright-red, hunch-back, warp-speed 900cc cafe racer is one of them - but I want one anyway, and on some days I actually believe I need one. That is why they are dangerous.

Everybody has fast motorcycles these days. Some people go 150 miles an hour on two-lane blacktop roads, but not often. There are too many oncoming trucks and too many radar cops and too many stupid animals in the way. You have to be a little crazy to ride these super-torque high-speed crotch rockets anywhere except a racetrack - and even there, they will scare the whimpering shit out of you... There is, after all, not a pig's eye worth of difference between going head-on into a Peterbilt or sideways into the bleachers. On some days you get what you want, and on others, you get what you need.


When Cycle World called me to ask if I would road-test the new Harley Road King, I got uppity and said I'd rather have a Ducati superbike. It seemed like a chic decision at the time, and my friends on the superbike circuit got very excited. "Hot damn," they said. "We will take it to the track and blow the bastards away."

"Balls," I said. "Never mind the track. The track is for punks. We are Road People. We are Cafe Racers."

The Cafe Racer is a different breed, and we have our own situations. Pure speed in sixth gear on a 5000-foot straightaway is one thing, but pure speed in third gear on a gravel-strewn downhill ess-turn is quite another.

But we like it. A thoroughbred Cafe Racer will ride all night through a fog storm in freeway traffic to put himself into what somebody told him was the ugliest and tightest decreasing-radius turn since Genghis Khan invented the corkscrew.

Cafe Racing is mainly a matter of taste. It is an atavistic mentality, a peculiar mix of low style, high speed, pure dumbness, and overweening commitment to the Cafe Life and all its dangerous pleasures... I am a Cafe Racer myself, on some days - and it is one of my finest addictions.


I am not without scars on my brain and my body, but I can live with them. I still feel a shudder in my spine every time I see a picture of a Vincent Black Shadow, or when I walk into a public restroom and hear crippled men whispering about the terrifying Kawasaki Triple... I have visions of compound femur-fractures and large black men in white hospital suits holding me down on a gurney while a nurse called "Bess" sews the flaps of my scalp together with a stitching drill.

Ho, ho. Thank God for these flashbacks. The brain is such a wonderful instrument (until God sinks his teeth into it). Some people hear Tiny Tim singing when they go under, and some others hear the song of the Sausage Creature.


When the Ducati turned up in my driveway, nobody knew what to do with it. I was in New York, covering a polo tournament, and people had threatened my life. My lawyer said I should give myself up and enroll in the Federal Witness Protection Program. Other people said it had something to do with the polo crowd.

The motorcycle business was the last straw. It had to be the work of my enemies, or people who wanted to hurt me. It was the vilest kind of bait, and they knew I would go for it.

Of course. You want to cripple the bastard? Send him a 130-mph cafe-racer. And include some license plates, he'll think it's a streetbike. He's queer for anything fast.

Which is true. I have been a connoisseur of fast motorcycles all my life. I bought a brand-new 650 BSA Lightning when it was billed as "the fastest motorcycle ever tested by Hot Rod magazine." I have ridden a 500-pound Vincent through traffic on the Ventura Freeway with burning oil on my legs and run the Kawa 750 Triple through Beverly Hills at night with a head full of acid... I have ridden with Sonny Barger and smoked weed in biker bars with Jack Nicholson, Grace Slick, Ron Zigler and my infamous old friend, Ken Kesey, a legendary Cafe Racer.

Some people will tell you that slow is good - and it may be, on some days - but I am here to tell you that fast is better. I've always believed this, in spite of the trouble it's caused me. Being shot out of a cannon will always be better than being squeezed out of a tube. That is why God made fast motorcycles, Bubba....

So when I got back from New York and found a fiery red rocket-style bike in my garage, I realized I was back in the road-testing business.

The brand-new Ducati 900 Campione del Mundo Desmodue Supersport double-barreled magnum Cafe Racer filled me with feelings of lust every time I looked at it. Others felt the same way. My garage quickly became a magnet for drooling superbike groupies. They quarreled and bitched at each other about who would be the first to help me evaluate my new toy... And I did, of course, need a certain spectrum of opinions, besides my own, to properly judge this motorcycle. The Woody Creek Perverse Environmental Testing Facility is a long way from Daytona or even top-fuel challenge-sprints on the Pacific Coast Highway, where teams of big-bore Kawasakis and Yamahas are said to race head-on against each other in death-defying games of "chicken" at 100 miles an hour....

No. Not everybody who buys a high-dollar torque-brute yearns to go out in a ball of fire on a public street in L.A. Some of us are decent people who want to stay out of the emergency room, but still blast through neo-gridlock traffic in residential districts whenever we feel like it... For that we need Fine Machinery.

Which we had - no doubt about that. The Ducati people in New Jersey had opted, for some reasons of their own, to send me the 900ss-sp for testing - rather than their 916 crazy-fast, state-of-the-art superbike track-racer. It was far too fast, they said - and prohibitively expensive - to farm out for testing to a gang of half-mad Colorado cowboys who think they're world-class Cafe Racers.

The Ducati 900 is a finely engineered machine. My neighbors called it beautiful and admired its racing lines. The nasty little bugger looked like it was going 90 miles an hour when it was standing still in my garage.

Taking it on the road, though, was a genuinely terrifying experience. I had no sense of speed until I was going 90 and coming up fast on a bunch of pickup trucks going into a wet curve along the river. I went for both brakes, but only the front one worked, and I almost went end over end. I was out of control staring at the tailpipe of a U.S. Mail truck, still stabbing frantically at my rear brake pedal, which I just couldn't find... I am too tall for these new-age roadracers; they are not built for any rider taller than five-nine, and the rearset brake pedal was not where I thought it would be. Mid-size Italian pimps who like to race from one cafe to another on the boulevards of Rome in a flat-line prone position might like this, but I do not.

I was hunched over the tank like a person diving into a pool that got emptied yesterday. Whacko! Bashed on the concrete bottom, flesh ripped off, a Sausage Creature with no teeth, fucked-up for the rest of its life.

We all love Torque, and some of us have taken it straight over the high side from time to time - and there is always Pain in that... But there is also Fun, the deadly element, and Fun is what you get when you screw this monster on. BOOM! Instant take-off, no screeching or squawking around like a fool with your teeth clamping down on our tongue and your mind completely empty of everything but fear.

No. This bugger digs right in and shoots you straight down the pipe, for good or ill.

On my first take-off, I hit second gear and went through the speed limit on a two-lane blacktop highway full of ranch traffic. By the time I went up to third, I was going 75 and the tach was barely above 4000 rpm....

And that's when it got its second wind. From 4000 to 6000 in third will take you from 75 mph to 95 in two seconds - and after that, Bubba, you still have fourth, fifth, and sixth. Ho, ho.

I never got to sixth gear, and I didn't get deep into fifth. This is a shameful admission for a full-bore Cafe Racer, but let me tell you something, old sport: This motorcycle is simply too goddamn fast to ride at speed in any kind of normal road traffic unless you're ready to go straight down the centerline with your nuts on fire and a silent scream in your throat.

When aimed in the right direction at high speed, though, it has unnatural capabilities. This I unwittingly discovered as I made my approach to a sharp turn across some railroad tracks, saw that I was going way too fast and that my only chance was to veer right and screw it on totally, in a desperate attempt to leapfrog the curve by going airborne.

It was a bold and reckless move, but it was necessary. And it worked: I felt like Evel Knievel as I soared across the tracks with the rain in my eyes and my jaws clamped together in fear. I tried to spit down on the tracks as I passed them, but my mouth was too dry... I landed hard on the edge of the road and lost my grip for a moment as the Ducati began fishtailing crazily into oncoming traffic. For two or three seconds I came face to face with the Sausage Creature....

But somehow the brute straightened out. I passed a schoolbus on the right and got the bike under control long enough to gear down and pull off into an abandoned gravel driveway where I stopped and turned off the engine. My hands had seized up like claws and the rest of my body was numb. I felt nauseous and I cried for my mama, but nobody heard, then I went into a trance for 30 or 40 seconds until I was finally able to light a cigarette and calm down enough to ride home. I was too hysterical to shift gears, so I went the whole way in first at 40 miles an hour.

Whoops! What am I saying? Tall stories, ho, ho... We are motorcycle people; we walk tall and we laugh at whatever's funny. We shit on the chests of the Weird....

But when we ride very fast motorcycles, we ride with immaculate sanity. We might abuse a substance here and there, but only when it's right. The final measure of any rider's skill is the inverse ratio of his preferred Traveling Speed to the number of bad scars on his body. It is that simple: If you ride fast and crash, you are a bad rider. And if you are a bad rider, you should not ride motorcycles.

The emergence of the superbike has heightened this equation drastically. Motorcycle technology has made such a great leap forward. Take the Ducati. You want optimum cruising speed on this bugger? Try 90mph in fifth at 5500 rpm - and just then, you see a bull moose in the middle of the road. WHACKO. Meet the Sausage Creature.

Or maybe not: The Ducati 900 is so finely engineered and balanced and torqued that you *can* do 90 mph in fifth through a 35-mph zone and get away with it. The bike is not just fast - it is *extremely* quick and responsive, and it *will* do amazing things... It is like riding a Vincent Black Shadow, which would outrun an F-86 jet fighter on the take-off runway, but at the end, the F-86 would go airborne and the Vincent would not, and there was no point in trying to turn it. WHAMO! The Sausage Creature strikes again.

There is a fundamental difference, however, between the old Vincents and the new breed of superbikes. If you rode the Black Shadow at top speed for any length of time, you would almost certainly die. That is why there are not many life members of the Vincent Black Shadow Society. The Vincent was like a bullet that went straight; the Ducati is like the magic bullet in Dallas that went sideways and hit JFK and the Governor of Texas at the same time.

It was impossible. But so was my terrifying sideways leap across the railroad tracks on the 900sp. The bike did it easily with the grace of a fleeing tomcat. The landing was so easy I remember thinking, goddamnit, if I had screwed it on a little more I could have gone a lot farther.

Maybe this is the new Cafe Racer macho. My bike is so much faster than yours that I dare you to ride it, you lame little turd. Do you have the balls to ride this BOTTOMLESS PIT OF TORQUE?

That is the attitude of the new-age superbike freak, and I am one of them. On some days they are about the most fun you can have with your clothes on. The Vincent just killed you a lot faster than a superbike will. A fool couldn't ride the Vincent Black Shadow more than once, but a fool can ride a Ducati 900 many times, and it will always be a bloodcurdling kind of fun. That is the Curse of Speed which has plagued me all my life. I am a slave to it. On my tombstone they will carve, "IT NEVER GOT FAST ENOUGH FOR ME."


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