(Ghost) Riders in the Veins
It’s eight-thirty in the evening, and I’m settling into a thick plug of tobacco in my left cheek. Why left, you ask? I don’t know—it’s where I place my chew. Always have. In fact, using the right side of my mouth would be like asking me to throw a football left-handed. Of all the things to be ambidextrous at.
In maybe two minutes, I’ll feel the nicotine racing through my veins like a café racer¹ on a straightaway.
I picture nicotine as a post-WWII biker in a bomber jacket, white scarf around his neck, and a leather helmet with goggles. He’s jacked up on amphetamines, bug-eyed, and cursing the potholed streets he races through in London.
Now he’s tearing past my capillaries. They’re moseying along at four mph—as capillaries do. But this asshole? Full throttle. A hundred miles per hour—the ton, as it were—leaving my mouth and barreling into my brain.
I know he’s there—his engine reverberates through my skull. But I like it. The faster, the better. This outlaw isn’t trespassing; he’s the guest of honor. I mailed him a gold-embossed letter, like an invitation to the Champions Dinner at Augusta National.
Now that he’s rewired my biochemistry, he’s hauling ass through the back of my brain, down my spine, splintering into thousands of others.
Whereas one biker was running free, I now have a gang of speed freaks with dilated pupils, hunched over gas tanks, jaws clamped tight, locked in a euphoric rush—all at the mercy of their right hand.
They’ve blasted past my shoulders like bats out of hell. Now they’re spreading through my innards, hairpinning past kidneys. Dozens tearing through my arms; I feel them in my fingertips. Now they’re hurtling through my thighs and calves—at full throttle.
The nicotine has settled in; it’s all-engrossing, and negotiating is off the table—like a gang of Hell’s Angels descending on an unsuspecting tavern. But they were invited—like Kesey welcoming the Angels to his La Honda home, by way of Hunter Thompson. It took a ton of acid and a forest of Redwoods painted in Day-Glo to coexist with these guys in ’65. But in my veins? It’s effortless. Like ocean air over a fender. In fact, it’s a giant love fest—they can run amok—I don’t care, as long as I get what I’m looking for.
♫ Yippie-yi-o
♫ Yippie-yi-yay
♫ Ghost riders in the veins
¹A café racer is a lightweight, fast motorcycle optimized for speed and handling, often with a minimalist design. Originating in 1960s Britain, riders modified standard bikes for quick rides between cafés, featuring low handlebars, rear-set foot controls, and streamlined, retro styling.
*Composed, Edited, and Published in Atlanta, GA
