I grew up on Naval bases in the sixties at the height of the Cold War and Vietnam, generally within spitting distance of Air Force bases and Army barracks, having a father who was big on cars, albeit road cars not rods, and an uncle who worked at the Blue Oval and owned a Walla, another one who used to ride an AJS 350, I was fully steeped in the infernally combusting symphonies of life . . . .
I could pick a Land Rover from a Land Cruiser, a C130 from a DC4, a Mirage from a Skyhawk and a GT Falcon from a 289 Fairlane, a .50 cal Browning from a 40mm Bofors on sound alone by the time I was eight, these magnificent, metallic machines were such a thrill to watch but the real kick was the glorious racket they made in motion. The noise they emitted was the thing that made the hairs on my schoolboy arms stand on end, it was the the reason my jaw dropped open and I choked on a fly at an air show once . . . . it gave me the horn !!!
And now, nearly forty five years later, it's the cacophony of the suck/squeeze/bang/blow formula and all the various permutations thereof, that still can bring me to a total standstill, telling all within earshot to shut the fuck up while I listen to a Duke on the pin somewhere in the distance or try to discern whether the bang we just heard was a backfiring Vee Dub or the crack of a medium size handgun . . . . so, in this bonzer clip I bone right up just listening to the gutteral growling and crazed cracking of a piece of machinery so wild in its day it would've scared the shit out of virtually anyone except those fellas with the Big X ballbag option who chose to throw a leg over the monsters, crank the wrist all the way back and dice with the demon Death all for the the thrill of it . . . .
Goddamn, I love motorcycles . . . . and cars . . . and trucks . . . oh, trains, planes . . . . guns . . . . and farts . . . .