Home

Greatest Ever Motorcycles: # 5 - Triumph Bonneville T100

Year: 2001 Power: 64 HP Engine capacity: 865 ccm Weight: 205 kg Top speed: 180 km/h Rank: 5th Greatest Ever Motorbike complete list here ...

The Triumph Motorcycle Factory in Action

Take a virtual tour of the Triumph Factory in Hinckley, United Kingdom, as seen through the eyes of a trademark 675 Triple Engine.

Loud 1970 Triumph Bonneville Chopper

Starting up the Bonnie after a winter engine rebuild

2010 Triumph Motorcycles official video.flv

2010 Triumph Motorcycles official video / More information visit www.SoloMoto30.com / Many thanks TRIUMPH MOTORCYCLES ESPAÑA, tlf. 902103823

Cakewalk, The Director’s Cut #1

Why, you may wonder, would I so debase my MacBook with Easter candy that only the experts at Apple’s Genius Bar will be able to return it to its pristine, pre-decorated, unsticky state? It’s because this is the first installment of my Cakewalk outtakes, the stories and recipes that didn’t make it into the book because my life seems to exert an excessive, even gravitational pull on sugar in every form. Some people remember what they wore or what the weather was like during the important episodes of their lives; I remember what I had for dessert.

So here, just in time for Easter, is the story of how a passion for Peeps — those squat chorus lines of yellow marshmallow chicks — ended my age of innocence…

Peep Show!

In part because of its close proximity to my April birthday, Easter was my favorite holiday. In my child’s megalomania, the glories of Easter were an extension of my birthday’s centrality. I also loved the new itchy dresses and lace-cuffed socks and slick pairs of white Mary Janes and the big fat basket overflowing with bad candy. I fervently believed in the Easter Bunny as well as every other assorted magical agent of childhood bounty. Thanks to the zealous example set by my Irish Roman Catholic relatives, I’d turned into an extremely pious little girl who took First Communion early because our parish priest in Sonoma had singled me out to the nuns and the rest of the catechism class as a true student of God. Nevertheless, in a bizarre theological misapprehension, I had decided that the Easter Bunny was some sort of understudy for the Lamb of God, who I assumed was too frail and bandy-legged to make the Easter egg rounds.

I felt the great, self-aggrandizing weight of my holiness when I became a communicant, and I remember lying in my bunk bed on Saturday nights, the sparkles in the cottage cheese of the asbestos-sprayed ceiling winking an arm span from my face as I concocted bogus confessions designed to make me look noble in the eyes of the Lord: “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I planned to save my artichoke heart for my little brother, but I was so weary from helping my mother change the cat litter that I forgot and ate it myself. What should my penance be?” This was the kind of spiritual subterfuge I used to mask the overarching corruption that I feared was really inside me.

Read more...