King of the World

King of the World

LEANINGS

Peter Egan

ON A RECENT ROAD TRIP, I FOUND MYself thinking about our late and much-missed Editor-at-Large, Henry Manney III.

Henry was what you might call a cheerful curmudgeon. He had a darkly humorous view of the human condition, and often prefaced his corrective anecdotes with the words, “If I were King of the World...” For instance, he’d walk into your office, ease himself into a chair, toss his tweed cap onto his knee and say: “If I were King of the World, motorists who block the fast lane on the freeway would be instantly vaporized with large ray-guns mounted on overpasses.”

Or: “If I were King of the World, people who write checks in the Cash Only line at the supermarket would be turned over to the Berber pirates and sold as palace eunuchs at the slave market in AÍ Qatrun.” His imaginary punishments for bad behavior were always hilariously specific and harsh, yet apparently well-deserved.

Henry’s been gone now for 16 years, but this phrase of his comes back to haunt me all the time, simply because it’s so useful and cathartic. I used it just last month, in fact, on the first day of a 4000-mile trip Barb and I took through eastern Canada and New England on our 2004 BMW R1150RT.

We made the mistake of leaving home with the stock seat, you see, and realized about three hours from home we’d made a Terrible Mistake. Barb climbed stiffly off the bike at a restaurant near Green Bay and regarded the bike sullenly.

“I can’t believe BMW would put a seat this bad on a bike made for two-up touring. What were they thinking?”

“I don’t know,” I said, climbing stiffly off the bike, “but if I were King of the World, the person who designed this seat would be swatted to death with his own hat, then spend eternity riding the Iron Butt Rally in Purgatory.”

I realize that sounds severe, but I was not happy at the time.

As the trip wore on, however, I eventually cheered up again, mainly because this train of thought kept me amused for many miles of our 12-day journey and helped take my fevered mind off the chronic discomfort of the Beemer’s seat.

Here are just a few samples from those many miles on the road as I contemplated the many advantages of absolute power: If I were King of the World, Ducati management would be held in a dungeon with nothing to eat but bland Scandinavian food, such as lutefisk, until they hired Massimo Tamburini back as head designer.

Anyone who sells a touring or adventure-touring bike without heated grips to a person living north of the 36th Parallel (or in mountains higher than 5000 feet) would be forced to hold two cans of ice-cold Budweiser at a late-season Vikings game while I go off to search for his lost gloves in the parking lot. And maybe shop for some cool souvenirs in the heated gift shop, after I find the men’s room.

The president of the company that made my last pair of “rain pants” would be forced to address a stockholders’ meeting at the Waldorf Astoria with no podium and his crotch totally soaked in ice water. The spotlight would be aimed low and follow his every movement.

The designer who put that kink in the new Triumph Bonneville’s exhaust system would be given a straight edge and forced to draw the shortest distance between two points, over and over again, until I finish translating all nine volumes of Euclid’s Geometry from the original Greek, or whatever language those funny letters are.

Business executives who buy legendary racetracks and then name them after a product or a faceless corporation would be forced to have their own names legally changed to Zippy T. Carbuncle or Adolph Hitler, Jr. Anything to make introductions at cocktail parties more awkward.

Any motorcyclist who holds up a line of automobiles on a winding road would be required to sell all fringed accessories, buy some plaid pants and take up golf.

Companies who use legendary zenithof-performance names like “Sportster” and “Bonneville” on the slowest bikes in their product line would be forced at gunpoint to make them at least as quick as a Ducati 620 Monster.

Any designer who hides an oil filter or battery under bodywork that takes more than 10 seconds to remove would be forced to disassemble all the airconditioning ducts on my ’53 Caddy Fleetwood and find out what that funny dead mouse smell is all about.

Inventors of “reality” TV shows about guys who badmouth each other while building choppers under fake deadlines would be made to watch “Andy Griffith” reruns, so they could see how humans used to behave, and how good television once was.

Any motorist who turns left in front of a motorcycle with its headlights on and says, “I didn’t see it,” would have his or her eyes examined with a klieg light left over from Stalag 17.

All streetbikes would come with centerstands, real tool kits and helmet locks that actually work. Those that didn’t would be air-freighted back to the manufacturer, overnight C.O.D.

Any engineer who designed a dualsport bike with a seat height greater than 35 inches would be forced to clean our rain gutters while I hold the ladder.

Owners of motorhomes who fail to use turn-outs on winding mountain roads would have their AARP memberships canceled and be denied access to WalMart parking lots.

Cops who set up speed traps on empty, deliberately under-posted roads in the middle of nowhere would be required to do 200 hours of volunteer police work of actual benefit to society. Like catching the kid who ran over the King’s rural mailbox last week with a pickup truck.

Kids who run over the King’s mailbox with their pickup trucks would be turned over to the Berber pirates and sold as palace eunuchs at the slave market in AÍ Qatrun, then vaporized with large rayguns. And then I’d give them my rain pants, and the seat from my BMW.

Cruel, yes, but I think Henry would approve.