Birth of the Cretin

Before the crack of dawn on a frosty January morning, Farmer Jon Roberts shot his rooster and went back to bed. The fencelines could wait. 40 years he’d been checking his fences; walking, horseback, tractor, he even rode a bull once, but no more. Tomorrow, FJR would be picking up his new fenceline rig, a brand new 1976 TT500. He’d already decided to name it Henry. On an overcast Tuesday afternoon Henry greeted his new owner with a surprise doc fee, an open petcock, and a large puddle of leaded 87 octane on the ground. Henry it seemed, was gonna be a handful. A recently slaughtered cow had left a vacant stall in the dairy barn, this would serve as Henry's new home.

At first it was fun, early morning jaunts around FJR’s large parcel and afternoons rounding up wayward calves. But after a couple hundred miles of farm trails, cow sh*t, and clutch abuse, Henry’d had enough. "Life," Henry thought morosely, "shouldn't just be about work." Where were the drunken fire road TT's, the weekend trips up north, and -dammit- where were all the women? With each passing day Henry grew more resentful. "This will never do" Henry muttered to himself, "I was built for reckless abandon, not dirt farming grunt work." Thankfully, FJR’s whiskey lust was no secret. With a quick slip of the clutch – to lowside drift - to award winning highside - to electrified barbwire mankiller - it was all over. FJR was dead and Henry had his freedom. But Henry was a shortsighted son-of-a-bitch with big torque and a bigger temper, the implications of his actions were never considered.