Doug Clark: My Ruckus and I are redefining ‘easy rider’

Word of my new status as a badass biker has reached the Spokane motorcycle establishment.

As a result, I have been asked to display my chopper at the Inland Northwest Motorcycle Show & Sale, which runs Friday through Sunday at the Spokane County Fair and Expo Center.

Sure, I told them. Kids can always use another roll model.

Hey, whataya want for a few quarters?

Before wasting any more puns, I should probably come clean.

My use of the word “chopper” may have a slightly different definition than what you’d see on a “Sons of Anarchy” episode, say, or parked outside the Hells Angels clubhouse on Sprague.

The ride I bought a few months ago is neither Harley nor Davidson – it’s a cherry red 49cc Honda Ruckus.

People who get all hung up on facts might insist on calling this a scooter.

Well, knock yourself out. Just know that when I put on my helmet and hunker down on that comfortable wide vinyl seat and crank that throttle, man, I’m not just bad to the bone …

I’m bad to the BONE MARROW!!

I’ve never felt more like an urban warrior as when I’m literally flying down residential streets at speeds of up to almost 30 miles an hour.

“Zeeeeeee …”

I’m planning to install some red tassels on my black handle grips.

That way I’ll know whether or not I’m moving.

I’ve been told that if I lose some weight my Ruckus might go up to 35. Something called the law of gravity is apparently slowing me down.

That’s OK. This crotch rocket is plenty fast just the way it is.

See, I grew up more terrified of motorcycles than Floridians were scared of Cuban H-bombs.

This was due to my dad, who hawked life insurance for a living.

All I had to do was whisper the word motorcycle.

Suddenly I’d be trapped in the kitchen, staring at flip charts and actuarial tables as my old man gave a lengthy lecture on the head injury probabilities of motorcycle riders.

Go ahead and laugh. But riding my weenie Ruckus makes me more of an outlaw than you could ever imagine.

I bought this ingenious ride from my pal Scott Cooper, who has earned a reputation as quite the underground merchant of used Rucki.

Cooper and I are even talking about forming our own motorcycle, I mean, Ruckus gang called Bucket of Wing Nuts or something like that.

My Ruckus is a creampuff. It’s a 2009 model with just 140 original miles, suggesting that the former owner was even more cycle-phobic than yours truly.

But that was then.

I don’t want to scare anyone. But I’m experiencing a lot of macho changes coming over me as I make the transition into swaggering Ruckus renegade.

For example:

Regular Doug – Held doors to let ladies enter first.

Ruckus Doug – Greets women with, “Yo, mamma!”

Regular Doug – Carried tissues to contain germs.

Ruckus Doug – Brazenly ignores shopping cart handle wipes.

Regular Doug – Calls Mayor Condon “Boy Mayor.”

Ruckus Doug – Sorry. Some things’ll never change.

Regular Doug – Never drunk and disorderly in public.

Ruckus Doug – Orders Diet Cokes “in a dirty glass.”

Regular Doug – Always gave credit where credit was due.

Ruckus Doug – Knows a good Internet biker joke when he steals one, such as …

Q – What do you call a group of Harley owners with a collective IQ of 120?

A – Sturgis.

Not bad.

Um, what was that?

All right. A package just arrived in the mail as I was writing this.

And whataya know. It’s the new Ruckus cup holder.

I ordered it off eBay last week hoping it would show up in time for the Inland Northwest Motorcycle Show & Sale.

Oh, yeah. I’m bad.