19 diciembre 2010


Simplemente genial.
Es historia, amigos mios, traducida en palabras y sentimientos.
Lo pongo en su idioma de origen para que no pierda su esencia.
Traducirlo no es problema....¿verdad?.

"It started as an insult, but we took it as our badge of honor – the ‘Café Racer’. The ‘Coffee Shop Cowboy’. That was who we were and what we did.
We weren’t hooligans; we lived for motorcycles. Our idols on the track looked so good, and rode so beautifully; we could ride well too.
Some of us raced on the track, and some of us did really well, but none of us had money.
We would have been happy to be ‘real’ racers, but we had jobs, or worse. So we raced where we could, which was on the streets.
And if we didn’t race to the café’s, where were we to race?
It was where we were going. And we rode like hell to get there!
Most of us lived, a few of us died, and all of us crashed! We rebuilt our bikes, and made them lighter, lower, faster. And they looked a thousand times better. From the bikes we could afford, which were usually crap, we took off the heavy, and added light. We did our best to tune our engines, taking tips from the mags, and we read those magazines like bibles… they were worn to dust from so many hands.
Sometimes We were inside. It was no surprise, we were young, and we looked really good going fast. We loved our bikes then, and love them now.
And we’re proud to be Café Racers".

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