No Joy From ‘Playing House’ With Fake Dip

I put nearly 1,000 miles on my Harley this weekend and less than two hours from home is where my story begins. Do not worry, this is not a cave story. I pulled in for fuel and was looking for something to throw in my mouth while driving. I was about to buy gum when I saw the SMC (smoky mountain chew – ie: fake dip). I thought I would try it. It has no nicotine and maybe throwing in a dip while riding my geezer glide down a lonely stretch of road would feel pretty good. I did the familiar edge of my tooth as a can opener trick to break the seal and threw a leg over. I piled in a big fatty and hit the road. I expected waves of nostalgia as I had the thrust out lip, the increased saliva and the slightly bitter taste in my mouth. Instead, I was transported in my mind to a time I have long since moved past. It flooded me with memories of anger and resentment. Of tears when I felt too weak to stay quit. Of the depression that took hold when I would not own my own quit and wanted to blame others for my misery. I got no joy from “playing house” with fake dip. I got sadness for years and money I threw away. Why would I give positive memories to something that only took from me, never gave back? It did one thing for me. It reminded me so strongly of how far I have come. I took nearly two years to actually feel like a former dipper. I fought daily for well over a year and honestly close to two. I wanted to give up but I did not want to be weak. I do not remember when I finally stopped blaming others and decided this was all about me, but I know it happened. I went through the darkest time in my marriage then. I lost friends and hated the medication I was on. I am done with this.

Five miles down the road I formed my finger into the familiar hook shape – it’s amazing how muscle memory comes rushing back – and flung the lip turd down the highway. I reached in my pocket and winged that retched tin down the road as well. Not exactly ethical disposal, but I needed it gone. Riding is about freedom. I felt free as I pondered my experience will spitting little bits of crap out that my tongue pulled out of my teeth. I leaned back, set the cruise and enjoyed the rest of my ride home as a free man. I probably couldn’t afford my Harley if I was still dipping. Dip would cost more than my loan payment and insurance combined now. I’m much happier calling myself a biker than a dipper. Live free or die brothers and sisters. No dip for me today, not ever.

NOTE: This piece written by KillTheCan.org forum member tamado