An inert piece of a hundred minutes that gives four lame actors (John Travolta, Martin Lawrence, Tim Allen and William H. Macy) an opportunity to dress up as leather boys and tool around on thundering testaments to sexual identity overcompensation. Fortunately for them, there was a script laying about that had the same premise, so that worked out. For them. The aforementioned quartet play middle-aged professionals who take a time out to indulge in a cross-country trip on their Harleys, trying to make it to California from Cincinnati without destroying the bikes along the way. Of course, with a script loaded with predictable pratfalls, leaden humor and painful dialogue, it would have been worth a matinée price just to see the bikes get tangled up on the freeway and erupt in a greasy mushroom cloud of no talent. That doesn’t happen, so all that is left is a feature-length ode to not entertaining. And I feel embarrassed for Peter Fonda.