Editor's Note: Here's a rough piece of fiction from a Bikernet reader. Although his prose are scrambled his story comes across. It's a classic, and if you love stories of found antique motorcycles, you need to pick up this new book from Motorbooks. It's full of true stories of classic vintage motorcycle discoveries. Some I know of personally, because I know the current owners. If any book causes you to search all the barns in your neighborhood, this is it.–Bandit
It’s a hot summer day just before a thunderstorm. A group of bikers enters town just ahead of the rain. They park their bikes and run into a dingy saloon just as the rain starts. They order drinks at the bar, cue up at the pool tables, and start playing the jukebox. The locals are friendly. A bunch of farmers and ranchers are sitting at tables in groups playing cards. Everyone adjusts to one another quickly. The rain pours down outside.
One biker is drawn into a conversation with an old timer at the bar. He is kind of a cagey old fart wearing bib overalls and drinking a draft beer that is always full, and he never seems to pay for. He obviously has a relationship with the bartender.
The biker and the old fart begin talking about motorcycles. The old guy used to ride. He asks where the group is coming from. The biker replies, the races at Peoria.
“Oh, I used to go race there,” said the Farmer. “I won that trophy up there on the shelf.” The barkeep drops off another draft for the old timer.
“Here Grandpa,” she said.
“I had to quit racing when I lost this,” he said knocking on a prosthetic leg. He hints that he has a nice old bike back in a barn at his farm.
Later on the hot steamy street in front of the bar dries, there is semi traffic on Main Street. The old timer shakes the bikers hand. He kisses the barkeep and limps out the front door heading for his pickup truck. The rusty cab door slams shut.
All at once the sound of an air horn, a Jake brake, and skidding tires. Then the front window explodes with fragments of broken glass, and the prosthetic leg comes flying through and lands on the pool table. Bikers jump out of the way. The barkeep screams.
The biker attends the funeral because he is sentimental like that. The cemetery is on a windswept hill under a blue sky. There is a small group of mourners. The barkeep is wearing a black dress. She’s pretty even in her grief. She is standing with her parents who are dressed like business people in professional suits. The bar keep seems surprised to see him but approaches and invites him to the funeral meal back at the church.
At place of worship, the priest is presiding over the lunch, sucking up to the realtor parents, casting sidelong glances at the biker. Snide remarks follow uncomfortable looks. The biker excuses himself and leaves the church hall. Barkeep runs out and catches him. The biker is on his ride, kicking the starter over. She looks back at the church and then hops on the back. She points the direction to take, and they take off down the street. They wind up at the Dairy Queen. She gets a Triple chocolate fudge Blizzard. He orders a strawberry shake. She says thanks for being here. The old man was her best friend and her grandfather. He was sending her to college as her parents had written her off years ago. She had some bad breaks and a bad boyfriend who was into drugs and crime. She had a miscarriage and was sick for months afterwards. Gramps believed in her, always and now he was gone. She said her parents were all about the money and had been selling off the farm, section by section, and all that was left was the old house and outbuildings. She said she had to get Gramps bikes and personal stuff out of his house before her parents threw it out. Gramps left his things to her. The biker hesitates just a little; she bats her eyes and wins him over. It's her college money, her birthright.
At the farm, there are old cars, trucks, tractors, and farm equipment in neatrows. It’s a farm junkyard. An old horse trailer has a couple of old dogs tiedto it. The biker has some doubts. The two of them walk up to an old barn with a big padlock on the door. When the light switch comes on there are old flat track motorcycles, trophies, and memorabilia. There is a fridge in the cornerand beer signs on the walls. In the middle of the collection is a 1953 Panheadin perfect shape with 500 miles on the odometer. On the wall are race pictures with trophies held pictures of the old man as a young man high. The last picture in the last row has the old man standing next to someone who looks like Elvis Presley.
It’s days later at an attorneys office. The family is there for the reading of the will. Everything goes to the parents. Barkeep pulls out her copy of the will. Her copy is older than the one the attorney just read. The parents saytheir copy is the real one that grandpa changed his mind. Barkeep knows shehas been screwed. Her father says with a smile, “Well honey, considering your past, grandpa knows we’ll take care of you,” and smiles.
The biker is still hanging around town. He’s between construction jobs and is in a motel on the edge of town. Barkeep shows up with a suitcase.
“How did you find me?” “You have the only FLH at the only motel in town.”
The biker swings the door open and she slips into the room. The biker looks around the parking lot and closes the door.
The barkeep tells the biker about her father. He is the only child her grandfather had. He went to the army and came home and now he is the mayor, chief of police and also runs the biggest real estate office in the county. At the same time the barkeep is in the motel, her father is talking to his deputies. He is in his office telling his boys to make sure the biker is sent out of town. Anyway, they want to.
The cops kick the door in at the motel and beat the biker in front of the barkeep. One of the cops has a crush on the barkeep. He was in the bar the first day the biker came to town. The day of the accident. The biker takes one more kick in the gut, and gets on his bike and leaves town.
Barkeep is in a different law office in the same town. She is told the new will is airtight and she doesn’t have a chance. She walks out the door.
The biker is knitting up at his house in the country. He is alone but not lonely. He is listening to the radio and drinking coffee. The announcer says there will be a farm auction of cars, trucks farm equipment and a lifetime collection of motorcycles. The biker makes some notes on a notepad and picks up the phone.
A lawyer is in court in front of a judge. Papers are filed to contest barkeeps part of the will.
The biker is back in town. The cops see him as he drives down Main Street. The biker waves hello. He parks and walks into the bar where he met the barkeep. She’s not there. The new bar tender says barkeep is working for her parents. He orders a burger and picks up a newspaper. The coroner had published the results of the inquest of the old man's accident. The bar tender sets a plate down in front of the biker. She points to the article about the accident.
“The truck that hit the old man was owned by the banker who is going to buy the old mans place. Funny huh?”
The biker nods his head “Real funny.”
The biker goes by the realty office. The cop follows him in the door. He walks in and barkeep comes out of the back office. “You can’t be here,” she said.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to survive.”
Barney Fife walks up behind the biker. He pulls out his nightstick and with one hand, resting on his gun pokes the biker in the ribs with the stick. In a heartbeat, the cop is on the floor with the stick pressed against his throat and the bikers left foot on his chest. The terror and surprise are written across his face.
The biker says, “We aren’t going to play this game anymore are we?” He pulls a cell phone out of his jacket and hands it to barkeep. “Just hit speed dial to call me.” She smiles as he walks out the door with the nightstick.
It’s the day of the farm sale. There is a big crowd around the auctioneer's truck. The county sheriff comes to the front of the crowd and hands the auctioneer some papers.
The auctioneer barely misses a beat, “Folks, the bikes aren’t going to sell today. The will has been successfully contested. But don’t leave we have lots of items left.”
Some people mutter, others begin to walk away. The original group of bikers who were in the bar are back. They smile at each other and bro handshakes all around. The parents are aghast.
The dad has his cops standing behind him. The sheriff is still there. The biker walks up to the '53 Panhead with the barkeep and says, “I have a hunch about something. He pulls off the seat and looks underneath. Signed under the seat is, ‘To Old Fart from Elvis 1953.'
