Ridin’ In

Wednesday night, Mick rolled his bobbed ’92 Dyna onto his table lift and pulled up a battered bar stool to begin checking the performance machine over from end to end. Mick was single, alone, and tired from a day deep in mud and sludge in the oil fields. He lived in a small industrial complex on Signal Hill adjacent to Long Beach, California. His home/shop was nothing more than corrugated galvanized walls, steel-beam structure and a concrete floor. Girls didn’t stay over much. He worked hard, took good care of his bikes, and rode hard. But his life was lacking the female touch, except for one memorable night two months ago, during the holidays.

The shop phone rang as he checked his rear belt adjustment. “Mick?” the soft voice questioned earnestly, “Is that you?”

“Yeah,” he answered, recognizing the same gentle lilt in the voice he heard that night in the rain. “Rikki, what’s going on?” He wanted to tell her he missed her, but being guarded with women was a priority since his short-term wife took off. Since then he vowed to never get serious or marry again. “Is there anything wrong?”

“Yes and no,” she began. “Remember what I told you?” Mick’s memories about that night were as clear as Christmas crystal. Her husband was an office boy bookkeeper at her father’s business. He had all the opportunities in the world to make a better life, but chose to avoid career challenges. Frustrated with his own lack of drive, he took to abusing her and drinking heavily. Mick remembered the dark ring under her eye when he opened the door of the stranded BMW. “They transferred him to Phoenix, and I left him.” She began to sob uncontrollably, feeling primarily guilty for breaking up the relationship. “I miss you Mick. I don’t know anyone here and he’s lost it. I heard he’s looking for me.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m staying at the Biltmore, but I’m afraid he’ll find me.”

“I’ll find him, if he does. I’m coming out there,” Mick said without hesitation. If she had called, and in a perfectly calm voice, invited him to see Space Jam, he would have jumped on his Bartels’ modified freeway glide and hit the asphalt runnin’.

“I can’t make you do that,” she said. But he could sense the fear in her voice.

At 4 in the morning he was on his feet, loading a small Browning .25 auto that slipped easily into the gun pocket of his Fox Creek Leather jacket.

“It’s a done deal, what room?” he asked.

“4133,” she muttered with an obvious release in her voice.

“I’ll be there by 2 tomorrow afternoon,” Mick said resolutely. “And, I miss…” His voice trailed off as he hung up the phone. That was as close to a nicety he had come to in 10 years. He stood back and looked at the silver anniversary Dyna. It had run like a top since he bought it used with 11,000 miles on it. Bartels had shaved the heads, dialed the ports, installed their street cam and built him a set of exhausts that matched their Sportster racing exhaust. The formula was perfection on two 80-spoke Kennedy wheels and recently with Carl’s Typhoon carb bolted in place, it kicked the 90 horse mark with 90 pounds of torque to match it.

He knew he could spend all night checking every last chromed nut and bolt, but he rationalized, “To hell with that, it’d run.” He was confident of it, and the vision of her creamy white features surrounding warm red lips, and those eyes that said there was nothing but kindness beyond this point, called to him like an industrial magnet to a leftover nail. He walked around to the other side of the bike and added a half quart of oil, all he had, and let the bike down from the lift.

It was almost midnight as he packed his Bandit’s bedroll, and strapped it to the front of his bars, forming a windscreen. He tried to sleep for a couple of hours, but all he could think of was a mental check list, her bouncing blond curls, the motorcycle, and if he forgot something. At 4 in the morning he was on his feet, loading a small Browning .25 auto that slipped easily into the gun pocket of his Fox Creek Leather jacket. He would have preferred to haul his stainless Wather PPK, but the weight and size held him back. Besides, if he had a problem, he would much rather take care of it with his hands or the Spyderco knife in his back pocket.

It was still February and he planned for the cold as he donned Patagonia long underwear, old Navy denims, a double-X sweatshirt, his Bill Wall, one-of-a-kind leather vest, then the jacket and a knitted scarf of his own design, and cowboy boots. He didn’t like wearing black-too common, so his choice from his boots to his scarf was brown and western tans.

Mick weaved around in the erratic exchange of steel trying to find an opening, an open lane, and the edge of the city.

As he pulled the Dyna into the street, it began to sprinkle. Rain was not uncommon for the month of February, but it drifted out as fast as it converged with the coast. He touched the starter button and the 80-cubic-inch, high compression monster popped to life, no choke, no idle adjustment, and lopped like a well trained pony. He let it warm as he secured his building and pulled on his padded, cold-weather Easyriders gloves. He felt sealed off from the morning chill as he weaved his way through the light mist in the 45-degree morning air, toward the freeway. Rolling onto the on-ramp, he remembered what a friend had told him about wind chill factors. Seems for every additional 10 miles an hour, the wind chill drops the temperature three degrees. He made a quick mental calculation and didn’t care for the results, and just as rapidly put the formula out of his mind. In the rain, going slower to avoid a dropping chill ratio, meant extended rain time, and longer before he would be at her side.

As he hit 70 on the Long Beach Freeway into the center of Los Angeles and the junction of Interstate 10, the morning traffic was already accumulating on the slick lanes. As the city expanded, so did the traffic at odd hours. A couple of years ago, at five o’clock in the morning, a rider would be lucky to find another car. Now the lanes were crowded with early risers, ambitious money-seekers, and lovers sneaking home from affairs to clean up and get to work. Most understood the level of congestion on L.A. freeways at peek traffic hours and were trying to beat the crowds.

Mick weaved around in the erratic exchange of steel trying to find an opening, an open lane, and the edge of the city. He discovered a web-like, conflagration of freeways-the 10, 5, 101, and 110 interchange, and split off to the east. The rain didn’t let up as he made his way through unceasing L.A. suburbs trying to find relief from the congestion. Almost 10 years ago, once a traveler passed the 605 interchange, only 20 miles from the civic center, the roads were clear-not anymore. After the suburbs of Lakewood and Downey there was Covina, and West Covina, Pomona, Riverside and San Bernardino. Now each one was linked by brightly lit car dealerships and super malls glistening with neon and surrounded by a swarm of prefab model homes. The treachery of the traffic, the slick streets, and his glasses smearing and dripping with water caused him to rethink his mission.

The deep purple rosette under her right eye, and her disheveled appearance told him that no matter how much money her bank account contained, she was a human being in a lot of grief.

Between dodging cars and slow moving trucks, Mick remembered meeting Rikki alongside a dark, industrial, nasty neighborhood on the edge of Signal Hill. Her BMW had broken down alongside the road, but the interior light remained lit as Mick made his way home in his lowered ’52 Ford pickup. He pulled over and approached her car carefully. For all he knew she was being beaten by her pimp, and he had no business in their space. All he could see was a cascading jumble of blond curls.

As Mick split lanes pulling down 75 mph, the sun began to illuminated the wet, rain grooves in the concrete, and the rain seemed less foreboding. The showers tapered, as open spots in the looming gray clouds allowed the rich blue to appear. The traffic tapered at the 75-mile mark and Mick pulled into a truck stop to refuel and have a cup of coffee. He looked at the imposing 76 ball pivoting in the mist, 100 feet above the freeway and remembered 15 years ago stopping to refuel with 20 other riders, all drunk and high, stealing gas and food, raising hell and pissing off the half a dozen truckers in the down-home restaurant. At that time, there was nothing within 30 miles. Now hundreds of semis refueled and the joint was packed with transient truckers having breakfast and lounging outside, smoking (no smoking is allowed in restaurants, anymore). Some gawked at the rain soaked 6’2″ rider as he got off his dripping silver lightening bolt, quickly refueled and mounted the scooter once more. Some commented to one another, that only a fool would be riding on a day like this. The storm was heading east. Unlike the pilots behind the 18-wheelers, Mick wasn’t privy to weather reports as he hauled out of the truck stop heading east on Interstate 10.

The hills were mild, but the storm continued to pester him as he passed through San Bernardino, passed Beaumont and Banning, once small desert towns for the city’s outcast, now growing suburbs for middle-class survivors, scraping and clawing for the American dream.

As Mick tapped on the window of the silver BMW only three days after Christmas in a blinding downpour, the girl inside jolted and turned to face him. She was as striking as a new Arlen Ness creation, and just as out of reach, financially. Mick harbored the anti-yuppie sentiment. He’d always lived on the back streets of life, and felt begrudgingly that’s were he belonged-done deal, until that night.

Tears flowing from her eyes, she looked up at him. The deep purple rosette under her right eye, and her disheveled appearance told him that no matter how much money her bank account contained, she was a human being in a lot of grief. She lowered her electric window a couple of inches and looked out at the dripping biker with long hair and a neatly trimmed goatee.

“Are you all right?” Mick questioned, concerned.

“I slid into the curb,” she said, beginning to cry. “I think I blew the tire.”

Mick inspected the tire, and sure enough she had pinched off the valve stem against the unforgiving curb and the tire went rapidly flat.

“Listen,” Mick said, “I live up the street. Let’s get you out of this weather, and I’ll come back for the car.”

To his dismay she nodded her head and gathered her purse and expensive overcoat and opened the door. For the first time as she emerged from the tight quarters of the compact, Mick got a quick glimpse of her stunning form in a black sequined, low cut, evening dress. He pulled the coat from her grasp and draped it over her shoulders, as they made their way in the wind and engulfing downpour toward his truck.

Sheets of sand stretched across the highway like the ghosts of a thousand stinging snakes trying to escape from one side of the freeway to the other.

Just then Mick’s attention returned to the concrete divider in the center of the freeway slipping past at 80 mph. The sun forced its way between two billows of clouds and the rain let up. At that speed the drying capabilities of the wind began to immediately push the weather away from his leather. A noise had distracted Mick and he looked through his damp lenses to the right. In lane number three a young child’s bicycle danced across the concrete, directly into the path of an oncoming tractor trailer. The truck driver jammed the brakes on and the tires began to squeal. Mick didn’t have time to determine where the bike came from or whether the truck driver was also engaged in a fantasy of his own, and the bicycle had been resting in the lane for some time.

The truck driver swerved, and his trailer lurched like a bullwhip, then snapped straight again. Whatever the trucker was hauling became dislodged and large portions of metal flew from the rumbling flatbed directly into Mick’s path. He swerved as the large steel shelf spun like a Frisbee through the air in his direction. Inches from the speeding Dyna Glide, the objects crashed to the pavement. Mick didn’t blink, but kept the throttle turned to its stops. In no time, the Dyna pulled away from the tire-burning calamity. It was 7:30 as Mick roared past Palm Springs Harley-Davidson off Indian Road.

Mick remembered the battered and beaten young woman as he slipped into the driver’s seat and started the classic, fire engine red Ford. It lurched into gear and all of a sudden he wished the truck was cleaner inside, and that he shifted it with more finesse. Pulling into his industrial area, he purposefully slowed and stopped the truck with determined care. She looked up and shock and fear crossed her face.

“Don’t worry,” Mick said reaching out and touching her forearm gently. “I live in my shop. It’s OK.”

Again she didn’t speak, just nodded and waited until he got out of the truck. He moved quietly and quickly to her side and opened the squeaky, 40-year-old door. As she departed, her heal slipped on the black floorboard and she fell into his arms. Mick grabbed and prevented her fall, and again their eyes met. As if she was his kid sister, an emotional trust passed between the two and he hugged her. She naturally responded, and for a few long moments in the driving rain they stood together.

The speed limit loosened as Mick blasted into the Indio area and the Coachella Valley. For the first time in 200 miles, the rain let up enough to dry the asphalt strip traversing the desert. The clouds were dark and looming, but Mick was confident that the Arizona heat would run off any further precipitation. He generally ran from 8 to 10 miles an hour faster than the speed limit, but this Thursday he pushed 15 to 20 miles an hour over the enforced law. The white fluorescent signs called for 70 mph in black lettering. Mick was pushing 90 as the desert winds picked up. The lows caused by the storm formed brutal, chilling winds unhindered by any mountains or obstacles on the flat desert floor. Sheets of sand stretched across the highway like the ghosts of a thousand stinging snakes trying to escape from one side of the freeway to the other.

Trucks rumbled along in the right-hand lane as the once four-laned freeway became an interstate with two lanes going in either direction with a 50-foot wide medium of tumbleweed and sand. The semis were scattered along the road at half-mile intervals. As Mick blasted up behind one of the moving buildings, several reactions were set in motion. From behind as he approached, his machine was tumbled like a dryer cycle by the turbulence caused by the rolling battleship splitting the cross wind. If he dared to get close enough, he’d be drafted by the truck, momentarily, as if a fly crawling into the comforts of the spider’s web. At a particular point, only 25 feet astern of the rolling cargo ship, all wind was gone, the temperature rose five degrees and Mick felt he was captured in a traveling cocoon. But the trucks weren’t moving fast enough for Mick, so he moved to the left into the passing lane where the truck blocked the wind momentarily and his V-twin speed increased four miles per hour. He slipped passed the trailer only to be batted severely by the wind after he passed the trailer and again once as he passed the cab, like being slapped twice fast, then he was gone again. For another hundred miles that was his routine through the desert center into Blyth where he stopped to refuel.

He was making excellent time as he pulled into a service station. Pumping gas, he checked his mileage to prevent getting stuck in the desert with a dry tank. The 90 horsepower Evo at 90 mph was clicking off 33 miles to the gallon, and the next stretches were desolate desert, nothing for 40-50 miles. He was careful to top off the tank for maximum mileage.

Blyth was centered over the highway on the California/Arizona border. Last year on his way to Sturgis, Mick was forced by a bad rear tire to hold up at Yamaha of Blyth for two hours while the tire was replaced. It was hot that day. Hot enough to avoid standing in the sun for very long. Mick and his riding partner, Mark got rid of their helmets the minute they hit the border. Although Mick wanted to lose the helmet bad, this was a different situation. Temps had dropped to the mid 40s, and it started raining again. Mick popped the shaved and formed then scalloped fiberglass beanie back on his head and hit the road.

Pulling onto the freeway the skies let loose and the highway turned into a glistening black strip in a cloud of gray. Visibility diminished considerably. His narrow glasses were drenched with water. The rain even slid up his cheeks and coated the inside of the glasses. At first, the fear of going down in the rain beside a fully loaded semi, caused his traps to tighten in his back. He became super sensitive to any change in the bike’s reaction to the pavement. He avoided the white lines, and tried to keep the bike perfectly upright even in the gentle curves crossing the flat desert.

But speed was a priority as he remembered his first conversation with Rikki after he gave her a cup of coffee and called a brother with a towing service. She attempted to lie about the bruise around her bluer than blue eye. At first she paced the floor worried, “I’ve blown it, and he’s gonna kill me,” she stammered.

The wind and rain hit his face like a zillion needles pricking his skin.

“What do you mean?” Mick asked, heating another cup in a small microwave.

“He can’t handle the success he’s been handed,” she stumbled. “He can’t endure the stress of prosperity, and he started drinking. He was all right as a regular account exec, but as my dad opened doors for him, he avoided the challenges. It must be my fault.” She broke down again.

“Why would it be your problem?” Mick asked.

“If it wasn’t for my father’s company and the opportunities,” her voiced slowed and she looked directly at Mick. “You don’t understand. I came from wealth, I know the drill. He doesn’t. Could you give up the freedom to work on your bikes anytime you please to put your life on the line for some business? My father’s responsible for the income of hundreds of people. He works 12 hours most days, at least one day a weekend, and spends half of his weekends on the road for the business. If you calculate his hours, he makes less than his average employees. On top of the responsibility and the hours, he must manage all the trappings of being a success and a pillar in his industry.”

“What are you trying to say,” Mick said, “he married you for money, works for your family’s business, can’t handle it, and wants to put the whole thing on you?”

“Do you have a drink?” she inquired.

“Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. That’s it.”

“I’ll take it,” she said, bursting into tears again. “He told me that, if I ever left him, he’d have me killed. He can’t stand to lose me.”

Mick handed her the drink in a plastic cup and sat down beside her. She sipped her drink and leaned into his arms. He would never forget the smell of her hair, the texture of the skin of her forearm or the softness of the nape of her neck as he leaned down to kiss her gently. She responded and raised her ruby lips to his and they kissed deeply. Mick looked deep into her eyes, and thought, “I can’t do this.”

The semi came out of nowhere. Mick flinched, and warned himself that any reaction on his part could cost him his life. The downpour intensified as he passed Quartzsite and visibility became critical. At 85 mph the trucks were wave runners throwing up blankets of spray to the rear and off either side. Mick was only concerned with one side as the wave of spray hit him as he passed one 18-wheeler after another. Ducking behind his bedroll helped until the spray splashed into his face from the right. The wind and rain hit his face like a zillion needles pricking his skin.

Passing each truck became a training session in dealing with terror. At 80 mph, as he approached the stern of the approaching trailer traveling at 70 mph, the turbulence from the wind and the drafting ship on 18 wheels jerked the Dyna, but he had no choice except to twist the throttle some more. As he reached the corner of the trailer the bike jerked as the container blocked the wind only to be replaced by a slip stream effect that drew the bike alongside the truck tires. Visibility diminished as his glasses became drenched while entering a wave of spray. Approaching the corner of the trailer he could see the broken white line, but once alongside each truck, he couldn’t see anything. It was as if he was at sea in a dense fog. He couldn’t see a thing. He was moving too fast to smell and the wind buffeting his ears with 150 decibels of engine noise, truck noise and wind formed a deafening combination that at one time was almost comforting. Mick thought about the girl, flat tires, and almost imagined his bike missing while lost in the spray beside a speeding tractor trailer truck. In each case, he had no choice except to twist the Simm’s lightening bolt grip and scream out in front of the truck.

Fifty miles from Phoenix, Mick began to ponder the outcome of this meeting. Confronting the old man wasn’t a problem, but tackling his own demons with relationships was.

For 85 miles he stayed frozen to his throttle, passing over 40 trucks in the process. At Tonopah he swung off the freeway for gas. As he entered the warmth of the flooded station, he realized that the cold and wetness which penetrated every layer of his exterior shield was beginning to effect his body temperature. He began to shiver involuntarily while approaching the coffee vending machine. Like his Jack Daniel’s, he poured it black and let the warmth of the Styrofoam cup seep through his palms. He continued to shiver. As he looked out the window to the lone silver Harley standing proudly in the parking lot while the rain formed growing lakes around the Mobil Oil overhang, he wondered what about this woman made him want to risk one more mile on this highway. Then he remembered their last conversation.

Mick broke off the kiss and looked deeply into her eyes. “Listen, messing with me will only deepen your problems,” Mick said. “If we will ever have anything, it can only be after you leave the sonuvabitch. I may not fit in your world, then again, why the hell not? I’m not afraid to try anything once.”

“Hold me,” she said, moving close once more, but it wasn’t a sexual closeness. It was for comfort.

Mick lifted her face to his once more as he heard Charley’s flatbed pulling up in front of his warehouse. “I want you to be happy,” Mick whispered. “You deserve it. If I can ever add to that happiness, you can bet I’ll give it my best shot.”

“I believe you,” she said and they kissed again as Charley banged on the steel roll-up door.

Mick left the shelter of the station ge-dunk store shivering violently, but as soon as he threw his leg over the Dyna the shivering stopped. The scooter popped to life and Mick guided it onto the freeway to the final 80 miles into the Phoenix area. Mick knew he was facing the prospects of passing every truck he had passed in the last 100 miles, but that didn’t deter him from pushing his rowdy putt back to the 85 mph mark, to make the best time possible. Again the wind chill formula resurfaced, but his choices were limited. He could slow down and face the prospects of some half blind driver, unable to see his 1 1/4-inch cylindrical taillights in the spray, running over him. He could slow down and gain a few degrees of warmth and spend another 10 minutes on this godforsaken highway. No way he was slowing down. His first priority was to once more feel her arms around his waist.

Rolling the throttle on, he sensed an increase in rainfall. Instead of hesitating, he twisted the cable in defiance of the weather. The stinging drops of rain sandblasted his exposed face and with his free hand he pulled a corner of his scarf out from under his collar and bit it with his teeth. The woven material plastered itself to the form of his mouth and jaw and suddenly the stinging stopped. The trucks crept into his line of sight, one after another, along with swerving campers, vacation trailers and buses. Fifty miles from Phoenix, Mick began to ponder the outcome of this meeting. Confronting the old man wasn’t a problem, but tackling his own demons with relationships was. He pondered his past life and changing for a new one. Although the prospects excited him, would he handle a different lifestyle? Could he meet the challenge? Was he abandoning the biker lifestyle, if he sought to improve his life? He had been a veteran, an oil worker, a machinist and a welder for 15 years, but always a biker. Why couldn’t he take on another vocation, test his metal in a different arena. He would always be a biker.

Then she screamed as the roaring cycle came out of nowhere on their left where there was no lane as if the Grim Reaper on a silver Harley had come to collect his due.

The questions seemed insignificant as a compact swerved into his lane from between two 18-wheelers. The rain was so intense and coupled with the spray, he was sure the driver couldn’t see anything from his rearview mirror. But that would have little consequence if Mick went down and was run over by a thundering 50,000-pound big rig. He would be a mere thump in the road, as he was positive no one would see him. His right foot moved toward the rear brake pedal. Two fingers of his throttle hand proceeded to wrap around the Performance Machine front brake lever. He knew a slight touch on the wet brake could cause two reactions to happen. He could find no stopping power in the lake of spray as the dual GMA caliper pads closed on the stainless steel RC discs, or they could work efficiently and the bike could lose traction, or he could run into the back of the compact and end it all.

Determined to see Rikki and learn something about himself, Mick swerved into the emergency lane and gunned it against the rough asphalt. Startled, the compact driver had no notion of a motorcyclist in his vicinity. The woman sitting on the driver’s right, frightened by the two immense trucks bearing down on them, shouted instructions to her weak driver. Then she screamed as the roaring cycle came out of nowhere on their left where there was no lane as if the Grim Reaper on a silver Harley had come to collect his due. As he leaned slightly, tentatively back into the passing lane, Mick noted an increase in the incessant stinging around his eyes. The tenor of the storm had changed. It was colder as the arms of his jacket soaked through and he could feel the wetness running down his forearms, chilling them to the bone. It was hailing as he passed a barely visible sign announcing the mileage to the city limits at 25. Traffic began to increase along with billboards, light commercial trucks and lanes.

Inexperienced, arid, desert drivers pulled from one lane to the next, and Mick slowed, watching for some sign to give him direction. Finally at 35th Avenue, he emerged from the freeway to a city unaccustomed to slick streets. Accidents were prevalent as Mick attempted to cross the city in bumper-to-bumper traffic. He could sense the girl’s presence and a sense of heightened tension spread across his freezing chest. He split lanes and weaved through traffic after obtaining rough directions from a gas station attendant. A half hour later he pulled up in front of the Arizona Biltmore, designed by George Wright in 1923. It stands today as one of the top hotels in the western states, and Mick had never stayed at anything even close. He was immediately surrounded by helpful bellmen who found a dry, protected area for Mick to park his consistent steed.

Removing his bedroll from his chromed bars, Mick slouched his way to the front desk, his feet swimming in his roughed-out boots. The attentive, well groomed receptionist behind the desk looked Mick up and down as well dressed business people gawked at the dripping man. “Can I help you?” she said.

“Do you have any messages for Mick Connor?” Mick inquired, trying not to visibly shiver in her presence.

“Yes, sir, I do,” she perked up, finding a note in the computer.

Just then Mick thought he felt a tap on his shoulder and he turned to face an angel waiting for him in the lobby. “Never mind,” she said, as that oh so soft lilt in her voice returned. “I will personally show Mr. Conners to our room,” Rikki said. “Thank you.”

End

Editor’s Note:
This story is based on a couple of true stories, but the most recent was a ride I made with Hamster Christian Reichart to Phoenix in the midst of the roughest storm this winter. Waitresses in truck stops bragged that it hadn’t rained in Arizona in three months.
-Bandit