The back of the Shovelhead bucked and kicked as Travis cut across three lanes of traffic, gunning his damaged bike toward the exit ramp. An eighteen-wheeler loomed in the right lane, closing in on his escape route. No stopping on a dime for that load. Travis snapped the throttle on the S&S, cutting between the semi’s massive, glistening chrome Texas bumper and the water-filled barrels at the road’s edge. The Shovelhead protested the high-speed exit, splaying sideways, its deflated tire howling as it shifted against the FX’s swing-arm. The ramp was shorter than Travis had anticipated. His bike swung him toward oncoming traffic as he wrestled the damaged beast onto the service road, coasting before finally coming to a stop.
His heart pounded in his chest. How stupid could he be? Nursing the bike to a shoulder and walking in would have been wiser. Travis dismounted to assess the damage. The rear tire had done all it could to keep him moving in his escape but now it was defeated, deflated and off the beads, a trail of burnt rubber marking its last journey. Stupidity. Travis scanned the businesses lining the service road. A familiar bar and shield was nestled in amidst a multitude of signs and banners. Travis let out a loud sigh before kicking his bike into gear to help power it along as he pushed it to the motorcycle dealership.
Wall-to-wall T-shirts welcomed Travis to the showroom; there wasn’t a bike in sight. A pretty young thing behind the counter looked up to see who’d arrived. Travis stalked to the till and asked about a parts counter. She pointed him to the back wall. Travis checked out her breasts, surreptitiously he hoped, as he read her nametag. He thanked “Candy” before picking his way through the racks.
The couple standing at the parts counter reeked of new leather. They and the salesman scowled at the filthy biker who had invaded their sanctuary. He ignored them.
“I need a tire. Rear. Shovelhead.”
The salesman’s eyes shifted nervously before he asked what year. Travis grimaced at the question.
“Shovelhead,” he snapped back.
“Hey buddy, tires come in different sizes,” chimed the customer on the stool. “200, 250, 180.”
Travis looked at him, wild-eyed. The salesman scurried to the back, reappearing with an older mechanic. Travis smiled slightly and repeated his request. The mechanic looked at the salesman and nodded.
“Bring her around back. I’ll fix you up.”
Travis winced and confessed he only had $100 to his name. The mechanic shut off the salesman’s protest. “Fine. Bring your bike around back.” The mechanic glanced over at the couple in their new leather. “Nice to finally work on a real bike.”
An hour later, Travis sat alone on an embankment separating the parking lot from the outside world. The Shovelhead waited patiently for his next move. Travis wasn’t sure what that would be. The staff inside was little help beyond the tire, a repair that took the last of his money. For the first time, Travis doubted the wisdom heading out on the road so precipitously. He had planned to pick up odd jobs along the way, but had been racking up so many miles that he hadn’t stopped long enough to make some greenbacks.
Travis watched as the employees flocked out of the dealership at day’s end, a steady stream of vehicles carrying them to their evenings. He wondered if they were going home to their loved ones. Maybe the lucky ones were heading to a lover’s house for some late afternoon delight.
The muffled sputter of a Sportster drew his attention. A girl teetered to a stop at the corner of the building before awkwardly circling in front of Travis. She put down the kickstand, but the bike lurched and died as she let out the clutch. Travis leaped up to grab the handlebars before the bike toppled over onto her small frame. Candy blushed as Travis steadied the bike. He walked around and rested the bike onto its stand. She thanked Travis for being her “hero” and asked what he was waiting for. Travis looked around sheepishly before confessing that buying the new tire had cleaned him out. Candy looked at him intensely for a long moment.
“I take it you’ve been riding for a while,” Candy said.
“Maybe longer than you’ve been around,” Travis responded.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Candy said.
Travis was all ears.
“If you can teach me how to ride this damn thing,” Candy said. “I’ll fix you dinner and put you up for the night.”
“I can do that,” Travis said, “Thanks.”
Candy indicated for Travis to follow her as she manhandled the bike through rush hour city streets. When she didn’t outright stall the bike at traffic lights, she would drag her feet across the intersection. Not a suitable advertisement for the product or the advanced riding skills of the dealership’s staff. Travis followed cautiously behind, wearing in his new rear tire.
Finally, once they had reached a quieter residential area, Travis pulled along side her at a stop sign. He reached over and twisted the Sportster’s throttle. “Do you hear that?”
Candy looked back at him, puzzled.
As he rolled the throttle back and forth he explained “The sound — this, not this — not this, but this.” Candy smiled and nodded. Travis told her to rev it to that sound before letting out the clutch. He followed Candy, who was biking more smoothly, for a couple more blocks before pulling in beside her again. “Pick your fucking feet up.” Candy started to protest but Travis’ scowl shut her up. Soon Travis was riding beside her with confidence that she wouldn’t lurch into him.
Candy lived in a low-slung apartment building that took up a whole block. Her apartment, like the others on the second floor, had a private entrance. Travis watched as Candy parked her bike in her stall. He looked about. No trees, no secure structures to chain the Shovelhead to. Travis pulled up next to Candy’s bike and asked if he could chain his bike to hers. She watched as Travis unwound the heavy chain from the back of his bike, snaked the thick links through the bikes, and snapped on the padlock. He unpacked his stuff from the Shovelhead as Candy watched from her perch on the steps.
Travis glanced around the apartment. It was obvious Candy didn’t have a man in her life. Flowers and knicknacks throughout. Definitely not the typical biker chick’s place either. There was no indication that a bike even lived there, but that was believable, given her initial riding skills.
Candy pointed Travis to the bathroom at the end of the hall. He dumped the contents of his duffle bag onto the porcelain tile and loaded his road-filthy clothes into the washing machine in the bathroom closet. Finally, he turned to the mirror. A stranger stared back at him. His face was sunken and haggard. His stubble was a full-blown beard now. He thought about shaving it, cleaning himself up, making himself more presentable to his hostess. Travis mulled that over before deciding against it. She had already let him into her sanctum. Besides, his freshly shaved face would be grizzled again by tomorrow.
The hot water pulsed against Travis’ skin. He reveled in a long shower, and marveled at taking one in a tub surrounded by candles, potpourri, and toiletries.
Travis loaded the dryer, and decided to stick with a towel — rather skimpy, but all that was out. He figured Candy would understand, and ambled down the hall to the kitchen, following the scent of a home cooked meal. Pleasant turn of events for someone contemplating a night under a bridge about 90 minutes ago.
Candy welcomed him to her kitchen with a smile but quickly turned back to the stove when she realized that he was only wearing a small towel. She suggested Travis make himself at home, as she finished their dinner.
He wandered into her living room. Liquid metal poured from the speakers. Travis moved about, somewhat nervously, examining the artwork on the walls, the family pictures lining the top of the wall unit. One picture stood out among the others of funny faces and warm embraces. A young man with a little girl on his lap as he sat on a Road King.
“That’s my dad.” Candy’s voice trailed off. She explained that was the last time she had seen him. He had shipped out for Desert Storm the next morning as she slept. He wouldn’t return. She remembered the funeral, remembered when the strange man came and took away the bike that her father had loved so much.
Travis and Candy ate dinner, mostly in silence. Travis did his best to maintain eye contact, not an easy feat because he was intensely aware of her body, unsheathed in low-cut, tight clothing.
Quick knocks on the door. Travis slid over to the sofa and burrowed in as best he could as Candy answered. Greetings and the excited squealing of young women filled the foyer. Travis listened to the hushed conversation. Apparently Candy had made plans to go out. Her friends’ delighted giggles stopped when they caught a glimpse of the caveman sitting on the sofa in nothing but a towel. Candy assured them that she wasn’t in any danger, even though they were certain that he was at least twice her age. They departed, probably unconvinced.
Candy returned and excused herself to change. Travis turned his attention to the stereo, adjusting its dial until Merle Haggard twanged from the speakers. He smiled, then rolled the dial back to some Diana Ross and the Supremes. Candy squealed from the bedroom that she loved that song. Travis settled back into the plush sofa, listening to Candy sing along, a fourth Supreme.
She emerged, wearing skimpy shorts and a top even smaller than the one she’d worn to work and dinner. Unbelievable. Candy trilled that she hadn’t realized her satellite radio offered a Motown station. Travis was gratified that she recognized the music at all.
Aretha Franklin. Not a Motown artist. Travis admired Candy’s firm ass as she danced. Rather a shame she was taking it out for the evening and leaving him to — what?
Finally Candy turned, posed against the wall unit, and smiled seductively down at the stranger on her sofa. “Do you like?”
Travis’s grin turned to a blush when he realized the towel gave no cover to his appreciation.
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