Editor’s note: The following story was reprinted from the book, “Borderland Biker, In Memory of Indian Larry and Doo Wop Music,” by Derrel Whitemyer.
Revised version August 6, 2013.
Larry’s ten minutes of winding his way downhill with me as a passenger brought us into a warmer setting. We’d left the cold behind. Wafting ahead of us were the sharp welcoming smells of eucalyptus mixed with sage. Trees and shrubs beginning to bloom painted the roadsides with different shades of green; the third bridge had been a barrier between spring and winter. “I Can See Clearly Now” by Johnny Nash was playing in my hearing aid size radio.
Speaking of spring, Larry’s guess as to the origin of the rising column of mist was correct. Cradled within the roots of an ancient pepper tree whose gnarly trunk looked like the unfinished face of an old man were plumes of steam marking the location of a hot spring. The spring’s pool simmered like a warm hot tub inviting us to park under the tree’s branches.
Memories of crossing the bridge along with the ordeals of yesterday began to fade the longer we stood near the pool’s edge. Unable to resist the temptation and with our clothes still on, we both jumped into the water.
“Ouch,” Larry yelled as he sank beneath the surface.
“I’ll second that ouch,” I gasped.
“You’ll get used to it,” said the ancient pepper tree that had a trunk shaped like the unfinished face of an old man.
Morning’s sun was showcasing more of the land and with the sun came a peace of mind I’d not felt since our short stay at Ma n’ Pa’s. Finally refreshed and with skin wrinkled like prunes we climbed out, washed the rest of our clothes and then fell asleep waiting for them to dry. We awakened at noon.
“I think we may’ve washed away more than dirt,” laughed Larry buttoning up his shirt. “My feelings of hopelessness seemed to have been washed away too.”
Getting dressed and then getting ready to leave, I felt as had Larry, that some of our worst memories had indeed been washed away and that if the pool had the power to lift our spirits maybe it could…
“What if we filled the Warrior’s tank with water then added one of Pa’s pills? Pa said they’d change water into gasoline.”
“Go for it,” agreed Larry. “The Warrior’s been running on fumes since the bridge. If Pa’s pill doesn’t work we’d have been walking soon anyway.”
Filling the Road Warrior’s gas tank with water from the pool took a few minutes and then I dropped in the pill. The rustling of wind through the trees wasn’t loud enough to muffle the bubbling sounds percolating up from the tank. The bubbling ended when the tank belched out the cap vent.
“The smell coming from the tank reminds me of my grandfather’s barnyard,” I laughed.
Larry wrinkled his nose and then hit the starter switch; with a roar the big V-twin came to life.
Springtime became summer as we rode down onto a high plateau saddled between grass covered hills. Fields left to grow on their own pushed past fences; farms like the farms we’d passed since riding past the barricade at the Crossroads looked abandoned. At the end of the plateau the road divided, the right fork paralleling a widening arroyo that followed a river that had cut its way down to a dry plain. Three hundred yards away the left fork ended at a rockslide beginning directly behind a vertical rock face. And by rock face I mean literally a thirty foot face made of rock.
“The right fork leads down and onto a dry plain so wide I can’t see the other side. Going back the way we came is not a choice,” said Larry pointing over his shoulder. “Our only real choice is to take the left fork. We can either find a path through the rockslide or leave the bike and climb over it.”
Riding up to within twenty feet of the rockslide caused a cascade of gravel; above the cascade was an outcropping of boulders. Would the sound of our engine dislodge them, were they waiting their turn to fall? Further up the hill, in an ascending series of terraces, were even more rock ledges.
“I’ve an idea, it could bring the whole hill down, but it could also clear a way for us,” Larry said looking at the steep slope. “If we can get the nearest ledge to fall it’ll knock the slide out of the way and give us a path through.”
Staring at where Larry was pointing, I added, “And if we’re wrong we’ll make an even bigger barrier.”
Revving the Road Warrior’s engine startled a large group of crows out of some nearby trees. They circled three maybe four times around us then landed back on their favorite limbs. Seconds after they landed the closest ledge fell frightening them back into flight.
Larry’s estimation of the direction of the falling rocks had proved to be correct. Arching across the road then striking the far side of the slide, they took the other rocks as well as themselves over the edge and down the hill.
“Drinking the hair of the dog that bit you,” I laughed, “works for rockslides as well as hangovers,”
“We got lucky with the ledge and now have a narrow trail,” answered Larry. “The question is do we take a chance and ride over it or walk?”
Rivulets of gravel were continuing to cascade down the hill when I answered, “I vote for walk considering the rest of the ledges are ready to fall.”
“Motorcycles can be replaced, maybe retrieved,” said Larry getting off the Road Warrior. “Having the hillside land on us isn’t an option. We’ll walk.”
Instead of returning to the trees the birds circled low over the huge rock face; at times they’d fly so close their feathers would brush the tip of its nose.
“Something’s wrong,” Larry whispered.
Suddenly and without warning the crows, which had been flying in tight circles, started cawing. Instantly the rock face awakened and began screaming. So loud and piercing was its scream it sliced through every thought, every stone, like in boulder, like in hillside with ledges of boulders that at any moment could be coaxed into falling.
“Follow me;” yelled Larry, “don’t stop until you’re clear!”
Running behind him, I followed in his steps. The fact the hillside was crumbling down on our heads gave us no other alternative than to race forward along the narrow ledge.
“Keep up; everything’s turning to rubble.”
Behind us came the sound of the road falling away; following that sound the ground was turning to gravel, to dust, and then into mist. The Borderland was dissolving.
“Not far,” Larry yelled over the crashing and crumbling, “just twenty more feet.”
Twenty feet ahead the seamless pavement of the Old Ridge Route suddenly ended at the beginning of a country road. This one had all the predictable potholes, bumps and weeds that come with country roads.
Southeast of the small town of Hollister California is the village of Tres Pinos; behind Tres Pinos begins Santa Anita Road. It’s an old backroad that runs through pastures and fields and is bordered with hand cut wooden fences and tall valley oaks. Twisting upward out of the earth and with branches looking more like tentacles than tree limbs, these old oaks line the road for about ten miles until ending at a small bridge. The bridge, built in the 1940s, leads to a locked iron gate; I was quite sure this was the same road.
[page break]
Styx and Stones
Twenty more feet and we’d be safely out of the Borderlands; but could Larry survive leaving the Borderlands? Rock changing to dust and then the dust changing to a thick mist; all of it was happening behind us and those changes were nipping at our heels.
“Don’t stop,” Larry shouted at the same time he made a long jump from what was left of the Ridge Route onto the potholed road.”
A second later I’d completed the same jump and was on solid ground. We’d made it, barely, but didn’t stop running for another a hundred feet.
“From solid ground to mist in seconds, I can’t help but wonder if Ma n’ Pa or any of the Borderland they created survived,” I said, still trying to catch my breath.
Already a dense wall of fog had filled in the void. Larry and I walked back a dozen yards and waited. Billowing in, replacing land and sky, the fog came to a stop where we’d made our jump.
“I’ve no idea what’s on the other side of the fog or what’s left of their old Borderland,” Larry said looking at me. “I haven’t started to disappear which makes me think a thread of it runs along this road. How far it runs I don’t know. Threads from the fringes of different Borderlands often run through the fabric of your world; you just need to know how and where to look for them.”
“This road,” I said, “looks familiar.”
“That may be true,” Larry answered, “but my senses are still telling me it leads to the fourth bridge. That we have no bikes to ride is a bummer, that we weren’t crushed is a blessing; I’ll take a blessing over a bummer anytime.”
And so we began walking eastward and the further we walked the more I realized this was indeed Santa Anita Road behind the village of Tres Pinos. “Looking for an Echo” by Kenny Vance was playing in my ear radio.
“Could we,” I asked, “have taken the wrong turn; the only bridge at the end of this road leads to a locked gate?”
“We’ve gotta have faith we’re on the right road; there’s no going back,” replied Larry. “Ma n Pa’s Borderland is gone or at least the entrance into it; we’ve no other choice but to go forward. Our only alternative would be to go upward and we can’t do that without an airplane. Maybe if we could hitch a ride on that WWII Navy fighter coming in low over the hills with its flaps and wheels down that looks like it’s going to land on the road ahead, and maybe…”
“It’s Andy!” I yelled waving my hands in the air.
With a 2800 horsepower engine throttled back enough to turn a thirteen foot propeller slow enough to see the individual blades; the gull wing Corsair lined up for its final approach. Clearing the tall oak beside us was Andy’s first obstacle, amend that to almost clearing. Sheared away, the tree’s top leaves rained down seconds after the plane passed overhead. He was moments from landing… three, two, one and his wheels touched the asphalt. With his wings inches above fence posts, Andy kept the Corsair from bouncing by braking and bleeding off speed before reaching the end of the straight stretch, which he would’ve overshot, had he not spun the plane around just before running out of road.
Running up and then climbing onto the plane’s wing, Larry shouted, “How were you able to find us?”
“Ma, she knew where to find you,” Andy yelled over the idling engine. “I left Ma outside the Styx Diner then flew here. Her whole Borderland is being wiped out. Ma thought it best to destroy it rather than have it contaminated. She said once it was gone she and Pa would recreate it.”
“In other words, or in computer speak,” I’d climbed up on the opposite wing where it attached to the fuselage, “Ma’s going to purge then reboot.”
“It’ll work, but it’s a little like throwing the baby out with the bath water,” said Larry standing across from me.
“It’s already started,” said Andy. “Ma’s already put into motion the process. Her fear is it’s accelerating at too fast of a pace, which is why she sent me to get you.”
“So when do we leave?” I asked.
Even at idle the Corsair’s big engine was hard to hear over, but not so loud as to cover Andy’s answer.
“By you, I meant Larry; I’ve only got room for Larry,” said Andy turning to me. “Ma said to tell you Hilts is safe and that Charon would explain. But simply put, if I don’t fly Larry to another Borderland he’ll fade away. This road’s always had threads of their Borderland running through it but soon they’ll be gone. The fourth bridge is five miles further up the road. Charon’s on his way, he volunteered to rescue you, which reminds me, we’ve got to get going.”
“We’ll meet again,” Larry said, climbing into the passenger seat behind Andy. “It’s a quite a gamble on their part but I think I know your role in what they’ve planned. Don’t question the journey; trust that everything’s transpiring the way it’s supposed to transpire.”
Jumping down from the wing, I ran to the side and watched them take off. Both Andy and Larry gave a thumbs-up when the brakes were released.
With the propeller pitched for maximum thrust, the throttle wide open and the supercharger engaged, the big fighter headed back down the road. Generating enough torque to twist itself up on one wheel, Andy compensated for the engine’s power by making easy corrections. Within the length of a football field the Corsair was moving fast enough for the rudder and ailerons to work; soon they were airborne. Just a foot off the ground and gaining speed Andy retracted the wheels and easily cleared the oak tree’s top branches he’d minutes before clipped leaves from.
Thinking they’d fly on, they instead circled back and passed overhead; both were leaning out the cockpit and pointing frantically behind them.
Looking in the direction they were pointing I saw the same gray wall of fog that had followed us to where Ma n’ Pa’s old Borderland ended. It was a half mile away and moving towards me; I needed to get out of there.
Surfing has been my passion and I thought I was in shape but after a mile of running starting from where the Corsair had taken off I realized my passion should’ve been marathons.
Cresting a knoll I could see nothing but more road leading into the distance and no sign of the fourth bridge. The fog would catch me before I’d run another mile.
Far away a small speck, a lone motorcyclist could be seen approaching at incredible speed. Behind me and gaining was the fog. It would be interesting to see which of them got to me first, the rider or the fog. My money was on the rider, if anything his speed had increased. My Wide Glide had been fast, Larry’s radial engine chopper faster and Hilts’ Road Warrior faster yet. The bike coming towards me would have made them all seem slow and slowing was what it was doing. It was Charon, already beginning to fade into mist now that he was away from the river Styx; the longer he was away from the river the faster he’d fade.
Skidding to a stop beside me, Charon pointed at his Hayabusa, “Take my bike; the fourth bridge is about five miles back up the road. The Styx Diner’s on this side of it. Ma said for you cross the bridge and go through the gate on the other side; she told me to tell you she’ll handle what’s gotta be done at the diner.”
“What about you, you’re fading away?”
“Ma salvaged what was left of me long ago, she’ll do it again;” replied an almost transparent Charon, “I’ll be brought back with the rest of her Borderland once it’s safe.”
Introduced in the late 1990s the Suzuki Hayabusa was a near 200 mph bike out of the crate; to buy one you had to have a donor card. Charon’s was altered to go even faster. With a nitrous oxide bottle just below the left grip and some light stainless steel exhausts that at an idle bubbled out hints of modifications way beyond stock; the thing was a beast.
“We can both make it back to the bridge if we start now;” I shouted at Charon, “the fog’s still distant enough to give us the time we’d need.”
“Too late,” Charon said in a voice that already sounded like it was coming from the end of a long tunnel and just before the wall of fog enveloped an oak fifty yards away, and just before his body faded into nothing.
My options were to ride for the fourth bridge like my life depended on it or ride for the fourth bridge like my life depended on it.
Donning the helmet and hopping on the Hayabusa and then releasing the clutch raised the front wheel.
The fog was accelerating, trying to match my speed; fog wasn’t supposed to move that fast. Thin tendrils looking more like long gray fingers had closed to within a few feet of my rear fender.
Nitrous oxide has become Popeye’s spinach for the go fast folks. Use it in an engine built with a retro design and it’ll turn that engine into shrapnel. Suzuki has, however, a history of upgrading their engines and as a result dominated racing. Later when those same racing engines were detuned and put into the 1200 Bandit they’d seemingly run forever without repairs. Hayabusa’s origins were based on those motors. And so at ninety miles per hour and thinking more of spinach than shrapnel, I punched the nitrous button.
“Picket fence” is part of the lyrics in the ‘60s song “Hot Rod Lincoln” and is used to describe what telephone poles look like when passed at high speed. Passing rows of old oaks at high speed blends them into a continuous wall of branches. Picture being shot out of a cannon down a tunnel wallpapered with trees. Someday someone will write a song about a Hayabusa and rows of old oaks?
By fourth gear I was focused only on the road; raising my head above the windscreen would’ve snapped it back. Clearing a rise with my wheels off the ground had me remembering some scary film footage from an Isle of Man race.
Two more gears to go and Charon’s Hayabusa was already past a hundred and fifty. The fourth bridge was in view, the fog still behind me. I could see the Styx Diner.
Slow down so as not to crash or keep enough speed so as not to be caught became a delicate balance. Opting for compromise I ended up, after a series of late downshifts and locking my brakes, sliding to the middle of the bridge. Chasing me to the bridge, but unable to cross, the fog rose up like a giant wave blocking everything behind it from sight and then it broke covering all on its side in a dense cloud.
In moments the cloud melted away. And where there’d been daylight there was night, for the blue sky had become a sea of stars. And where nothing had been in front of the diner there was now a ‘58 Pontiac convertible. Purple neon letters flickered on and off above the diner’s entrance stammering to spell Styx; stuttering first an S…s…then a T…t…then a Y…and then half an X. At the same time the song “Maybe” by The Chantels drifted out the diner’s door inviting me to come over and help Ma save the Borderlands. Nothing but static was coming from my hearing aid size radio.
Even with the music reminding me Ma was alone in the diner; I’d already made up my mind I was going back to help her. And so with my guitar in hand I returned across the bridge.
Cricket sounds followed me to the diner’s front step; stepping on it made both the music and the crickets stop. If Ma was inside and Hilts was somewhere safe; where was Pa?
Swinging too easily inward, the diner’s door opened into a room empty of people. It was bigger than I remember it being and furnished with 1950s counters and booths; its black and white checkerboard tile floor faded into the far side of the room. To my right was the jukebox. Ahead was the bar where I’d given a coin to an Elvis that looked like the Elvis in the movie BUBBA HO-TEP. Behind the bar was the shadow I’d seen move on its own.
“You’re lucky,” said the shadow, “especially when you’re around Ma,” then pointing towards the jukebox, “but you’re also predictable, as was Ma. I knew she’d come. She’s here and is now one of my Top Ten songs. Check it out; she’s B-4. She made it to the Hit Parade.”
A nearby booth with a list of jukebox songs confirmed what I feared. Ma had been made into a CD labeled B-4. Pictured on the label was her face looking as it did the moment she’d been downloaded onto the disk. Had Elvis suffered a similar fate; how many others had been made into CDs?
“I only had to wait for her;” said the shadow, “I knew she’d come to fix the jukebox. Once she touched it she was caught. The jukebox was reprogrammed to trap her like spam; Pa, however, was a no show. I would have really liked him in my collection. No matter, it’s a new era. The Borderlands ought not to be special; they should be like other lands. Without the harmony generated by playing select songs on their jukeboxes they’ll become part of them.”
Thinking the end of the jukebox cord was but a few feet from the wall and that if I plugged it in and played B-4 I’d release Ma, brought an instant response from the shadow.
“You’re thinking,” said the shadow, “can I plug the jukebox back into the wall, play B-4, and free Ma? And by doing that you’d bring harmony back to this Borderland; am I right? Well try moving.”
Struggle as I might I found that my feet were glued to the diner’s floor. Only my arms could move; the rest of me remained frozen.
“You can’t move your feet,” laughed the shadow, “because I haven’t moved mine. I was once your shadow but in here our roles are reversed. I was torn from you the first time you passed through the diner and out of the Borderlands. Charon’s coin paid for your return passage but not mine. I’ve been stuck in here ever since and it might as well have been forever. As you’ve probably already found out there’s no relative time in the Borderlands; there’s only ‘Now’ time. No matter, as soon as I get you to tell me which song is your favorite, I’ll just punch in its letter and number and then you along with your friends will be part of my Oldies collection.”
“Pa,” I whispered knowing it was a wasted effort, “if you can hear me, if you’re the cavalry, you’d better hurry.”
The shadow laughed again, “Don’t count on that country bumpkin coming to your rescue. Aaron, you’ve already met my friend Aaron, my second favorite operative before you destroyed Femus, was sent to pay Pa a visit. I’m afraid Pa’s now part of the compost he so loved feeding to his garden. If Pa had come here,” and the shadow continued to laugh at the same time he pointed at the jukebox, “he’d be featured in the Country Music section.”
Hopeful for the first time since entering the diner, “You’ve never really met Pa have you?”
“It wasn’t necessary; I saw him many times through the eyes of my friends.”
“You mean familiars don’t you?”
“Same thing,” answered the shadow. “Friends, well it sounds friendlier. Pa’s no threat. Every time I watched him he’d be following Ma around like some type of big puppy dog. When he wasn’t following Ma he was playing at being a farmer or an inventor.”
“Speaking of playing,” I said as I found I could point my guitar at the shadow and play the first few chords of “Deserie” by The Charts, “did you ever hear this one?”
The first few were all I was able to play before I suddenly threw, without being able to stop myself, my guitar across the room and against the jukebox. The room became dark.
At the same time the diner became dark the shadow laughed, “And now I know the name of your song. Get ready to join your friends. I just need a few seconds to coalesce into a figure solid enough to punch in your song’s number and letter. And then my old friend in the time it took to have your worst root canal, you’ll be part of the Hit Parade.”
“You’ve got the ’root canal’ part right,” said an eight foot figure of blue light standing where my guitar had landed.
Somehow Pa had become the guitar at his house and then changed back into Pa when it was thrown against the jukebox. He’d already plugged the jukebox cord into the wall and had punched in B-4.
Ma appeared beside him when “Let it Be” by The Beatles began to play.
Already dark, the diner descended into a deeper darkness. And as bright as Pa was he began to fade but not before Ma reached out her hand and touched his hand. And then like two drops of water that become one when joined they became a figure of light taller and more brighter than the one I’d seen before, so bright I had to shield my eyes between my fingers.
Turning to look at me the figure of light, which was really Ma n’ Pa, said, “Get out. The only way we could trap the shadow inside the diner was to use Ma as bait. We gambled you’d return to the diner with your guitar to help Ma. We gambled on your shadow getting angry enough at you to become solid enough to punch your song’s number and letter into the jukebox. The gate’s unlocked on the other side of the bridge. Take the Pontiac, drive across the bridge and through the gate; the road on the other side will get you out of what’s left of our Borderland.”
In answer, the shadow, once my shadow, stretched its arm, now tentacle, completely across the diner’s floor in an attempt to touch me.
“Hurry, this diner and what’s left of our Borderland will soon cease to exist,” shouted Ma n’ Pa at the same time they stretched out an equally long arm of light and severed the shadow’s tentacle.
No other encouragement was needed. Quickly out the door and into the Pontiac had me seconds later spinning its rear tires away from the diner, onto the road and then onto the bridge. Skidding to a stop at the end of it I looked behind me.
Burned in my mind like an arc welder’s flash was the memory of the Styx Diner becoming so bright it disappeared and how that brightness expanded outwards blotting out all it touched. Already the light was beginning to reach across the bridge for Charon’s Hayabusa. The Doo Wop song “Oh Rose Marie” by The Fascinators was playing on the Pontiac’s radio when I drove through the open gate.
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