STURGIS 2000, THE LONG WAY HOME
SOUTH DAKOTA
As I rolled out of South Dakota, I day dreamed about what it wouldbe like to own a rubber mount with a windshield, a cushioned seat and a frontbrake. We all fantasize from time to time and this was my fantasy. Suddenly Icould see red and blue flashing off my chrome.
“Oh you evil rat fuck sleaze bucket miserable mother of a whore!” Icursed as I let loose on the throttle and began to coast to the shoulder and myjail cell. I looked around. Nothing but empty expanse and a single twolane blacktopper for 50 miles. There was no sense in compounding thesentence by trying to outrun a radio with that kind of range. I wasfucked. Hard.
I’d made it all the way to Sturgis and now I was going to get thelaw book shoved up my ass on the run home. Jesus Christ…
The trooper hit his siren.
“All right, you insolent motherfucker!” I hollered, as I coastedover. “Go to hell! I see ya!”
Rolling to the side, I tried to figure what the jail cell would belike. A view of the local gas station probably, where I’d see thousands of bikers passing forthe next three days, heading home.
The trooper powered around me hard and roared off into the distance,waving. I was dumbfounded. What in the hell was that?
About a mile later I discovered what had gone down. The trooper hada woman in a Buick pulled over who had charged past me earlier. Apparently Iwasn’t the only one who’d witnessed her shameful mocking of the law. Thecriminal wench.
“You’ll burn in hell!” I screamed as I roared past the godlessoffender, waving my fist in the air. The trooper gave me a blank look and continued writingthe ticket.
It only took six hours to get out of South Dakota. I bought gasand burned gas and nothing else.
Somewhere in northern Nebraska I began to smell raw gas. I feltunder the tank on the fly with my leather glove. It came back wet. The welder had apparentlymissed a spot. Screw it, I thought. If the bike blows, thebike blows. There’s nothing I can do about it out here in cattle country, 800miles from the nearest town.
Riding home. What a strange proposition. No goal. No race. Avacuous suck into the far south with no propellant other than gasoline and a need for an endto the journey.
Sprawling brown expanse, rise up against me asphalt opponent, I putyou down. You rise up again, and again, I conquer you. Black serpent on yourback I ride, whip and dance, crazed attempts to unseat me at top speed. Nojoy there, the Avons bite into your glossy back and I wring the gasolineout of the right handlebar.
Cattle, flowing cattle, enormous skies, vibrating, vibrating, vibrating, gas stations,dead, lonely, abandoned railroad tracks, sun-faded signs advertising products of years past.Coke! The refreshing five-cent pick-me-up! Gasoline powered engines sold here. Shoes, $2.
Sunshine, the shadow of the motorcycle slowly fading from the rightside to the left. Thoughts of a German Feminine, long walks up fire roads in Palos Verdes,speedometer needle, flicking fence posts, moon light strolls with a partner gone by, mistakes,misunderstandings. Now you haunt me, youperfect wisdom, with your clarity of vision. Now you come after me, out here,when I am alone with nowhere to hide. Evil miscreant. Admissions at 90 mph, admissions ofguilt, vibrating despair. Memories of days that went perfect and dreams of many more unrealized. Rolling notions of romance, spinning rubber, twirling chrome H-D rims, flexing forks, a young girl’s kiss, silent cursing…
NEBRASKA
I hit the Nebraska border and called the little brother. I wasrunning a course that would put me much farther east this time. I never take the same roads.I asked how far it was from where I was to the sister’s ranch in Kansas.We figured I could make it by dark if I rode hard. I put thespurs to the RevTech 88.
Nebraska, who are you? Who are you with your lack of fame, yourquiet security, sitting in history while the rest of the world charges madlyforward? What peace is this which you hold, Nebraska, and from whencedoes it flow?
Could Nebraska know something other lands do not? Does it keeplocked in its sprawling bosom a secret of undetermined value? I spread my arms wide and coast. Are you so full of wisdom? Is this why your rivers flow sowide and so low, brown water worms, belly up, sliding, sluicing? Should I stayand live naked on your anonymous plains?
A long back you have, Nebraska. You have fooled both me and mybrother. The faster I ride, the wider and more expansive you seem to become. Your hot windswhither me and still you push Kansas farther south, holding italways just below my front tire. But I will break thee, Nebraska.
KANSAS
Twilight, 700 miles south of the Badlands. Reserve, petcock, arestart on the open road. A gas station. A man with a tale about his old friend, The Racerthey called him. Did I know him? Of course I know him. I know everyone. Every man, womanand child is my brother. Rolling again. Whystop talking now? Yes, I know The Racer.He is my son and I his.Ditches, you are my cousins. All the pretty babies? They are my dark, wonderful sisters.The delta blues, I invented them. The Mississippi? I poured that river. New Orleans,Royal Street in the Quarter? I laid the purplebricks. Lafite’s Blacksmith shop? I built that brick-between-post brigandoutpost. Hell yes, I know The Racer. Delirious ditches, which promise to catch me at theslightest error. Fatigue, pain, 800.
Darkness. Headlight, are you my world now? Narrow headlight, tellme a story. Tell me a story of infinite night, a world which to you would beheaven and to me a permanent extension of nothing and nobody, a seizure oftime, a cessation of clockwork, a ticking out of ticks. I am a dark andbrooding angel of singularity, always rocketing south, down, away from thenorth, I am the polar and ionic wrongness of up, north is something whichcannot faze me now.
The ranch house. All is dark. I am too late, I will sleep in thegrass. Lovely grass, hold me in your arms and whisper with your waving Kansasblades about tales of great bison herds and gypsy Indians who sang songs tospirits that went out of style and were replaced by far more contemporarygods. Gods with economy and a sense of fashion, gods of convenience andgods that were not so damned demanding, always harping of discipline andvalor, morality and generosity.
Headlights. Turns out they were just at the local fair. Fair timeabounds in August. At last a real bed. It was 1,000 miles to this bed, making it a specialbed indeed.
And then to sleep, where the journey continues. When a man spendsenough time alone, speaking to nobody, he strikes up conversation within himself. Theseconversations, unlike mortal conversations, are not affected by sleep or itch or agony.They carry on despite themselves. And they can drive you mad if you are not especially carefulwith them. They can sometimes speak such pure and unsalted truth that they sting the tongueand burn the eye, causing them to water and the lower lip to quiver and dance.
Dawn. A young girl of 3 opens my eye for me with her tinyfingers. Time to get up, she tells me with a smile.
Breakfast, laughter, much talk from the wee one, a quick game ofdolls and then I am off. Off, though I would rather stay, but I must ride south for all theaforementioned reasons. There were reasons mentioned previously, weren’t there? Of coursethere were. There must have been. After all, I am again riding south.
MISSOURI
Missouri. Lunch. A roadside diner. A man who tells me his friendonce found a motorcycle from Elvis in his barn. Name engraved on a gold plateunder a rotted seat. Tuna fish sandwich. A stout swig of tea. Freshgasoline. A dead starter.
A dead starter. It bears repeating. I push-start the GreatNorthern Steamer. Entirely dazed. I went 1,000 miles yesterday; 1,500 miles. Let’s ride,goddammit, we’re burnin’ daylight.
Mile after mile after mile, I am a Jesus freak junkie eatin’ redson a hype tryke at the witch’s hour gettin’ 30 percent rear wheel spin at 140 on a back highwayin the City of Love. My name is Horsepower and I am an egomaniac with an eggplant under myhelmet and a can of oil shoved down my throat. Can I get an Amen…
No longer do I ride a motorcycle. I am running. I am a flying manwith rounded feet. The thin leather show seat allows me to feel the frame barsnicely. My mind buzzes in time with the vaulting and halting pistons. Iam a hard, humorless amalgamation of rolling chrome, iron, blood, guts andugly. The temperature rises, cooking my head in my black helmet,furthering the departure. Fuck the law, I mumble as I unhook it on the fly and hang it offthe K-Bar hooked on my belt. How fast can I go? How long? Harder,faster, crave the vibrations, tame the wind, spank the weak highway,bleeding heart, laughing at the broiling sun, is that all you got?
ILLINOIS
The border passes like a blink. I slice the speed hard, knowing thetroopers like to camp on their outer most jurisdiction. The helmet isbarely on when I roar past a Johnny Lawman hiding in some brush off theinterstate. A warm smile. You scum ball mother fucker. I wish him well asI crest the next hill and pull off the brain bucket.
Raw gas droplets occasionally sprinkle my face as the fissure inthe sheet metal grows from a hairline to a couple of hairs line. As long as Iride fast, the wind will blow the explosive liquid down the underside ofthe tank, keeping it from dripping on the scalding hot RevTech 88.
Gas stations are another story. I shut the monster down and coastin, half expecting to rocket straight into the air when the big fucker goes.Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle, the gas drips on the front jug and evaporates instantly.Skate that edge you suicidal maniac, I think as I unhook the nozzle. $1, sizzle, sizzle.$2, sizzle, sizzle. I pull the ear plugs.Riiiiiiiiiing. $3, sizzle, sizzle. I make my own napalm. $4, sizzle.
I hang up the nozzle. Dead starter. Valdosta, Georgia. I take alap at 100 degrees around the expansive semi lot, pushing, clutching, drowning in sweat.Another lap. The monster pushes me to a dripping stop.
“Fuck!” I roar as I contemplate shooting the gas tank and endingthe ride.
Sixth, we’ll try it in sixth. Around we go, running, faster,harder, hypoglycemia setting in as I begin to feel dizzy, running, farther, faster, pushingthe gear-laden scoot. Clutch, chugga, chugga, a fire, chugga, chugga, fire, chugga, cough,pop, sputter, chugga… I stop, barely able to drop the kickstand before I drop the bike.The sun hammers down. The temperatureis nearing 100. I strip off vest and shirt. Fifth gear, around we go,jogging 70, 80, 90 yards, chugging, coughing, throttling, choking, everything inthe book. Dead horse.
“Need some help?”
Several truckers walk toward me, noting my heaving sides. I looklike I’ve been swimming, jeans soaked from the waistline to my knees.
“Fried starter,” I tell them.
“Got an ’88 Fatboy,” the fat one tells me.
“’77 shovel Narrowglide,” says the skinny one with the Peterbilt capcovered with fishing lures.
“’90 WideGlide,” the trucker in the stained T-shirt says, crackinghis neck and stretching his back for the big sprint.
“’55 Pan, bro,” the black trucker says, untucking his long-sleevedenim shirt and rolling up his sleeves.
“Bikernet, huh?” the fat man asks quizzically.
“Got Internet access?” I ask.
“Sure, in my truck.”
“Go to ‘Bikernet.com’. You’ll find out,” I tell him.
He nods.
“Let’s all get behind it,” one of the truckers says.
They’re smaller men, under 180 pounds, but there are five of them,plus me, and we run considerably quicker. When we hit our top speed mark, I leap.
Cough, boom! The fucker dies as I over throttle and drown it.What an idiot.
“Shit…” one of them mumbles, hands on his knees, wheezing roughly.
These men are out of shape, they aren’t going to be able to makemore than two passes across the 100-yard parking lot before I lose them andtheir goodwill. If I don’t catch it the next time, I’m going to bespending a fortune getting a tow truck to drag me to the local mechanic who’s going towrench my wallet.
“You want to try it again?” I ask.
Their faces are red, sweat virtually squirting out of them.
“Yeah, sure,” one of them wheezes.
Off we go, running, slower this time. I give it all I can andleap. Boom!
A massive backfire burning the fumes and gas out and the RevTech 88 comes to life.I stop and look back. Strung across the lot are the truckers invarious stages of death, each wheezing in the spot where his cardiovascularstrength gave out. Slowly they gather themselves up and walk over to me,looking like track runners after having run the mile, hands on hips,sucking big air.
I put my long sleeve shirt back on to keep the sun from eating theskin off me in the deep south radiation zone.
“Much obliged, fellas,” I tell them, puffing hard.
“Oh Jesus,” one laughs, I think you’d better ride me over to thehospital so I can finish this heart attack the right way.
“Take me to the fuckin’ morgue,” another gasps.
Hands are shaken and I’m off, blistering down the asphalt at 95.The two-hour workout was enough to loosen up the horrendous knot in my upperback, which had grown so large I could actually feel the bound-up musclegroup in a lump under the left trapezoid muscle.
Illinois, Illinois, take your time, I got all day, I think as Ipush to get through the state. Then I catch myself. Why would I be wishing myself throughsuch a massive and memorable run? Most men rarely get to makeSturgis every year, especially from such a long distance. I was a fool forrushing it mentally. I sat back and watched the farm belt streak past.The fields and tractors, the horses and cattlemen, combines, hay swatherslaying down windrows of alfalfa, augers pumping grains into storage binsand trucks, pickups delivering lunch and fresh water, circling hawkslooking to pick up exposed mice, blazing sunshine, the smell of chaff drifting on the air,large vibershanks turning newly cut wheat straw, it all remindedme of my childhood growing up on our ranch in Kansas. I rode deep into time,rolling at 100 mph through half a million memories accumulatedover 33 years. It was all part of the total journey.
Life is the ultimate wind in the face of the biker. He is a lostman, a gypsy, with brothers who streak past in the night, bug-stained beardsbeating time with the grand clock of the open road. He never drinks fromthe same glass, but always from the same bottle. He never sits in the samechair, but always eats with family. He never calls the same town home, buthe’s home every night when he shuts down.
A massive wheat field flashes by, yellow lines sewn by the springdrill pulled behind the old 630 John Deere or perhaps a Massy.
A biker has a vast point of relativity and can see the good ineveryone and the bad in the few. Some run alongside brothers of 40 years like Little Joe.Some, like myself, often blaze alone, feeling the lift and fall of the highway as they rideas fast as their machine will go for 10, 15, 20, 30, 40, 50 hours at a pop.
If a man rides far enough, he will sometimes realize he’s ridden sofar that there’s no longer enough time to turn around and go home before hislife ends. It is at this time that he must simply press on into theunknown, and that unknown is time. If he rides hard as hell, he will oneday, perhaps, make it clear home. But between him and that fateful day hecoasts back into the driveway and hits the kill switch that last time, arethousands of miles, hazards, deer, rainstorms, snows, freezes, blown tires,busted belts, leaking hoses, split gas tanks, deserts with their scorchingheat, potholes hidden in the shade of a lone tree, sand, sleet, hail, highspeed front-end wobbles, crooked cops, dirty judges, horse thieves and barfights. If he can ride through all of these without giving up, withoutgetting planted, without getting lost and forgetting his final destinationor drinking himself into a permanent stupor, he’ll get home and the ridewill be complete.
In life, we all ride. It’s just that some of us get to enjoy thesmell of a northern pine and the fresh cut prairie hay of Kansas, the salt sweat stink oflobsters in Maine, the muggy swamp of the Atchafalaya Basin andthe time immemorial sweetness of Joshua trees in Twentynine Palms.
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