*
Notes
from the Road
Ducati
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Moss, P.
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After
the driveshaft on my little motorcycle stripped out and I was back to
either the work truck or my two feet, (the truck is always on the verge
of needing severe mechanical attention); I began to become not quite obsessed
but, more or less a little more interested in being free; free that is
and rolling at the usual regimented velocities, though new and seductive
ideas ( feelings that spawn the thought somehow understood to be just
beyond comprehensions I will; hopefully , someday actually refer to as
simpleminded and basic… at least, basic enough to be able to type
out and spell !!!) beyonding not only the self but my own terribly important
self interest.
Months
went by trying to get the right part to the Outer Banks, figure where
it goes and how to install its nebulous essence into my mystical little
machine without having any parts left over; finally I got the machine
running, only to hit a streak of freezing temperatures with their extreme
wind chills, that surely make any motorcycle rider appreciate the explosive
growth of spring of spring almost as much as the brilliance of a beautiful
woman’s sheltering eyes beaming out from within a kind-a cult of
19th. Century numbness that so-often appears as the soul of 21 th century
mankind.
With
my little motorcycle grounded in the woodworking shop; I had to kill time,
waiting for the weather to break. I built desks, remodeled bathrooms,
remodeled kitchens, played with the dog, helped friends, went jogging,
(a lot), and watched TV…then did it all again and again until the
TV watching finally started to show the kind of progress I was looking
for. …TEMPERATURES PREDICTED IN THE UPPER 50s.
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Suddenly,
I seemed to be two states south and still riding… who knows where
and without (as usual) a map. I ended up in South Carolina; cold and tired…beyond
the suburbs (or at least the ones I personally have to deal with)…yeah….
The next day I woke up in a cheap hotel (who knows, maybe it’s because I’m getting older or “more basic” than my reputation than my reputation as a road warrior would reflect,, or maybe its just my natural thriftiness; but, if the camp ground …sleeping in a tent …costs 17 dollars a night and a roofed bed costs goes for $20, I seem to end up under a roof) at check out time.
The next day I woke up in a cheap hotel (who knows, maybe it’s because I’m getting older or “more basic” than my reputation than my reputation as a road warrior would reflect,, or maybe its just my natural thriftiness; but, if the camp ground …sleeping in a tent …costs 17 dollars a night and a roofed bed costs goes for $20, I seem to end up under a roof) at check out time.
I
walked up to the office , 20 dollars & tax in my pocket and sleep
in my eyes; as I was waking up and paying “the next bill,”
the sounds of retirees became noticeable louder throughout the tiny office.
Looking around, I spied several polyester clad senior (almost) citizens
chatting in the various couches and chairs of the outer office space;
I heard some phrases containing the word motorcycle; Suddenly my ears
perked up…
”OH!
They’re a terrible menace,” came from one corner; nods of
affirmation from the couch; “you know, I saw one right down at the
intersection, and it wasn’t his fault…The motorbike was laying
in the ditch and all you could see was a hand sticking out from under
a sheet…blood, blood still streaming out of his arm;” then
in unison, all the stingingly ancient, shaking faces of wise, old, experienced
senior citizenry turned toward my little motorcycle, “why, isn’t
it a shame….there ought to be a law” came from the sour old
puss standing by the door…”
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Uhl, David
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How
do you like my bike?, I replied to the epitome of 1950s limited, alzheimer’s
ridden, polyester clad, ignorance occupying the couch; the old folks,
in turn, began telling me their tales of wasted lives and young fellows
who, through no fault of their own , were killed on those terrible motorcycles.
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Mattice, Elliot
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After
everyone had got their 2-cents -worth in, I sort-of pointed to one of
“them,” whom I had caught with the barest glimpse of a smile
when I entered their headquarters, “well, you know, everyday…every
time I ride my bike someone either cuts me of, glides into my lane, runs
a light, pulls out in front of me or generally endangers…You see,
that is part of the challenge, part of the fun… It’s the idea
of knowing how to ride. There are actually both learned and naturally
engendered skills involved in the operation of a motorcycle… You
have to learn to know how to ride; and, it’s an ongoing process
(I’m still trying to get the hang of it after 25 years).”
I
got two nods of approval, one vague “oh-hum” of recognition
, and a multiple hiss of frowning faces getting up and heading for the
door; oh well, can’t win them all.
As
I started out, beating my retreat to an hour or so of jogging in lieu
of stress relief, one of the older, more couch ridden, “citizens”
asked me, “is that a Harley, its looks “amuch differnt from
the Indian I” ”ust” to ride to school;” “no
sir, I replied, this is an old bmw, nothing like a Harley, it runs like
a car, a dependable car and looks nice.” “Its got a radiator,
shaft drive and fuel injection…real stable on the road, especially
on long rides...” “Humm, I guess its safe if you’re
an experienced rider,” he muttered.
*
By
now I was almost awake and couldn’t help telling a little road-safety
story. “It’s, like gun safety, (had him there). The motorcycle
in itself isn’t dangerous, its how you choose to use the motorcycle
that makes a difference.” I said.” “Yes, I guess so”
he replied; and with this I knew I had him.
Just yesterday, I was coming back from a ride when I found myself skidding. Brakes had locked up almost into a delivery truck that was pulling over in front of me on the four lane right over there; and you know, it wasn’t my bikes fault that I was in that kind of situation. I had been riding south when I spotted a cute blond in a sports car going the other way, I waved (as usual), drove a couple of miles further, turned around and started heading back. Soon, as I got through the first 4 gears, I started looking around a little, Low & behold, there was the same but cuter blond, and her sports car going the other way…
Just yesterday, I was coming back from a ride when I found myself skidding. Brakes had locked up almost into a delivery truck that was pulling over in front of me on the four lane right over there; and you know, it wasn’t my bikes fault that I was in that kind of situation. I had been riding south when I spotted a cute blond in a sports car going the other way, I waved (as usual), drove a couple of miles further, turned around and started heading back. Soon, as I got through the first 4 gears, I started looking around a little, Low & behold, there was the same but cuter blond, and her sports car going the other way…
*
I,
of course, waved again; next thing you know, she, obviously having turned
around twice (hopefully at the bequest of my waving), and her sports car
was passing me slowly on the left; (WOW!), then began speeding up, cutting
through traffic like the proverbial hot knife through butter; I couldn’t
help but to follow. The old man laughed a little at my road-safety story
and said, “Yeah, I see what you mean.”
The
vortex seemed to open, mildly; not to the simple attainment of two wheel
speed... in an ever enlightening search all matter has to become [however
pure] energy but in salute to it's progress; it opened just enough to
allow the rider access to the zone - the zone of retrospect and in movement
transitional reality; 80 mph was enough to do it; he set the speed button,
checked the remaining gas and entered.
*
Suddenly
he was back on a tramp freighter transiting the panama canal. he'd taken
an ab's job [though he'd been a certified bosun for three or four years
the bosun on this ship was good and smart... what folks 'on the beach"
read about as one of the steel men of wooden ships... someone with "sand"...
no extra grief] just to get out of texas and had been on the tramp from
better than five months. the last couple of days he had been both preparing
for the transit and trying to invent a rigging situation which would allow
the chief engineer to load 10 sheets of 5x12 foot 1" steel when the
ship hit the west coast; he was tired and having to rig the anchors, the
lifeboats and deal with the panamanian "riders" then steer for
a good straight six hours had put him on a 3rd wind stretch when he finally
got relieved, saw off the pilot [an old acquaintance from previous transits]
pulled up and stowed the fortified-by-order-of-osha ladder. 15 minutes
with a couple of cups of coffee were all to fleetingly gone by the time
he got to the bow; the busun was there and the ordinary [apprentice] too...
the anchors had to come up - "secure for sea" I said to busun.
he only added "yeah, lets get done... we'll finish the rest tomorrow."
an hour or so later the ordinary had taken his break and I was alone,
looking out; waiting to go relieve the wheel again. I don't really know
how or why I noticed it [maybe it was when I was looking over the bowsprit
at the dolphins dancing as the water of the pacific ocean broke, like
the mind of a child beginning to notice the wrapping paper she's just
ripped off some seemingly obscure gift, singing to the night sky] but,
for some reason I did notice the birds... the panama canal birds or rail
birds lining the bow's forecastle like buttressing. they were lined up
all around the bow in a semi-circle, maybe fifty of them all standing
better than two feet above the rail, with beaks over 8" and curved
down to extenuate their size as almost a third of their actual body size
and frame their otherwise frightening orange eyes as being gentle... humm,
maybe it's not the right word or proper nomenclature but, happy was what
I'd call their expression.
*
*
I
stood there; transfixed looking, listening to the sound of the natural
world overpower the noise of the ship, watching them tilt their heads
from side to side, look at each other then tilt their heads again as they
all seemed to do in a kind-a unison directed at my presence. I don't know
how or why it commenced or started; maybe it had something to do with
the dolphin's chatter beginning to sound like an old familiar song or
the ennui dripping from the orange empathic eyes of the rail birds or
maybe it was just the exhaustion of a 4th wind catching up... I don't
know but the zone opened and entered... and entered singing, singing to
the birds, singing to the dolphins singing to with all that was there
of the natural world.
*
It
was about five minutes later the ordinary showed up and caught me; caught
me singing, and him both being about half looped and an apprentice, joined
in... me, the ordinary, 50 or so giant birds and a half dozen dolphins
all singing in unison at the top of our lungs ["what do you do with
a drunken sailor... early in the morning"]. as I made my way down
the darkened deck and up to the bridge to relieve the wheel the exhaustion
seemed to slip away... and thirty minutes later I was in the foscle, in
the sack happily drifting off to sleep, windscoops delivering a mild breeze
in from the ocean and back out... "ka-boom" the door burst open,
I was up, grabbing for a pair of channel-locks and my knife... as I ran
for the door the ordinary stumbled in; "hey man, I got us a pet...
you said we needed one so here it is" then stumbled over against
the bulkhead and slid down into the realm of what even "those on
the beach" call passing-out. I heard a sound which sort of resembled
a line from the drunken sailor song [something like "yee-ha"
... in prediliction to the up-she-rises chorus we had been singing on
the bow] and looked, again, at the passed out ordinary... "damn;"
there, clinched in his left hand was the neck of one of the rail-birds
it's wings and feet clambering to get itself out from between the corner
and the passed out body, bleeding body of the ordinary. I grabbed the
bird, put him in the passageway; picked up the 200 lb ordinary got him
to his bunk [checked his pulse and breathing, bandaged up the cut on his
arm 'til it stopped bleeding].
It
wasn't 'til I was back in my own bunk and, again, beginning to dose-off
that I remembered the bird. gosh I must've shot up but, at the time it
seemed like slow motion [the kind-a slow motion one feels when in a car
accident... looming], I reasoned where the bird might have gotten off
to... the passage way led not only to the galley but was the main entrance
to "the engine room" [a section of the ship big enough to hold
three or four 2500 sq ft houses and, since the was a steam ship... I saw
predilections of the bird stuck behind the boiler or the waste heat boiler
or the control panel ... slowly frying to a refrain of "yee-ha up-she-rises"].
I jumped across the room threw open the door and sped toward the engine
room ladder. "yeep"... "yeep". "yeep"; turning
around I found the rail bird staring at me from something the size of
a five year old human child but, with a nose so big that his or her eyes
made a platter out of my soul. the reader of this seaman's colloquy, if
still interested... can take note... the seaman in question made many
subsequent transits of the panama canal and never saw another rail bird.
"Oops;
going over 90 better slow it down... humm need gas." was what went
though the motorcycle rider's mind three hours after getting on the interstate.
Interstate riding from the fibonacci chronicles.
mystinski
Interstate riding from the fibonacci chronicles.
mystinski