Backroads, v2

Backroads

or:

On Being Blown Sideways Down the Road Less Traveled

There's something peculiarly energizing about a road trip, even if, as is so often the case, it's a journey to nowhere in particular. Even if you've been down the same road a hundred times before, there's always the hint of something new in the air, some new adventure at hand right around the next bend in the road. The butterflies, the jitters, call them what you like, they always turn up a few days before, but always when you least expect them. Hints of the unknown crowd out normal workaday thoughts; the thrill of the unexpected is just around the next bend in the road. At least that's the it'd been in the daydreams I'd been having lately. Maybe it's just because the whole road-trip-thing is like life, just all compressed into one brief interlude of beginning, middle, and end. But more than anything else, taking a road trip marks a real break from the ordinary and becomes a confirmation of sorts that we are, in fact, still among the living.

"Still among the living?" I remembered saying to myself one rainy afternoon. If I wasn't alive, just what the Hell was I doing here?

That thought kept running through my mind in the days and weeks before my scheduled vacation; I'd been wanting to break away from the 'day to day' of my life for quite some time, yet something about this turning into 'just another road trip' suddenly seemed to press in on me from all the wrong sides. With that sudden realization, and all the other prickly details coming to a head just a few days before D-Day, I decided it was time to put up or shut up. I could load up my ancient Land Rover and hope for the best, or I could do something all too characteristic of my more stupid self -- and buy a motorcycle. In point of fact, I chose the latter, because in my experience Stupid always wins.

So let me clear one thing up right now: I used to ride the stupid things very chance I got. Motorcycles, I mean. Let's just ignore the fact for a moment that the last time I'd been on a bike Reagan was still in his first term. I used to ride a lot back then, as a matter of fact, and I'm not stretching the truth (too much) when I say I generally liked it. Over three years in the early 80s, I'd put almost thirty thousand miles on a silver BMW R100RT, a decent, if somewhat small, touring bike. I'd always kept my license current because, like I said, I can be spontaneously stupid and I like to be prepared for such occasions. My insurance agent, an old friend from high school, didn't throw too big a fit when I told him what I had in mind, though he did mention something about getting my affairs in order. I told him I hadn't gotten laid in three years, let alone had an affair with anyone, so Take That! Of course, his secretary blew half a bottle of Pepsi out her nose when I said that, which made my day.

Anyway, I didn't want to deal with used bike break-downs so headed off to a couple of dealerships. My little 1982 BMW had cost something like four grand back in the day; a new touring bike, I found, would require a second mortgage on my house or a five hundred dollar a month payment. Never being a timid sort, which is a roundabout way of saying I've never been particularly intelligent with finances, after falling in love with the second bike I saw I signed on the dotted line and was suddenly the proud new owner of a brand new, eleven hundred pound behemoth, a genuine two-wheeled motor-home -- these being more commonly referred to as Gold Wings.

There's no good reason to go into the details: it was a nice machine. The Honda wasn't anything like my svelte, agile BMW of yesterday, but then again, neither was I. In that regard I thought the two of us a perfect match, and despite the fact that I bought the only one any dealer around the Pacific Northwest had in stock. Therefore, after all due consideration (call it twenty minutes, tops) I drove out of the dealership on a half ton (plus some) banana; the salesman even threw in a nice gloppy brown helmet. The first red light I came to I spied my reflection in the Mercedes next to me; I looked like I was sitting on a banana with a nice dollop of hot fudge on top. As I pulled up to another stop light on the way home, I overheard a little girl say something like: "Look, Mommy! Ice cream!" And yes, she was pointing at me. Now, can we just drop the whole color thing?

That first ride home was, also, when I recognized the pure and total dread I felt when I considered what fun it would be to drop my shiny new hot-fudge mastodon. How did this come about, you ask? Well, when I put my foot down on hot asphalt that first ride, cold fear clutched my gut as my foot began sliding through the goo. Sudden understanding hit like a flash of lightning: if I dropped this mother it would take a tow truck or a platoon of Marines to help get it back up on two wheels. Maybe the prospect wouldn't have seemed so daunting with a nice gray motorcycle, but now the complexities of owning a fluorescent yellow motorcycle took on all sorts of dramatic new possibilities. Let's see, just how many ways can one humiliate oneself in public. Anyway, when that light turned green I satisfied myself that this two-wheeled banana split could accelerate to pretty near ninety three percent of light speed in a city block. Well, if I couldn't deal with the humiliation, perhaps I could at least outrun it.

After a quick stop at a sporting goods store for a tent (and all the requisite paraphernalia that attends such far-seeing masochism), I headed home by way of the local drive-through hamburger joint. There were, of course, an even half dozen cars ahead of me in the line, which, of course, necessitated duck-waddling the beast with legs spread in ways they hadn't in, well, thirty plus years.

It started as a little burn, really. A muscle deep in the general vicinity of my testicles began to smolder, then it gave an insistent little quiver before turning into a pulsing inferno. I hopped over to one side, hoping to relieve the spasm; when that didn't do the trick I hopped to the other foot. I shut my eyes and gritted my teeth, sweat began pouring out from under my new fudge-colored helmet, and drivers in the four or five cars behind me began to honk their horns. I wanted to flip them off but I realized I was massaging my balls with both hands; I opened my eyes in time to see a mother hurrying her kids past me while saying something like "it's alright, Peggy-Sue, just don't look at the dirty old man. We're almost to the car!" Just warms the cockles of your heart, you know?

In the end I decided to pull into a parking space and go inside, wondering all the way if the paramedics would mind massaging my nuts on the bathroom floor.

+++++

The last two days before vacation moved by at a glacial pace, but at precisely two in the afternoon on the day before departure, I hurried home and jumped on the Wing, then took off for a quick ride around the neighborhood. People I had known for years, real friends even, pointed at my hot fudge banana and laughed; grown men hid their eyes and small children ran toward the Honda like it was an ice cream truck. I began to calculate how quickly a body shop could drop two coats of candy apple red on the beast as I slunk back to the safety of my garage. I closed the overhead door as quickly as I could, threw a tarp over her for good measure, then darted into the kitchen. I grabbed a beer and went out onto the back porch, just as another testicular cramp nailed me to a chair.

"Nice looking bike, Tim," my neighbor Hank called out from over our fence. I was pretty sure people in Wyoming heard him say that, too. His baby girl was perched on his shoulder, a evil smirk in her eight month old eyes. "Just what do they call that color, anyway?" He had a nice smirk going, too. Must be a genetic thing.

"Baby shit yellow," I replied, thoughtfully. "Kinda like the stuff running down your shirt." Et tu, Brutus.

I went back inside and massaged my nuts while I flipped on the television. It was a Honda commercial, of course, and it was the most beautiful Gold Wing I'd ever seen...kind of a misty metallic bronze, tan saddle, smiling couple in color-matched riding suits and helmets -- just gorgeous. Real classic stuff, something you'd be proud to be seen on. I went back out to the garage and peeled back the tarp and looked at my banana. No wonder it was the last one in Oregon. Maybe someone at the factory had decided to make a one-off Joke Wing? Well anyway, she was all mine now and after all, I didn't have to look at the damn thing. Looking on the bright side, people would be able to spot me from miles off, even in heavy fog. Such a deal!

Well, the anointed day arrived; all gear was stowed logically, iPhone linked to the entertainment system, fuel tank overflowing. I rolled-up my rain gear, stuffed it in a little nylon sack and lashed it to the rack on top of the trunk, then put on my helmet and clicked the chin-strap in place. Feeling for all the world like Tom Cruise walking along a ramp bristling with Tomcats, I flipped the ignition switch and hit the starter: the beast turned over, began to purr gently. I paddled backwards out of the garage and turned her around under the last of the night's stars, a new nut crushing charley-horse hovering in the background and ready to pounce unannounced. Still, I managed to slip her in gear, hit the garage door opener and idled slowly down the drive and into the street, all without falling on my face.

It felt good, making this getaway. The air was cool and clear, the moon overhead seemed lazily content to light the way for a while longer, and the eastern horizon looked pink and full of promise. The panel lights glowed reassuringly, providing a radiant cocoon to sit back and enjoy life in, to watch and let the world slip by in comfort, and everything just felt good. All was right with my little world.

And my trip planning had been deviously simple: nada. I had made not one plan, made zero hotel reservations. I frankly didn't give a damn where I went, or what I might see. What I had was two weeks off, a new motorcycle, and plenty of clean underwear. I mean, really, what else do you need? With the wind at my back I made my way down to Interstate-5 and paused: north or south, I asked myself, warmer or cooler. North it was, but then I changed my mind and turned east, took off along the Columbia River toward Spokane. The sun rose, the air grew warmer, little gusts swirled down the canyon and shook the bike from time to time, and it still felt good to be alive. Somewhere along the way I'd forgotten just how sweet an unscheduled life can really be.

So, the Honda became my silent partner, willing and smooth, and it soon became apparent that while riding on this machine, it would be ridiculously easy to rack up huge mileage before developing what is best called bungee-butt. If you've ever done big miles on a hard saddle, you call the resulting sensation 'iron ass'. The Honda's seat had a backrest, GPS showed the way ahead, cruise control took care of the monotonous tyranny of the speedometer, an electrically adjustable windscreen kept bugs out of my teeth and the included CB radio would, hopefully, reveal hidden speed traps, so, taking into account the aforementioned entertainment system, all the big yellow beast really needed was maid service and a mini-bar.

So, the miles rolled by fluidly; speed seemed of little importance out here -- until the river gave way to high rolling grasslands, and then everything took on a careless ambivalence. The road turned north and crossed the Columbia and a short time later the highway crossed into Washington. The air grew marginally warmer, the sun incrementally more prickly; the fuel warning light blinked insistently and an off-ramp loomed ahead, an oasis of high octane gasoline and high fructose corn syrup for modern high plains drifters.

This first stop represented the bike's first full tank of fuel burned, but the mileage was surprisingly bad. An Accord would beat this puppy, I thought, and to make matters even less cheerful, the cold drinks at the Stop-n-Rob weren't cold at all. That said, I couldn't wait to get back on the road. I looked at the GPS and scrolled around, weighing options against the sun overhead, then looked looked up from the display at a strip of two lane blacktop that swept off towards rolling hills.

Ah-yep. That looks just fine, thank you very much. I pulled out of the station and turned onto the blacktop and rolled on the throttle. The air was hot now, and felt like a blast furnace until the engine heat slipped away as our speed built. A highway sign just ahead mentioned that Waitsburg was about ninety miles ahead and that felt about right, too. The road was all long sweeping curves and begged for a little speed and the Honda was only too happy to oblige. The road was perfect, too perfect, then I came around a bend and saw a pair of State Troopers had a group of kids on crotch-rockets pulled over. He and his partner were, I could imagine, having a ticket writing contest. I braked hard and the Honda purred along quietly; I even waved at the gendarmes as I passed. I'm sure the kids would have flipped me the bird if they would have. I felt for 'em, I really did. Not one of their bikes was banana yellow, far from it, as a matter of fact, and here I was rolling by scot-free. Life ain't fair sometimes. I did notice a few frowns as I passed, however.

I set the cruise control and waited. I knew it wouldn't be long.

Sure enough, a few minutes passed before I could see the State Trooper's car roaring along to catch up and pace me or hit me with radar. They hung back a while in frustration then closed the gap rapidly. We came to a long clear straight and they made to pass, pulled alongside and the Trooper in the passenger seat rolled down his window. I rolled the speed down a little more.

"Man alive," the Trooper shouted over the road noise, "that sure is one yellow motorcycle!" They were both laughing, so I did too.

I looked down at the bike. "Really? I thought it was green."

"Did you special order it that way?"

"Yup. I've always been partial to banana splits. What can I say?"

The Troopers laughed and roared off down the road. I changed playlists and leaned back, took the warm Dr Pepper for one of the Wing's fourteen cup holders and took a swig. Warning time: there's nothing worse than warm Dr Pepper; it foams and fizzes and runs out your nose, and at sixty miles per on a motorcycle that can be a real interesting experience. A challenge, even.

A sign ahead put Waitsburg at forty five miles, and the gas gauge showed a little less than half. Now that was interesting, and got my instant and undivided attention, too. I'd been forty seven miles and used more than half a tank. Interesting. I hoped there was good cell coverage out here, because it looked like I might need it. I set the cruise at fifty five and loped along slowly; a few minutes later another group of kids on crotch rockets came flaming by and I wanted to warn them what they were headed for, but they were doing their level best to grind their foot-pegs off and were out of sight before I could form a complete sentence in my mind.

Needless to say, the Troopers were wearing out their ballpoints about three turns on down the road. The gendarmes waved again as I passed; one of these kids did in fact flip me the bird. I saw one of the troopers in my mirror smile, then get another ticket book out.

Geesh, I never knew revenue enhancement could be so fun.

A few minutes later the 'low fuel' warning light came on, but I could see the town of Waitsburg ahead and it was all downhill from there, a long, gentle stretch of road. As I entered town, sitting beside the wide river I spotted a couple of Stop-n-Robs in a sea of trees, and pulled into the first one I came to.

Filled up and went in to pay, asked the clerk if there was a good burger to be had around town and she pointed out a little place down the main street a few hundred yards. I saddled up and puttered down the tree-lined street, pulled up in front of a funky looking diner, took off my helmet and immediately felt the sun beating down on my head. There was a little window box air conditioner struggling off the side of the building and I walked in, hoping for the best. Of course, I took a seat right in front of the air conditioner, too.

It was surprisingly nice inside, and as empty as could be. There was a woman behind the counter; she was reading a tabloid and didn't even look up when I came in, and neither did she after I came up to the counter.

"Y'all open?"

"If the sign says so, I guess I am." She had a thick Aussie accent, and seemed totally out of her element, like she'd been stranded here once upon a time and hadn't quite figured that out yet. I wondered what her story was.

"Think I could get a burger? Maybe a Coke and some fries?"

"What you want on it?"

"Everything."

"Everything?" She looked up at me now, interested. "You sure?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess so. Why?"

"Better have a look at the menu, slick."

I pulled a little red vinyl folder out of the little stainless rack along the counter and looked through it. There were about thirty optional toppings for the burgers, everything from all the normal things to really weird ones like habaneros and anchovies! I'd never seen anything like it in my life, at least not outside of LA.

"Anyone ever put dead hairy fish on their burger?" I was incredulous, flabbergasted even.

"Yeah, quite a few actually. Seems to go pretty good with bleu cheese."

"Your shittin' me, right?"

"No. No shit."

"Okay, well, tell you what. Your choice; make me the best one you can."

"I can do that." She stood, accepted the challenge and went into the kitchen; soon meat was sizzling and fries were bubbling away. She brought out a cold Coke in a glass of crushed ice. Heaven! Pure heaven!

A few minutes later the troopers pulled up and parked in front of the door; they waved to me when they came in and took a table in the corner and sat facing the door. Not a minute later the first herd of crotch rockets roared into town and they too pulled up to the diner. That, I thought, took balls, but they came thudding in and spilled into a couple of booths, shedding helmets and gloves and unzipping multicolored leather outfits all the while.

"How are you this afternoon, Mary?" one of the troopers asked the girl in the kitchen.

"Good, Dwayne. How 'bout y'all? What'll it be?"

"Usual for me. Can't say for sure what the rookie will do. Ain't quite figured him out yet."

"Got any chili back there?" the rookie said, his voice expectant and hungry.

"Are you out of your cotton-pickin' mind, Meathead? It's gonna be over a hundred degrees out there today; tell me you ain't gonna force me to sit in a car all afternoon after you eat a bowl of chili? There are beans in that chili, fool! Come on, say it ain't so!"

The rookie looked down sheepishly. "Guess I'll have a BLT, Mary."

The old trooper looked triumphant; the bikers smirked and chuckled.

"And a bowl of chili too?" the rookie said. That caused a couple of the bikers to laugh loud and hard. The old cop just shook his head and grinned, took his defeat gracefully.

It turned out that Mary cooked the best hamburger west of anywhere, and the fries were fresh too, not frozen, which to me induces a mild state that somehow approaches nirvana. And now, with the place full almost to bursting, the girl was cooking up a storm back there; the little diner filled with all kinds of sizzles and pops, with vast plumes of hissing steam rising and drifting all over everything. It smelled a little bit like heaven in there to me, not at all like the fast food places you find along the Interstate. I began to think I'd made a good choice to turn away from the beckoning crowds. There might just be something to these backroads after all.