‎"Shoot tight, ride hard, ski the deep, and love much......"

A biker's New Year wish.......

I've ridden over many tall mountains now, and along the shores of crashing oceans, and across a heaving sea of grass with the ghost of a Lakota warrior crouching behind every knoll..... I've ridden free and fast for almost a lifetime.

And through all of it, I have ridden with a woman that loves me... a woman I love. I've watched our son grow tall and straight, into a true man, a builder, and a rider at that!

I am a happy man, and I hope you are too, wherever you are, and whatever you ride. Happy New Year, my friends, and I wish you a thousand more! May your fuel tanks always be full, your roads curly, your women and children happy and free.... peace and freedom, my friends, my brothers and sisters, peace and freedom!

Rivers......

"River." I love the very word. There's a murmur to it, a melody, the word "river" sounds like it is, sounds like what it does...

In days past, I'd been a riverman, a boatsman.....long boats down the Ohio, steamboats up and down the Mississippi, the Missouri, the Yellowstone, the Columbia, the Snake.... Rivers are the life force -- the veins and arteries of any continent, any nation. And the names of rivers and river towns! The Mississippi, the Missouri, the Rappahannock , the Susquehanna, the Arkansas, the Tennessee, the Colorado, the Snake, the Columbia, the Lochsa, the Clearwater... Cairo, Memphis, Knoxville, Hannibal, New Orleans...Great Falls, Missoula, Kettle Falls, Walla Walla, Umatilla, the Dalles, Bridge of the Gods, Hood River, Portland.... I love rivers and I love river towns, and I love riding my motorcycles on the river roads alongside them. Many, many good motorcycle roads follow rivers: Highway 14 (the Columbia), Highway 12 (The Clearwater, the Lochsa), Highway 30 (the Platte), Highway 200 (Clark's Fork), and on and on..... it's spring; the rivers are awakening and beginning to move, and so am I... again, it's time to go....

I was there.....

I was with the Captains Lewis and Clark, and their chief guide, Saca-ja-weah; I was at the battles of Adobe Walls, the Custer fight, the Fetterman Massacre; I was at South Pass, and almost all along the Oregon Trail, the gateway to our modern nation; I was at Antietam, Gettysburg, Pea Ridge, Chicamaugwa, Shiloh........

Shiloh! Yeah, I was at Shiloh.....such a beautiful place name, and such a sad, haunted place. Sit down near Bloody Pond, near dusk....sit quietly and listen to the faint sobbing and cries in the gentle night air..... if you can't hear them, if you aren't moved by where you are, you don't deserve to be there..... Nossir, and those old boys's sacrifices were wasted on you....

Yeah, Bloody Pond, to which the wounded of the battle would crawl to try and slake their dreadful thirst.... The wounded -- some blue, some grey -- made their way there.... and then the muddy pond went red. Blue and Grey, but the same red mud, the same red blood.....

I've been where the Comanche rode, and the early Texas Rangers, with Walker Colts and rawhide bags of cold flour, riding just as hard, hunting their mortal enemies, the 'Comanch'..... Cynthia Ann, Quanah Parker, Charles Goodnight, John Coffee Hayes.... I've ridden where giants rode.....

And I've done it on my touring motorcycles.... Many of us ride bikes for pleasure, for distraction, for show, but I rode my bike because I loved it, and then, mile by mile, the motorcycle gave to me my whole nation, showed its history to me, mile by mile, county by county, state by state....... It was the best thing, next to Red, that has ever happened to me....that first, mutiple day tour, so long ago..... Thank God we took it!

Compromises....

I don't own a house on a hill, but I've climbed many a hill, and slept upon some in a whispering tent, among the flowers and the stars.... I don't own a Porsche or Aston-Martin sports car, but I've rambled through high mountain ranges on a powerful motorcycle, the thrum of its engine in tune with the rushing of blood in my veins....I don't live in a mansion, but I have lived for a near lifetime in a small house warmed by a woman's love, a house that has rung for years with laughter.... and I don't sit on corporate boards of high power or prestige, but I've seen the joy in a child's face over something I've done, and I've had young mothers bring their babies to me, just so I could see them....

Yeah, I've made compromises in life, not a damn one of which I've ever regretted....ever.....

Money and satisfaction: an inverse relationship?

I've been thinking quite a bit lately about the relationship between money spent and satisfaction gained...and how it is sometimes an inverse relationship.....

For instance, I have a friend who married well, and rides a BMW. Since he's afraid of voiding his warranty, he won't do any of his own work, not even oil changes. We live in central Washington State, and he can only get his BMW serviced in the heavily populated western part of the state (Seattle, Tacoma, etc....) or in the less populated eastern section (Clarkston). Since he hates traffic, and hates being lonely, he often invites me along on his trips to Clarkston -- 175 miles one way -- to get his oil changed.......... I've never seen him leave the dealer's lot without a $500-$600 receipt.......

Now, "impoverished" me.... I ride, besides the ST, a 2007 KLR dual sport which I bought slightly used (4,000 miles) for $4K. Since I've had the bike, I've replaced the "dohickey" (google it!), swapped out the blown OEM shock for a Moab, learned to adjust my valves (after breaking a camshaft cap and having a guru named Eagle Mike repair it.....), done all the common mods, replaced three tires (Shinko 244s, $115 a pair, mounting them myself), and have immersed myself in KLR history and lore. I never travel without the tools in my 7.62 military surplus ammo boxes (mounted on Happy Trails racks) and the tire irons in my "tube tool mod" necessary to repair a puncture on the road....... I use cheap "diesel oil" in the bike, changing every two K, and I run on low grade petrol......

So.....

I may be an uncultured, impoverished clod, but I'm pretty sure I'm gonna get home before dark, and without breaking the bank, and I love my klutzy KLR without reservation..... in fact, I think I love my bike more than my "married-well" BMW rider friend loves his, even if he doesn't have any grease under his fingernails! My KLR is delicate, noisy, archaic, klunky, underengineered, and underpowered, and possibly the most "satisfying" bike I've ever had..... Riding it across the state is like flying a Sopwith Camel over the English Channel: you might make it, you might not...but, by God, along the way you are for damn sure paying attention! It's like that girl we all knew in high school: homely, and a hell of a ride, but....not necessarily something you wanted to be seen on....

College Boy

(Caution: Adult Fiction)




The first one was huge..... with great hairy arms smeared with bad tattoos, and a mouthful of rotten teeth. The other was thinner, better looking, with polished engineer boots and a Van Dyke beard. He smiled most of the time, but for some reason – I feared him more. Both rode radically chopped Harley panheads, and both wore sleeveless denim vests with the faded, three patch colors of the Gallows Tribe, Seattle’s worst outlaw motorcycle club.

I turned, my hands trembling, to rock my 305cc Honda Superhawk Twin off its center stand.

“Where’ya goin’, girl?” The large one with the fetid mouth stood in front of my wheel, blocking my way to the street. Behind me, the bearded one stood smiling, while behind him hummed the background hilarity of the usual Friday night tavern people– Grace Slick’s thick and sweet, amplified voice rising above it all. Except for the three of us --- the tavern’s parking lot was deserted.

“Aw, he’s jus’ goin’ for a little ride, ain’t ya, boy?” The thin one with the beard moved toward me, as graceful as a cat. “Wanna go with us to a real party? Do some killer grass? Whaddya think, my little sweet rider? Come and get yerself some good buzz.....?”

“Uh, can’t tonight, guys.” I tried to grin. “Gotta go.....gotta date. Y’know how it is!”

“A date! Didya’ hear the little sucker? Him’s got a date! Holy Shit, a date!”

Fetid Mouth roared uproariously, slapping his greasy, denim-clad thighs.

“Jesus! A fuckin’ date!”

“C’mon, now, guys........” Even I could hear the pleading in my voice.

Van Dyke beard moved even closer to me. Still smiling, his eyes roaming over me, he said, very softly, “better get on that little thing and come with us. We ain’t a’gonna hurt ya, jus’ show ya some things. We might even have some information about that college girl that disappeared last week..... you could then give the information up to the fuckin’ police..... be a big hero, then, huh, college boy?”

I swallowed hard. I glanced toward the front door of the tavern.

The Van Dyke beard looked into my eyes, and laughed, and said, “you’d nevah make it, college boy. Ol’ Crank here’d bust your fuckin’ neck like a twig! Be smart, now, let’s go!”

He grew suddenly angry and bunched his bony shoulders and balled his fists. “Now get on that poor excuse of a little boy’s faggot bike and ride between us,” he snarled. “Now!”

We rode south, along Eastlake and then Empire Way, one in front, one in back, and me in the middle. The roar of their straight pipe Harleys drowned out the hum of my small bike completely. There was little traffic.... no police. My hands were shaking on the grips, my gasping breath fogging my face shield. Tears came to my eyes as I thought of my family and Ginger. Near the International district, they turned off into a littered alley and parked their bikes next to a dark and low building. Fetid Mouth grapped me and shoved me viciously toward the door.

“Get your ass in there, punk, get in there and drop your laundry!”

I turned my head around toward Van Dyke Beard. “Please,” I said. Van Dyke laughed and kicked me with a polished boot. Fetid Mouth opened the door, then grapped me by the hair and drug me across the room, and then threw me onto a filthy, rumpled bed.

“Get your pants off, College Boy. Get your pants off and lay down on that bed....face down.. and don’t give me no fuckin’ trouble.”

Fetid Mouth turned to Van Dyke and laughed.

“Think he’ll squeal much? Squeal like she did?”

Van Dyke looked at me. “Get them pants off.... now.”

Pretending to weep, I fumbled at my belt buckle, and then slid my right hand down into the waistband of my jeans, under my windbreaker, and around my side over my right buttock...... where the familiar, slender, walnut and steel grip of the Colt Combat Commander .45 cal Automatic Pistol rested against my kidney.

Fetid Mouth had unzipped his trousers, and had his penis poked out, erect and ugly. The gun in my hand came out and swung smoothly around, without haste, just as I had practiced it, the butt settling into my other hand, the muzzle almost touching the tip of Fetid Mouth’s ugly, engorged member. I waited until his eyes began to grow wide, just long enough for him to know, and then I snapped off the safety with my right thumb and pulled the trigger.

The gun roared, and blew Fetid Mouth’s organ into chunks of red meat and red mist – and cracked his pelvis in two. He fell backwards unto the floor already screaming, blood already welling through his frantically clutching fingers.

“Ah! Ah! Ah, Christ! Ah, God! Ah! Ah! Ah! Fuck! He shot me! Ah!Ah! Ah!”

For all his cat-like grace, Van Dyke Beard was slow to react, his mouth opening in shock, his eyes riveted on Fetid Mouth’s bloody groin. I swung the gun over toward him almost languorously, deliberately, with audible laughter bubbling up in my throat. With what seemed to be a violent effort of will, he jerked his eyes away from the bleeding man on the floor and reached toward his arm pit. I shot him deliberately and without haste – squarely in the stomach.

All his breath left him with an audible "woosh," and he sat down rather quickly on the bed. “Fuck,” he said. I held the muzzle of my pistol in the middle of his forehead and reached under his left arm. I pulled out a small, pot metal, 5-shot, 2" .38 revolver and threw it across the room.

“Cheap gun, Van Dyke.” I said. “Poor choice.”

Bubbles of blood and foam were forming on his lips. “Who the fuck are you, man,“ he asked, his voice now low and hoarse and raspy.

“Just a college boy.... just going to school on the G.I. bill.... the one you get when you come back from Vietnam.”

“Vietnam,” he breathed.

“Ya heard of it? Screwed up place, “ I laughed. “Screwed up for sure...but didn’t I wash off good when I came home? Didn’t I? Wait here a minute.”

I turned to Fetid Mouth, who was still screaming and writhing on the floor.

“I can handle the screaming, “ I said. “But that gawdawful breath of yours’s gotta go.” I placed the muzzle against his yellow teeth and shot him through the mouth and out the back of his neck. He was instantly still and quiet. I turned back to Van Dyke, and knelt down next to the bed.

“The girl you and fuckhead there were talking about? Her name was Ginger....and she was from my hometown. Used to dance with her sometimes......she could dance, and she was worth a million of you pukes. A bartender I know saw her leaving the Blue Moon Tavern with a couple of Gallows Tribe guys. Ginger was adventurous, always... and too trusting, always... What was she doing? Was she trying to score some weed?”

He was sobbing now. “Please,” he said.

“Where is she?”

“Dumped her in the Sound....but Crank and another dude did her, not me... Please, I need a doctor....”

“Yeah, well....no, no you don’t!”

I rose to my feet, took a quick step to my right, and shot him through his left ear. He flopped over on the bed in that rubbery way the newly dead sometimes have.

I wiped my pistol down with a section of grubby bedsheet, exchanged the magazine with a fully loaded one from my pocket, and stuck it back in my waistband under my windbreaker. I then washed some blood spatter off my face, hands, and my windbreaker at a filthy kitchen sink. It took several minutes, but I found all four shell casings and shoved them deep in the pocket of my jeans. I looked around once more, at the room with the two still forms, the room smelling of blood and cordite, and then walked outside into the cool Seattle night air. The surrounding buildings were dark and quiet and deserted, the only sound a muted traffic hum coming from the I-5 freeway. My well-tuned Honda twin started immediately. I gunned the engine and looked at my watch.

“Damn, only 9:30,” I said to the night sky. “Time enough to get back to the bars... time enough to maybe get another...”

I swung the small, smooth bike out of the dark alley and into the night.