Potato, Potato

Potato, Potato

Seeking refuge from a confusing American psyche? Take a long motorcycle trip. A reverberant, mobile refuge. Good or bad, the rider and machine encounter a narrow slice of American nature and a measure of self-indulgence. For me an opportunity to extend the shorter end of middle age.

   Swinging my Magnum leather boot over my Road King’s saddle is in itself sort of a protest to the steady physiological changes setting in with aging. Riding the Harley I feel strong, gritty, and a bit swashbuckler. I hear the distinctive rhythmic beat of the V-twin engine and feel the vibration to begin my journey. Ahooga. I’m feel alive, relevant, by God.

Releasing the clutch and suddenly, I’m underway on the way to Sturgis, South Dakota to celebrate motorcycling with hundreds of thousands.

   The first night I park the Harley by my suite at the Six, to avoid a big Louisiana rain, a guest of J. Bordet. His bathroom’s white towels, as I busy myself, make good cleaning rags to remove the Road King’s road grime. Thanks J. A family of five pull up. I am motivated by their ooohhhs, aaahhhhs, and bright smiles and continue cleaning my elegant black and silver motorcycle. Later, a light sleep as dreams of tomorrow’s road miles flicker.

   In the morning I’m loading the bike. Above me on the balcony a little toe headed girls sits, swinging her legs between wrought iron rails. I recognize her from the night before. “Mister,” she asks, “where ya’ll from?”

   “New Orleans,” I answer.

   “Mister, she continues, “where ya’ll goin?”

   “Sturgis, South Dakota,” I proudly answer.

   She rolls her blue eyes, “Where is that mister?”

   “North” I say, “about 1300 miles,” pointing in the general direction.

Her questions swarm like bees. “What is this? What is that? Where did I get that motorcycle? Don’t you own a razor? You can borrow my dad's.” She pops up, scrambling to help by offering more towels and pointing out spots missed. She speaks well, Sweet drawn-out vowels, and volubly. Her name is Tulah from Monroe, LA. As she inquires, often answering her own questions, her sparkling blue eyes investigate. She smiles and exposes a visit from the tooth fairy. I put on my helmet, and she asks in a most gracious, interested tone, “Mister, where is the lady that goes on the back of that Harley?

   Intriguing question, Tulah from Monroe, LA.

   Self-indulgence can be lonely. Sometimes I feel guilty having left behind my girlfriend and my shipmates, as I go alone on this journey. The V-twin engine growls as my thumb presses the starter button. I nod and smile a good- bye to Tulah.

   There is a bittersweet scent hanging over our countryside when the wind isn’t blowing it away. Cow manure on grass. The most pleasing scene I see the second morning on my ride is three small calves nudging breakfast from their grazing mothers in a cool mist-shrouded field near Noel, Arkansas. As it goes there were many pleasing scenes.

   Missouri turns to Kansas, and breeze becomes wind. You feel the wind. Wind is part of the riding deal. Heat and rain are tough, but wind exposes weakness. You might want to quit. Get a motel room. After miles in the wind, I begin to believe God, hearing the deep throated potato, potato sound of the V-twin engine coming to life in the morning, turns to his weather czar and chuckles, “there goes Heald, spin a wind with teeth on Route 36.”

   Winds attack my endurance, yet I persevere through a grueling stretch of Route 36 across Kansas. The sun mercilessly beats down on me, leaving my arms, face, and neck, although generously coated with SPF twenty-five, now cooked to perfection. My legs ablaze, feeling the heat of the engine and exhaust. Internally, my guts roil like restless crabs, incessantly pinching. Five hundred and fifty scorching miles lay behind me, each one a battle against relentless headwinds. As I release a sweltering sigh, the thought crosses my mind - we are no longer in Kansas, Toto.

Turning northward towards McCook, Nebraska, Route 83 narrows in the distance. An immense thunderhead looms to the west, instigating a flurry of apprehension within me. Yet, one cannot deny the destructive allure and grandeur of its black, gray, and billowy beauty. The setting sun casts brilliant, tubular rays of light around the edges of the cloud, a scene so striking that even God himself might jest, "Marvel at them, the fool thinks the storm is pretty."

   I press on for twenty wind blown miles, the motorcycle seeming to defy gravity by riding often pressing to a serious list. I could use a inclinometer. The urge to halt tugs at me, but in the vast expanse of the Great Plains I firmly press forward?

   I eat a Wendy’s cheeseburger in McCook then climb back on the Road King and speed west in a more friendly wind to see friends in Imperial, Nebraska. Soon I pass by a Route 6 sign that despairingly warns, “Danger, high crosswinds.” I think ….Ohhhh, fuck.

   My friend Tammy’s parents own and operate a nine-hundred-acre ranch. She jokingly warned me if I stayed too long her parents, Ivan and Peggy, would put me to work. I stayed the night and drank numerous wind forgetting beers and ate a most delicious homegrown beef steak. Peg keeps me spilling my guts with adept inquiry and the ice-cold beer.

   As that wonderful evening came to a close and I drifted off to sleep I thought of a time when as a child that I wanted to be cowboy. I think mostly inspired by meeting Zip, Tammi’s horse. Days planning ambushes, rustling cattle, rustling them back, galloping across the Oregon plains that was my parents lawn on a broomstick horse. Now my Zip is iron and motor. Motorcycling is somewhat playing cowboy. Giddyyyuuup. Go.

   I, even underway with the damn wind, relish every inch of the one thousand and seven hundred and eighty-five miles. I meet friends at Sturgis. We ride five hundred miles through South Dakota and Wyoming. We visit the dignified Mount Rushmore, Close Encounters of the Third kind location Devil’s Tower, the Back Hills and Badlands. The whole of southeastern South Dakota is a soul cleansing, kidney rinsing experience.

   One evening my nearest overflow hillside tent camping neighbor, Biker Bob, seconds before tumbling down the hillside into an inebriated heap slurred these tired around the edge's adage, “anything worth doing is worth doing to excess." Before sleep finds me, I remember I’m invited to a wedding taking place in Spearfish, South Dakota. The happy Harley riding couple passionately noisily consummate their decision just short yards away in their lopsided tent.

   The next day before the wedding the best man having been reminded in a chat about flying insects is reminded of a Harley riding story that went something like this:

   “I got this friend from Kentucky. He dumps one old lady for another,” he says, pausing to gulp a freshly opened Coors and stood up from the picnic bench. Then he squats down and begins pantomiming riding a motorcycle. He squeezes the clutch handle, puts the bike in gear, rolls on the throttle on the imaginary machine. “August rolls up and it’s time to put this new lady on the back seat of his low rider and show her Sturgis.” He pats the groom's shoulder, “you ain’t gonna believe this,” Mike’s eyebrows shoot up like an umbrella receiving a gust, “but he’s pushing the speed envelope, yeah, riding real fucking fast up on the Green River Parkway outside Owensboro, Kentucky when he spies something big on the horizon.”

   The pantomiming ignites waves of laughter. He goes through all the motions with sound effects, potato, potato, as well. “Initially, he ponders to himself that a sizable moth was swiftly approaching. Upon closer observation, he discerned that it was a giant insect, the size of a dragonfly.”

Mike wicked grins, “Now he executes what I think is a natural if not sensible maneuver. He ducks man. Well, wouldn’t you?” he screeches, a grin spreading across his face as he enjoys his tale telling. “KERRRTHWUUNK!” The bug collides with his new girl’s face hitting her right between the eyes. Ruins brand new Ray-Ban sunglasses and blacks both eyes. Killed the bug I guess. Last I heard he’s looking for another lady for the pillion seat of that low rider.”

   After the outdoor wedding we crank up the scooters and shoot through emotion grabbing nature, Spearfish canyon, towards the Back Porch watering hole. Here I meet a man that I feel could fill the pages of a popular biker magazine as best dressed Harley rider. His name is Schmaltz and he’s from Vermont. He wears a vest and pants with colors of longevity, and I pose the obvious question.

“Been wearin’em twenty-three23 fuckin years man,” he says poking his fingerless leather glove in his chest. He instructs the quilt-like vest and leather covered pants had saved him any damaged skin. Good on ya Schmaltz from Vermont.

   Schmaltz has the right idea. Not a good idea to climb onboard any bike in Dockers, flip-flops or t-shirts. No sir. And off I ride setting a course for the Broken Spoke saloon in downtown Sturgis.

   A blonde lass in the earthy Broken Spoke has no tattoo. Thank goodness. The Saloon enjoys a helluva business on my night out and I’m doing my best to ensure I contribute to their profit. Must be a thousand bikers shuffling boots over a gravel and dirt floor bopping to live, southern rock and wrapped by August’s screaming warm evening. Everybody wears the standard biker garments which for a great many includes tattoos. That is except for the blond lass. She has chosen a purple, sequined ensemble consisting of pasties and a matching V-shaped thong bottom. I look about the patrons and her exposure entertain a good many admirers. She stands casually at a table with her friends drinking a beer and chatting as though she is just another patron, all is well and comfortable. She’s much better looking that Schmaltz from Vermont, but I hope she doesn’t go riding with him because of his propensity to scrape bottom. There is some very pretty and milky white skin at stake here. I find a moment and admire a beautiful woman and am reminded of ole’ Bob’s freshening up that adage. Certainly ole’ Bob is on to something.

   While this slightly robed woman entertains the denizens of the Broken Spoke Saloon a deer collides with a biker and is killed. The biker is equally unfortunate and also dies. I know this because I visited a restroom near my camp and a couple dudes were there skinning and cutting the deer into pieces. For a BBQ I suppose.

   On a cool morning, I aim The Road King and South after having placed a crossed American flag sticker on my lid.

   The air-cooled V-twin purred evenly through thirty-nine hundred climate fluctuating miles. The bike is a graceful, happy machine ever urging the senses to sense. All day I look around, loving our country. A cool spot in Kansas called McCool. In De Queen, Arkansas a dairy queen called Dairy de Queen. In Oklahoma a tree intricately trimmed and painted white, and a creek named the Muddy Boggy. In Texarkana, Texas, not to be out done, flows Swam poodle Creek. Near home two hours outside New Orleans lives the Atchafalaya Swamp. Anyone who hasn't visited, should.

   I stopped twenty-seven times for eighty-two gallons of gas costing $96.75. A little different than Schmaltz’s 1957 patch. The last day I work my Road King for fourteen hours and seven hundred and twenty miles. Leaving behind New Orleans, my work, my girlfriend, my routine leaves me feeling at once exhilarated and secondly, that stone sad feeling in your gut when you miss someone or something. Likewise, leaving behind the people, places, challenges and adventure that the Sturgis experience brought leaves me wanting. I’ll go again.