“It was midnight, and the almost full moon guided Jake down a road that was as smooth as the eighty cubic inches of pulsating motor that hummed beneath him. He was glad to be back on his Harley, for the vibration that ran through the handlebars and into his hands gave him the same comfort that a baby gets from a mouthful of mother’s milk.
After settling with the one percenters and parting company with Marty, Jake zigzagged back and forth. Sometimes he went north and other times south—sometimes east and other times west. He didn’t really know where he was, but he didn’t really care and didn’t even know where he was going next. The only thing he knew for sure was that eventually he needed to head back to Massachusetts. Still thinking about what Marty had said in the coffee shop, he knew that he had to undo the mess he was in. He owed it to himself as well as Karen, but he had no intention of paying the piper to do so.
The wind ran through his hair as he cruised east on the narrow two lane roads of northern Virginia. The sound of the engine and the smell of the road intoxicated him. Comfortable, relaxed, and secure, the smooth asphalt made for a perfect night. Small, quaint villages appeared ahead and disappeared behind like pages in a fairytale book, and before he knew it Jake was countless miles from the beginning of his ride.
The hamlets he passed through sported a mixture of older stores, pre-depression era homes, and the inevitable newer fast food joints. Their lights burned in the night’s darkness as they blended together one after another. The few cars he encountered made for a solo journey that seemed at times to be more like a dream than reality.
Jake’s well worn leathers kept the coolness of the evening air from chilling him to the bone. His feet were glued to the pegs of his big twin, a few scant inches from the blacktop, as he turned north on Highway 301, heading for the Maryland border. As he rumbled down the road lost in thought, his encounter with the patch holders earlier that afternoon was front and center on his mind.”
Chapter 12 Page 73 : One Light Coming: A Biker’s Story (Book 3 in a series).
Published by Blockhead City Press.
This hasn’t been the worst winter at all. In fact it hasn’t been any winter at all. So little snow and everyone is jumping up and down.
Everyone for different reasons though.
Bikers can’t wait to ride so they can feel alive again.
Ski folks can’t wait to ski so they can have fun.
Snow plow drivers can’t wait to plow so they can make some money.
Of course, no one realizes that come June, we’ll be banned from flushing toilets due to the low levels in our resevoirs.
That’ll give ’em something to complain about. People need something to complain about. For most, living in some hum-drum little world, working in some hum-drum little job, complaining reminds them they are alive. And that’s too bad.
For New England Bikers, mid winter is the toughest time of all. We can’t ride yet. And for some our re-building, modifying, customizing projects are either done, or we’ve run out of money and we’re just jonesin’ to be out on the road.
You know what I mean.
To feel the power of your machine under you, the vibrations through the handlebars, the wind just pushing at your face. Close your eyes and you can almost remember what it feels like.
I saw two bikes out on the road today. It was warm enough.
I got jealous.
And then I got happy for them.
‘Cause I know what they were feeling; what they were enjoying.
And then I got jealous again.
Mental masterbation comes in the form of Bike Expos.
We can’t ride, but we can go to some convention center the size of a small town and jam down the aisles with thousands of fellow bikers and occasional riders as we gawk and stare at the latest designs from just about every manufacturer under the sun.
We sit on machines we have no money to buy.
We stare at the hired scantily clad Babes (that always look better half way down the hall then they do up close. Ever notice that? Thier makeup applied heavier than three layers of clear coat on that cool gas tank over there!)
We talk carbs and tires with sales guys like our lives depended on it.
And in some cases it does.
Our mental lives, anyway.
I’ve got a new machine this year.
I 1989 FXR, with a ’99 motor and an ’03 tranny.
Standard 12″ apes on 4inch risers, and staggered dual exhaust.
It’s sort of become my trademark at this point.
I bought it, wrote out the check and haven’t even ridden it yet.
It’s stored in a garage in a nearby town…I don’t even know where really.
I trust the guy who built it.
I know I’ll love it.
I just have to sell my other two machines.
Three is just too many.
I can’t believe I said that, but it’s true.
Especially since they are all sort of the same.
But for now, they’re predicting snow tomorrow.
They say it will come down straight into the day after.
But they’ve been wrong before this year.
And besides, it’s getting too close to full on riding season.
Aren’t you jonesin’ yourself?