With apologies to Robert Pirsig and the Chautauqua Institute
Re-evaluation
When I went to bed last night, I was primed to find the nearest Wells Fargo and see if I could resolve the situation. I woke up this morning and decided not to bother, but just get on the bike and ride. I had enough money for gas and food for the day and a campsite for the night, and the rest could wait.
I went to the lobby to grab the offered breakfast bag and discovered it was raining. Rather than letting this change my mind or my mood, I decided to take the opportunity to hit the slab and just burn miles. Riding mountain roads in the rain isn’t much fun anyway. If I wanted to get to my parents’ house Sunday, I had to make up for the detour and lost time. I threw on my rain gear, packed the motorcycle, and hit the slab.
I rode just over 500 miles today. The rain lasted until early afternoon. I had lunch at an Elvis-themed joint called The Pink Cadillac Diner, which not only had a ‘50s model pink Caddy out front, but the entire building was Pepto pink. They made a great bacon cheeseburger.
Late in the afternoon I stopped in Pulaski, VA, for fuel, a coffee, and some more Advil. While standing by the gas pumps drinking my coffee, an old rat bike came rolling in. This thing was a work of art. The frame was unrecognizable. The rear fender looked like it came off a kid’s bicycle, and was just about rubbing on a worn bias-ply tire. The solo seat was strapped on with a chunk of leather belt that had been riveted on. It had a sissy bar that looked like it might also have come off a kid’s bicycle. There was a machete tucked in behind the straight pipes, which were mounted scrambler-style and wrapped in header wrap so they wouldn’t burn the rider’s legs. There was a survival knife in a scabbard attached to the top triple with radiator clamps. The man riding it was just as good. Old grizzled dude, long gray beard, lots of silver rings on one hand, engineer boots, sleeveless T-shirt revealing lots of tattoos. I looked at the bike and said, “That thing started life as a CB750.”
He said “No, it started life as this fuel tank, and the bike just kinda grew underneath it.” He patted a fuel tank from a mid-60s Harley. “But that motor is Honda – it’s CB450.”
He then told me had just come from the cardiologist and showed me the lump caused by his pacemaker/defibrillator. “They put me on new heart meds. I’ve gotta figure out how I can pay for ‘em. First I gotta see if someone will loan me some gas money.”
I looked him in the eye and said, “Take the cap off that tank.”
He asked “Now why would I do that?”
“If that tank is empty, I’m gonna fill it. If it ain’t, you’re a piece of shit.”
He opened the tank. I looked in, hardly a drop of gas.
“Pull your bike up beside mine.” He did, and I filled them both. “We gotta take care of each other, no matter what we ride.”
“Some people don’t see it that way,” he replied.
I told him I knew, but that’s not my way. I shook his hand and went off down the road.
Other than waiting out a brief storm under a highway bridge, the rest of the day was filled with finding dinner and a place to lay my head. Hotels apparently don’t much like people without identification, and campgrounds right now are so busy they want you to stay two nights. Here I sit in a tent in a KOA campground near Hershey, PA. I paid for two nights and they didn’t ask for ID when I paid cash. So tomorrow will be another Western Union trip on the way north.