When I woke up, my head was pounding. I climbed out of my sleeping bag, unzipped the tent, and emerged into the morning air. Ross was sitting at the table. “Hey, how did you make out last night with that girl?” I asked him.
His broad smile told the entire story. “I feel like shit. I could use a beer, hair of the dog,” he said.
“There are four beers in the stream.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” Ross disappeared down the bank of the river.
Bill climbed out of the tent. “Ohhhh, my head.”
Ross emerged from the stream. He popped open the beer and smiled at Bill. “Good morning!” he said in a voice that was much too cheery.
“Finish that beer and let’s go get breakfast. There’s a diner in Franklin. I’ll show you guys the day’s route while we eat,” I said.
I noticed a few bikes parked in front of the Franklin Diner as we pulled in. One of them was a bright red Laverda. We got off of our bikes and walked up to the red beauty.
“Look at that. It has rear sets,” Ross said.
Bill was perplexed. “What are rear sets?”
The design of most street bikes focuses on the comfort of the rider, who sits in an upright position. The handlebars are in easy reach, and the foot pegs are directly under the gas tank. Racing bikes consider wind drag and center of gravity in their design. The rider is in a prone position out of the wind and lying on the gas tank. The handlebars are much lower, and the foot pegs are near the rear wheel.
“A Laverda is as close as you can get to a racing bike that’s street legal. This guy moved the foot pegs from under the seat to the rear wheel. He also moved the brake and shift mechanisms, so you ride hunched over. It’s quite a setup,” I said.
We walked into the diner. There were two guys eating breakfast, both dressed in full leathers. “Hey there. Whose Laverda is that?” Ross asked.
One guy said, “It’s Jim’s. Here he comes now.”
Jim walked toward us returning from the bathroom with a noticeable limp.
“I hear that’s your Laverda. It’s a beauty,” I said.
“Thanks.”
“Do you ride here much?” I asked.
“This is the first time since my accident about a year ago. A car pulled out in front of me and I hit it broadside. I went flying twenty feet, ass over tin cup.”
“Wow. It’s good you’re okay,” Bill said.
“‘Well, I messed up my leg so bad they had to fuse it to my ankle, so I can’t bend my foot. Makes it hard to shift.”
“So, how do you ride?” I asked.
Smiling, he said, “I lock my foot under the shifter and move my entire leg.”
As I pondered that statement and turned to walk toward our booth, I said, “Well, best of luck to you.”
The waitress seated us and gave us menus. “I can’t believe he still rides. I don’t think I would after an accident like that,” I said.
“I know I wouldn’t,” Bill said.
We placed our order with the waitress as I spread the map out on the table. We decided our first excursion would be to Seneca Rocks. The waitress came with our food and we wolfed it down in no time. Bill treated us to breakfast. When we walked out into the parking lot, we noticed our friends with the racing bikes were gone.
We started our ride to Seneca Rocks. Ross led, and I followed, with Bill taking up the rear. Ross was a much better rider than I. The measure of this is pretty simple: who gets there first. No matter how hard I tried, I could never keep up with him. He leaned into the bends better than me and went through them much faster than I did. He also had a faster motorcycle. I settled into the ride, enjoying the smooth, winding canyon roads. Like the song says, West Virginia is almost heaven.
After a while, I glanced in my rearview mirror and noticed that Bill was no longer following me. I accelerated and pulled up next to Ross, motioning for him to slow down.
I told Ross we needed to turn around and look for Bill. After about ten minutes of retracing our path, I spotted Bill parked on the side of the road with the seat of his bike up. I dismounted and walked over to him.
“I had to refill my oil,” he said.
“Can you flash your lights next time? I thought you were in a ditch.”
“Okay, I will.”
I walked back to Ross, who was sitting on his idling motorcycle. “What’s up?” he asked.
“He had to refill his oil. I told him to flash his lights next time, so we know about it.”
“I hope that thing makes it. If it dies out here in the middle of nowhere, he’ll have to leave it behind and ride with you.”
“I know,” I said. I walked over to Bill, who had finished the top-up and was ready to go.
We arrived at the Seneca Rocks Visitor Center and parked our bikes in a row. We spent the day hiking to the top of the cliff. It was a long, challenging hike, but the views were spectacular.
We cooked steaks for dinner at our campsite instead of spending the evening in the smoky bar. None of us wanted to wake up with another hangover in the morning.
The next day, we went back to the Franklin Diner for breakfast. “Today, we’re going to Dolly Sods. It’s an interesting place,” I said.
“It’s about a two-hour ride to get there, and once we arrive, there’s lots to see. Dolly Sods is a high-altitude plateau, four thousand feet above sea level with a climate like Canada’s. That’s why I asked you to bring warm clothing.”
Ross took the last drink from his coffee and said, “Let’s shove off. My treat today.”
It was a hot day, so I was wearing a T-shirt, but I knew it would be chilly once we got to the top of the plateau. I had brought a sweatshirt and attached it to the back of my seat with a bungee cord. It took us about two hours, even with stopping so Bill could top off his oil. The multiple switchbacks on the road to the top of the plateau made it a blast to ride. We all stopped when we reached the top and admired the view.
Ross opened his tank bag and took out a jacket. The trees were chest high and only had branches on the windward side. As he put it on, he asked, “What’s up with these trees?”
“That’s because of the elevation. If we got much higher, they would completely disappear,” I said. “That’s what happened when we rode to the top of Mount Washington. All the trees disappeared and only rocks remained.”
“You guys rode your bikes to the top of Mount Washington?” Bill asked.
Ross smiled and said, “Yes. They were selling bumper stickers that read, ‘This Car Climbed Mount Washington,’ but we didn’t buy one.”
I unpacked my sweatshirt and put it on. “Let’s get going. These roads up here are all dirt, so take it easy.”
As usual, Ross took the lead, and I followed close behind. These roads were not as smooth as the paved canyon roads and Ross’s bike threw up lots of dust. I slowed down and gave him much more of a lead so I wasn’t eating his dirt.
We’d been riding for a few hours and arrived at another scenic spot. I had been choking on Ross's dust the whole time and riding on bumpy dirt roads long enough. I was ready to return to the smooth pavement.
“I think this road takes us off the plateau. I’m ready to go if you guys are,” I said.
“Sounds good to me. I’m ready for some smooth, dust-free roads,” Bill said.
I took the lead back down to the canyon roads. At the bottom, I noticed a stream. I parked and took off my helmet as the other two guys pulled up. I pulled off my sweatshirt and laid it across the seat of my bike then climbed down the bank to dunk my head into the rushing water. It felt glorious.
By the time I’d climbed back up the bank, I had the urge to get back on a smooth, winding road again. I put on my helmet and roared off, leaving Ross and Bill behind. Cruising at about 60 miles per hour, I came upon a tight curve. The smooth road felt wonderful after hours on the rough and dusty dirt roads. I down shifted into the turn.
I felt a harsh jolt and the bike slid sideways. The rear wheel locked up and I skidded across the road. I attempted to steer into the skid, so I turned the handlebars to the left as far as they would go, then right, left again, and came to a screeching stop. I was still upright. My heart was pounding as a rush of adrenaline washed through my system. I turned to look behind me and saw a long, winding black skid mark on the road.
I was in the middle of the road, just beyond the curve, where I almost crashed. I was shaking but got off my bike so that I could push it to the berm. Because the rear wheel had locked, the bike didn’t budge. I felt panic set in. I’d survived this—only to be run over by some truck as it came around the bend. With all my might, I pushed the bike to the side of the road, dragging the locked rear wheel.
This entire event took under 30 seconds. I was shaking so much; I couldn’t stand. I sat down on the roadside in front of my bike with my head in my hands.
Ross zoomed past me then Bill. I saw both of their red brake lights as they quickly stopped. They turned around to meet me.
Ross approached and knelt down. “What the hell happened?”
I looked up at him. “Just as I leaned into that bend, my rear wheel locked up. I turned the handlebars lock to lock three times.”
“Holy shit. Are you okay?”
“Well, I’m alive.”
Bill walked up. “What happened?”
“His rear wheel locked up just as he entered that turn,” Ross said.
“Wow, is that skid mark yours?”
“Yep,” I said.
We walked over to my bike. “Your sweatshirt did it,” Ross said.
“I left that stream so fast I forgot to tie down the sweatshirt … shit.”
The sweatshirt sleeve had gotten caught in the chain and pulled into the aluminum engine case with such force the case bulged out. Ross took his hunting knife out of the sheath on his leg. “Let me see if I can chop this out.”
After a few minutes, he sat on the ground. “No good. It’s like a rock. I can’t believe a whole sweatshirt sleeve compacted into an area so small.”
My only choice was to remove the engine case that was attached with 10 mm. bolts. We all searched our tool kits, and none of us had the proper wrench.
“You guys will have to look for help. See if you can find a mechanic. The only way I’m going to get this bike moving again is to remove this engine case.”
“No one will have metric tools way out here,” Bill said.
Ross smiled at me. “Don’t worry; we’ll find help. Come on, Bill. Let’s go.”
I sat down on the side of the road hoping someone would drive past me, but after an hour, not a soul appeared. Then I noticed two motorcycle headlights approaching, followed by a pickup truck—an ancient pickup truck.
Ross walked up to me, smiling. “This is the best we could do.”
I approached the truck, which had a sign on the side that said, “Duke’s Garage” an old hound dog looked at me from the rusty bed.
A portly man wearing overalls on top of a dirty white T-shirt walked over. He held out his hand and said, “I’m Duke. Your friends said you needed some help.” The dog jumped out of the truck and barked his hello. “This is Sam. Don’t mind him.”
I shook Duke’s hand and explained what happened. “I need a ten-millimeter wrench.”
“You’re lucky to be alive, young man. As for the wrench, I don’t work on cars that need metric tools, but you can have a look in my toolbox.”
Duke brought over his toolbox and I opened it. There was dirt in the bottom and one metric wrench—a 10 mm.
“Yes! I found it!”
Ross and I knelt by my bike and I removed the engine case. With the case removed, I was able to use the knife to chip out the fabric.
“That looks good. I think all you’ll have to do is put the chain back on the sprockets and adjust it,” Ross said.
He was right. I adjusted the chain and replaced the engine case. The bike was as good as new and ready to go. I wasn’t sure I was.
I walked over to Duke. “Thanks so much. You’re a lifesaver. What do I owe you?”
“I didn’t do much. Five bucks?”
I gave him ten.
“Thanks a lot,” Duke said. He and Sam walked back to the truck and drove away.
“I need a drink,” I said.
“I think I know where we can go,” said Ross.
I had a tough time as I rode my motorcycle. Whenever I came to a curve in the road, I slowed way down. I lagged behind both Ross and Bill. I caught up to them in the parking lot of what looked like an old gas station. A red neon BAR sign flashed in the window.
I walked up to them. “You’re kidding, right?”
Ross shrugged. “What do you want?”
Inside, the bar comprised a board placed across two 55-gallon drums. There were six empty stools, and we sat down on the middle three.
A heavyset woman walked over and smiled. “What can I get for you?” She had three teeth.
“Beer?” I asked.
“We have Miller.”
Bill and Ross nodded. “Three Millers, please,” I said.
She walked over to an old red cooler that looked like something you’d find in an ice cream parlor. It had “Coca-Cola” in faded letters stamped on the side. She returned with three Millers. “Where you fellers from?” she asked as we paid for the beers.
“We’re on a motorcycle trip. We love to ride in this area,” Ross said.
“Well, you’re lucky I’m open. My good-for-nothing son runs this place. He ran off to the tractor pull and left me to do his job.” She gave us a toothless half-smile and turned to wipe the counter behind her.
I took a long drink from my Miller, barely hearing the conversation. “I can’t believe I almost killed myself.”
“I’m amazed you rode it out like that. I would have crashed,” Ross said.
“I was a lucky shit.”
“Well, do you want to go to the tractor pull?” Ross asked.
“Sounds like a good idea. I need to take my mind off this.”
We went to the tractor pull, but the power of the day’s events didn’t fade away. This was my last motorcycle trip. Riding was never the same; I completely lost my confidence. There were other things too. I had a great job and a beautiful wife who hated motorcycles and refused to even ride with me. We had even talked about starting a family. What finally made me quit was the fact that the near tragedy was entirely my fault. At least the guy with the Laverda had run into a car that pulled out in front of him. I couldn’t even blame what almost did me in on someone else. Soon after I returned from my trip, I sold my bike.
My career took off and I became a successful information technology consultant. My wife and I adopted a beautiful daughter from China and we moved into a big new house. Everything was going great, but Ross and I no longer talked regularly. He still had a motorcycle and I did not.
I missed the open road and our annual trips. Some years later, in 2010, I bought a Mazda Miata, a sleek, two-seater convertible sports car known for its nimble handling. It's about as close as you can get to a motorcycle in a car. I resumed my summer trips with the Miata instead of my bike, and my companion was now my daughter, Corinne. We didn’t plan out the details; we looked for a place to stay each day as it got dark. We stayed in motels instead of camping as my back could no longer tolerate sleeping on the hard ground.
These excursions captured much of the excitement of my motorcycle trips of old. We visited many amazing places and continued to meet unique people. I also had those destinations to return to from my past. On one trip, my daughter and I were driving in my new Miata with the top down. It was a hot August day and, once again, I found myself in West Virginia.
“Dad, it will be dark soon. We need to find a place to sleep,” Corinne said.
“You’re right. I was planning on staying in Franklin.”
“Mom would never do this without planning where to stay before the trip.”
I smiled. “This is more fun, don’t you think? Makes it an adventure.”
Corinne had an arm out the window, moving it up and down with the wind. “Definitely.”
“I want to stop at the campground I told you about first.”
“Okay, Dad.”
We pulled into the campground that was such a part of my past. The six cabins had new white siding. A large white tent with windows stood in the middle of the parking area. People in tuxedos and formal gowns were standing together in a group. We pulled over away from the people and parked then got out of the car.
“Dad, we can’t stop here.”
“I want to talk to the guy over there. I think he owns the campground.” I walked over and said, “Excuse me.”
He turned to me. “Yes?”
“Do you own this place?”
“Sure do.”
“Well, I was here over thirty years ago. I came here when I was in college and on multiple motorcycle trips.”
“That’s long before my time. I bought this place about five years ago and refurbished it. I still rent out the cabins for camping, but I also do weddings like this one.”
“Well, it looks much better now,” I said. “Hey, I have another question. Whatever happened to the little bar across the street? I used to visit it every time I camped here.”
The bar was rundown and many of the windows were broken, there was a hole in the roof. A solemn look appeared on his face. “The entire family who ran that place died of lung cancer. None of them smoked, but everyone who went there did.”
That news shook me. I said my goodbyes and returned to my car. “Well, let’s go find our room.”
On the drive to Franklin, Corinne said, “Dad, I love doing this. Where are we going next year?”
“I don’t know. How about Kennebunkport? It’s in Maine.”
A Miata! Shit you had a mid life crisis! Great short story…enjoyed it. So Bill’s brother’s bike wasn’t a complete piece of shit aye? “You meet the nicest people on a Honda!”
A fine adventure, Scott! And even though the fluke of getting your sweatshirt caught in your chain was never going to happen again, I understand why you gave up riding. I am happy you were able to continue on your unscripted journeys in the Miata - and with the best kind of companion. I am sure those trips established a deep bond with your daughter. I loved the description of the makeshift gas station - bar and the toothless bartender. I was sitting right there on the stool next to you drinking a beer - but I did not ride on the back of your motorcycle. I could survive a fall off of a bar stool, but off a motorcycle?