Have you ever had one of those unforgettable experiences? I’m talking about an experience that haunts you for days, months or even years? I’m not talking the traumatic kind that leaves scars. I’m talking of something that haunts you; makes you wonder for what seems to be an eternity? I had one of those once.
It was the summer of 1972. There was a war going on and my draft status was 1A. I figured if I was going to see any of this country I had better do it quick before Uncle Sam wanted to me to see South Vietnam first. So I packed my bike the day before, planning to leave early the next morning for parts unknown. I couldn’t sleep that night. I Spent 5 hours flipping and flopping around as a fish out of water. Finally I said screw it and got up about 4 a.m. The birds were just starting to stir as I wheeled my old Duo-Glide out of the garage. Dog (yes my dog was named Dog) came stretching and yawning around the corner of the garage looking as if to say “whatcha doin’ man?” I gave him a couple quick pats and off he went. It took a few kicks to get the motor going but soon we were on our way west.
I was well into Kansas when I came upon a biker lying in the grass along the road with a Norton Commando positioned to offer a little bit of shade from the hot Kansas sun. I stopped to see if I could help. What I first noticed about the rider was the long flowing blonde hair, hint of a beard and those long lanky legs. Upon closer examination I surmised this individual to either be one ugly chick or one pretty guy. I saw no hint of bosoms so I assumed the latter. I introduced myself and asked how I could help. After some quick banter, “Pat” told me that the chain had broken on his bike and he had no spare parts for it. I always carried spare links for the primary and secondary because you never know when they might be needed. But because the Norton was a “foreign” bike, what I had wouldn’t work.
As it turned out, the nearest place to get parts to fix it with was almost 75 miles away. It was getting late and the sun was beginning to fade so we decided it would be best to wait until morning to get the parts.
The Pawnee River ran alongside the road there. We scouted the area and found a decent place to set up camp for the night. We pushed the bikes under some small trees and began to set up camp. Pat said he was dying of thirst as he had been stranded there for almost 4 hours before I came along and was not willing to drink filthy river water. I tossed him the canteen. He almost drained it. We chatted casually as we picked up sticks and small tree limbs from around the riverbank to build a campfire. Pat kept saying he was in a hurry to get back home. I asked where “home” is and he replied “Las Vegas, Las Vegas Nevada. Where the whiskey flows and the gambler blows”. We both laughed as I set fire to the pile of sticks in front of us.
There was about a half an hour of silence as we spread out our gear in preparation for the night's stay. I pulled a can of beef stew out of the bag and asked Pat if he was hungry. He replied with a hearty “Hell yeah. What all you got in there?” “Well, come see for yourself” I replied. Soon, on the ground with Pat hovering as a vulture, was half a loaf of bread, a can of beans, a half eaten milky way bar, a bag of chips that had been open since Fort Wayne, about 20 fused jelly beans in a baggie, a warm can of beer and a moldy moon pie. I told him to take whatever he wanted. As he rummaged through the stash, I set the can of stew in the fire and went to fill the canteen from the river. By the time I got back he had managed to make everything but the moon pie and the stew disappear. He was sitting at the fire, poking at it as if it was a wild animal. I walked on past to put the canteen back on the bike. I was standing with my back to him as I finagled the canteen into position when all of a sudden there was a horrendous roar coming from what I thought was the river. It echoed from tree to tree and side to side. The sound seemed to be all around. It startled me so bad that I was convinced that solid matter also accompanied the gas escaping from my body. I spun around in an instant expecting to see big foot lurching up from the riverbank. What I saw instead was Pat laying on the ground rolling with laughter. I blurted out “What the hell was that?” He was laughing so hard he couldn’t talk. I walked over to the fire and pulled the stew out. He eventually calmed down to the point of coherent speech. “Your face!” he blurted out “Your face man! You should have seen the look on your face! You looked like you shit yourself”. I replied “Well, I think I did. What the hell did you do”. Still laughing he says “You ever hear such a belch in your life? That’s the best one ever!” I couldn’t help but laugh, if for no other reason but seeing him roll around on the ground holding his sides.
Pat gradually regained his composure as I finished off the stew. “Where you from man?” he asked. “Ohio” I replied. “Oh-HI-ya, huh? Has anything good ever come from Oh-HI-ya?” he asked. “Well”, I said, “There was couple presidents, some astronauts, a couple brothers named Wright who liked to fly –OH and some guy named Bell. You tell me. Has anything good come from Ohio?” He looked at me kind of dumbfounded and said “Bell. Alexander Graham Bell is from Oh-HI-ya?” “Yup”, I quipped, “Born in Lena, not too far from Dayton where the Wright brothers lived”. He looked away and said “That’s cool. I didn’t know that”. The whole time we were talking I couldn’t help but notice the feminine quality, almost angelic tone of his voice that came and went as the breeze. And there was that faint hint of a beard. I didn’t have the nerve to ask if he was gay because back then you just didn’t talk about things like that. Besides, there was no such thing as a gay biker back then. In those days if a person’s preference for a same sex relationship was known in some crowds, that person was beaten and ran out of town -If they survived. So I left well enough alone.
As the evening progressed, we talked of bikes and bikers and all things motorcycle. I was impressed by Pat’s knowledge of camshafts, carburetors and gear ratios. He shared with me his adventures of riding into Canada and Mexico, his trip to the grand canyon and the ride to Sturgis, South Dakota the year before. He had owned and ridden Indians, Harleys, Beezers and Trumpets. He had even tried out the then relatively new Honda 750. We both agreed that Japanese bikes would never ever get a foothold in the U.S. and that there would always be Birmingham and Milwaukee. Pat glanced off and drifted away for a couple minutes, clearly preoccupied with another thought. He quickly turned to me and said, “I can’t wait to get back home”. I had to ask, “What’s drawing you back?” “My kids”, he said as he threw more wood on the fire, “I haven’t seen ‘em in over two months. I have been on the road all summer”. Again I had to ask, “What has kept you on the road for two months?” “Racing”, he said, “I have been racing the AMA dirt track circuit for almost two years now. I finished my last race three days ago and I am on my way home.” “Your last race? That sounds final. Is it?” I asked. He pulled his hair to one side, tipped his head slightly and said “Yup, it’s final. I am through with racing. Already sold the bikes, let the crew go and even sold the truck and all the gear.” “Why?” I asked.
He crawled on all fours over to me from the fire, looked me straight in the eye and leaned over as if to kiss me then whispered with that angelic voice in my ear… “It’s not a good idea to race when you’re pregnant”.
I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Solid matter did accompany the gas that escaped from my body earlier that evening and I had no clean clothes.
From Confessions of a True Biker, ©2002 Gary Hankins (AKA Hank)
It was the summer of 1972. There was a war going on and my draft status was 1A. I figured if I was going to see any of this country I had better do it quick before Uncle Sam wanted to me to see South Vietnam first. So I packed my bike the day before, planning to leave early the next morning for parts unknown. I couldn’t sleep that night. I Spent 5 hours flipping and flopping around as a fish out of water. Finally I said screw it and got up about 4 a.m. The birds were just starting to stir as I wheeled my old Duo-Glide out of the garage. Dog (yes my dog was named Dog) came stretching and yawning around the corner of the garage looking as if to say “whatcha doin’ man?” I gave him a couple quick pats and off he went. It took a few kicks to get the motor going but soon we were on our way west.
I was well into Kansas when I came upon a biker lying in the grass along the road with a Norton Commando positioned to offer a little bit of shade from the hot Kansas sun. I stopped to see if I could help. What I first noticed about the rider was the long flowing blonde hair, hint of a beard and those long lanky legs. Upon closer examination I surmised this individual to either be one ugly chick or one pretty guy. I saw no hint of bosoms so I assumed the latter. I introduced myself and asked how I could help. After some quick banter, “Pat” told me that the chain had broken on his bike and he had no spare parts for it. I always carried spare links for the primary and secondary because you never know when they might be needed. But because the Norton was a “foreign” bike, what I had wouldn’t work.
As it turned out, the nearest place to get parts to fix it with was almost 75 miles away. It was getting late and the sun was beginning to fade so we decided it would be best to wait until morning to get the parts.
The Pawnee River ran alongside the road there. We scouted the area and found a decent place to set up camp for the night. We pushed the bikes under some small trees and began to set up camp. Pat said he was dying of thirst as he had been stranded there for almost 4 hours before I came along and was not willing to drink filthy river water. I tossed him the canteen. He almost drained it. We chatted casually as we picked up sticks and small tree limbs from around the riverbank to build a campfire. Pat kept saying he was in a hurry to get back home. I asked where “home” is and he replied “Las Vegas, Las Vegas Nevada. Where the whiskey flows and the gambler blows”. We both laughed as I set fire to the pile of sticks in front of us.
There was about a half an hour of silence as we spread out our gear in preparation for the night's stay. I pulled a can of beef stew out of the bag and asked Pat if he was hungry. He replied with a hearty “Hell yeah. What all you got in there?” “Well, come see for yourself” I replied. Soon, on the ground with Pat hovering as a vulture, was half a loaf of bread, a can of beans, a half eaten milky way bar, a bag of chips that had been open since Fort Wayne, about 20 fused jelly beans in a baggie, a warm can of beer and a moldy moon pie. I told him to take whatever he wanted. As he rummaged through the stash, I set the can of stew in the fire and went to fill the canteen from the river. By the time I got back he had managed to make everything but the moon pie and the stew disappear. He was sitting at the fire, poking at it as if it was a wild animal. I walked on past to put the canteen back on the bike. I was standing with my back to him as I finagled the canteen into position when all of a sudden there was a horrendous roar coming from what I thought was the river. It echoed from tree to tree and side to side. The sound seemed to be all around. It startled me so bad that I was convinced that solid matter also accompanied the gas escaping from my body. I spun around in an instant expecting to see big foot lurching up from the riverbank. What I saw instead was Pat laying on the ground rolling with laughter. I blurted out “What the hell was that?” He was laughing so hard he couldn’t talk. I walked over to the fire and pulled the stew out. He eventually calmed down to the point of coherent speech. “Your face!” he blurted out “Your face man! You should have seen the look on your face! You looked like you shit yourself”. I replied “Well, I think I did. What the hell did you do”. Still laughing he says “You ever hear such a belch in your life? That’s the best one ever!” I couldn’t help but laugh, if for no other reason but seeing him roll around on the ground holding his sides.
Pat gradually regained his composure as I finished off the stew. “Where you from man?” he asked. “Ohio” I replied. “Oh-HI-ya, huh? Has anything good ever come from Oh-HI-ya?” he asked. “Well”, I said, “There was couple presidents, some astronauts, a couple brothers named Wright who liked to fly –OH and some guy named Bell. You tell me. Has anything good come from Ohio?” He looked at me kind of dumbfounded and said “Bell. Alexander Graham Bell is from Oh-HI-ya?” “Yup”, I quipped, “Born in Lena, not too far from Dayton where the Wright brothers lived”. He looked away and said “That’s cool. I didn’t know that”. The whole time we were talking I couldn’t help but notice the feminine quality, almost angelic tone of his voice that came and went as the breeze. And there was that faint hint of a beard. I didn’t have the nerve to ask if he was gay because back then you just didn’t talk about things like that. Besides, there was no such thing as a gay biker back then. In those days if a person’s preference for a same sex relationship was known in some crowds, that person was beaten and ran out of town -If they survived. So I left well enough alone.
As the evening progressed, we talked of bikes and bikers and all things motorcycle. I was impressed by Pat’s knowledge of camshafts, carburetors and gear ratios. He shared with me his adventures of riding into Canada and Mexico, his trip to the grand canyon and the ride to Sturgis, South Dakota the year before. He had owned and ridden Indians, Harleys, Beezers and Trumpets. He had even tried out the then relatively new Honda 750. We both agreed that Japanese bikes would never ever get a foothold in the U.S. and that there would always be Birmingham and Milwaukee. Pat glanced off and drifted away for a couple minutes, clearly preoccupied with another thought. He quickly turned to me and said, “I can’t wait to get back home”. I had to ask, “What’s drawing you back?” “My kids”, he said as he threw more wood on the fire, “I haven’t seen ‘em in over two months. I have been on the road all summer”. Again I had to ask, “What has kept you on the road for two months?” “Racing”, he said, “I have been racing the AMA dirt track circuit for almost two years now. I finished my last race three days ago and I am on my way home.” “Your last race? That sounds final. Is it?” I asked. He pulled his hair to one side, tipped his head slightly and said “Yup, it’s final. I am through with racing. Already sold the bikes, let the crew go and even sold the truck and all the gear.” “Why?” I asked.
He crawled on all fours over to me from the fire, looked me straight in the eye and leaned over as if to kiss me then whispered with that angelic voice in my ear… “It’s not a good idea to race when you’re pregnant”.
I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Solid matter did accompany the gas that escaped from my body earlier that evening and I had no clean clothes.
From Confessions of a True Biker, ©2002 Gary Hankins (AKA Hank)
You will not regret it.
