Rest Stop
The motorcycle’s gears dropped down low in the gut as it slowed on the exit ramp; foot taps three down, one up-- from 4th, then 3rd, to 2nd finally chugging at 1st. The young rider’s arms outstretched on handlebars, left hand pulling the clutch, right hand back and forth rotating the throttle, left foot toe pushing gears to brake. He could feel the motorcycle imprinted on his thighs, butt, and back, as he leaned against a rain gear covered sleeping bag and pack with full saddle bags. He wore a full face-guard white helmet with shaggy brown hair poking out at the neck and down his back. His leather motorcycle jacket, jeans, and boots were all trying to come together in one brown weathered, road dust, color. He’d been riding all night.
Pulling up to park he stiffly dismounted. The rest area men’s room sink served for washing up. The rider stripped off a black tee-shirt and stood looking in the mirror at his tan leather face with white crow’s feet streaking back from his eyes. Arms and shoulders were strong but with one belt notch brought in extra from being too thin. Now refreshed, he walked back, jacket slung over his shoulder, thinking it’s warm enough to now sit on the parking lot curb and stretch out. He used his jackknife to cut an apple for breakfast, block cheese on the side. As he cut slices and used the knife as a fork he looked off and saw the rain squalls had swept clear ahead and now were freeing the road east. Way off to the north a grey fixed curtain of rain moved away and another squall approached from the south. Fifty miles of flat Kansas landscape were in every view and he could smell the rich wet dirt from some recent squall. The sun was now up in the east with red hue streaking the clouds against the new day’s blue, the sun was warm against his skin in the cool dry air, and in the distance Kansas prairie, farmland, and sparse ranches were pristine and stark clear, gilded in the morning sun. He could see forever and was in no hurry.
“Did you drive that all the way from Arizona?” said a man, a passing tourist, with a middle-aged paunch walking by. The rider looked up and saw curious eyes, laced with wonder about what it would be like, and belief he’d never do it.
“Yes sir, all the way.” knowing the man had seen the license plate on the bike.
“Where you headed?”
“New York.”
“Wow, long way to go.”
“Yea.” as their eyes exchanged stories he could see the wishing, the wonder of freedom, and the man held the gaze for a bit, seeming to not want to break off.
The man noticed a patch on the rider’s jacket. “What’s that on your jacket? Were you in the service?”
“Korea,” the rider said.
About twenty paces behind the man’s station wagon was parked. The station wagon had wood sides. The man’s wife and two young kids, maybe six or eight, were arguing as they got in the car.
“We’ve got to go George.” called his wife from the car.
The man glanced away for a second back to his wife. When he looked back to the rider the wall was up and he had the assumptions about some crazy kid he’d never want to be in his eyes.
“Well, have a nice ride,” the man said and walked back to his life.
Later on, the highway with the big sky opened up, the rider leaned back settling in, and the station wagon pulled up on the left to pass on the two-lane highway headed east. The tourist was in the front passenger seat turned full against the window looking at the steady growling motorcycle as the car inched past, curiosity now familiar from the rest stop meeting, eyes scanning at how a riders head is tilted up letting the wind relax the neck, noting the sunglasses and full helmet, jacket and pant cuffs flag waving in the wind, and arms outstretched onto the handlebars like getting ready to hug the day. His wife gripped the road straight on course and sped up a little to get by. The girl in the rear back seat now passing by strained to see the highway apparition, craning her child neck as the car passed. Last in view a young boy appeared in the back window of the station wagon lying down and looking out the back with a serious face. The rider and the kid rode along together just looking at each other as they slowly separated. As the station wagon pulled away the kid lifted one hand and made a small wave good-by. The rider gave a nod which the kid saw and his face lit up like he was recognized from years past.
#
“The children are hungry George. Pull over next time we see a sign, will you?”
“Yes dear.”
“If you had packed the breakfast, we would at least have a snack. They’re cranky and it’s driving me nuts.”
“We’re headed east. There should be more pull overs.”
George, on impulse when he thought back, turned to take one last look at the rider. He could barely see him in the rear window of the station wagon following behind in the same lane. He took the one last glimpse and the rider was now almost a dot. George started to turn back forward but just as he turned, he saw a black Ford, a small pick-up truck, that had just passed them going the opposite way, west, cross the median out of control. When it hit the ditch on the east bound lane the Ford bounced up, all four wheels leaving the ground. It hit the rider flat on.
“My God Martha, there’s been an accident.” George looked forward. Then back. Then forward.
His son said, “Pa, did you see that? Is the man alright Pa?”
“Martha, take this exit. There’s a station. We’ve got to let someone know.”
The station wagon slid on gravel as Martha slammed on the brakes in front of a run-down service station. A big sign on a pole said EAT in flashing red letters. The dust raised behind them kept going forward and now drifted over the stopped car. George jumped out and rushed through the screen door entry. There was an older woman behind the diner counter, black hair with grey streaks tied back, wiping down the white chipped linoleum. She looked up when George came in.
“Mam. There’s been an accident. Out on the highway going west. A motorcycle. A rider. I think he was, uh … hurt. Do you have a phone?”
The woman set down the rag, put her palms on the counter with fingers pointing toward the man. She just stood there not moving, leaning forward, looking straight at George. Her eyes got big as if to say, ‘Are you nuts mister?’.
“Now. We need to do something now.” George was starting to panic.
Not moving her eyes from George, the woman yelled, “Harry, there’s a man out here saw a motor-ci-cle accident.” While she yelled, she stared at George as if to keep an eye on him.
Harry came out from the back. He had on a greasy apron, a big gut, and a smile like the joke was on George. “Was he hit by a black Ford pickup? Did it cross the median?”
“Yes … How did you …”
The woman walked away and started wiping the counter, shaking her head, chuckling to herself.
Harry took a seat next to George on a diner stool. He put his hand on his chin, paused, and then said like he was explaining something to a child. “Mister, about every three months someone like you comes roaring in here, beat to all hell, and starts screaming about an accident. It’s always the same story. And the thing is, there was an accident. Some motorcycle jockey did get killed. That Ford truck you saw clean took his head right off. Only thing is. That was fifteen years ago.” Harry then looked over at Martha. “That about right, Mama?”
“That’s right. Gotta make you think don’t it?”
#
Now alone, the sky really opened up and the rider could feel from his low backbone shooting up through his chest a euphoria of spirit rushing, rising, and now lifting him high on an aura, like northern lights exploding up into the sky on a prism of yellows, blues and reds. He looked down from high above with his body pushing into the wind folding around him, forever falling into its warm womb and seeing infinitely ahead the Kansas land laid out in a brown and green patchwork quilt of farmland and ranches on both sides. The horizon curved in the rain cleaned sky, squalls now moved on in the distance, and he was so high now he could see dark blue space and stars in the morning. And he knew he would ride forever, and he knew he was happy, and he knew he was free.
END