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BLOOD BOUND
CHAPTER TWENTY - On the Road Again
This got a chuckle out of Lance, as we walked towards the countertop at the Roadhouse Café in Durham, NC, not 5 miles from where we started. Many of my trips - the ones heading south or east anyway - begin with a stop at the Roadhouse for breakfast. It's really an expansion of the Durham Harley dealership, and on any given day is usually crowded - even if most of the vehicles in the lot are on 4 wheels.
With my trailer on the back of Ol' Huck, and saddlebags brimming over on Petey, ready for an obviously long trip, we get the usual nods and sidelong glances from the crowd. Being early March, it's likely also obvious that we're heading for Daytona. It's my turn to greet the waitress by name.
"Morning Stacey. Two coffee's and a menu if ya don't mind." Which got the typical 'Hey Sugar' in response. Why is it we're always referred to as 'Sugar' in a place like this? We both watched Stacey's back end swaying back and forth as she passed through the crowded aisles of the diner. There are times when an appreciative look, a slow shake of the head and a heavy sigh is all that is needed to get a point across. Stacey made her point as she jammed our order onto the revolving order wheel, and gave it a half twist to present it to the short order cook behind the small opening in the wall.
The diner was adorned with cheap framed prints of Marilyn Monroe and James Dean and other greasy-spoon paraphernalia. Good folks here though - always crowded with working types and hardly a clean fingernail in the group. People tended to mind their own business til ya recognized someone, then it is as if their greeting was meant to let the whole place know you was best buddies. Food was good, coffee hot, and the service fast. My kinda place.
"I want ya to know I sure appreciate what your doing for me, Muthuh", Lances voice was uncharacteristically somber. I could imagine he would be seeing each experience we encounter as the last time he would ever see it. Take this place for example. I know, or at least hope, that I'll be seeing it again some day. Lance's eyes were taking in the entire scene, absorbing it into his day, to be remembered on long stretches of road over the next few weeks, but not a memory he expected would last very long.
It was obvious his experience on this road trip would vastly differ from mine. "I wouldn't have agreed if it weren't something I wanted to do, my friend." I tried to match his tone, but eager to start the trip off on an up note added, "Besides, I might write a book and make millions off this story!"
With a wink and a backwards push of my chair with the backs of my knees, I stood up, grabbed the check from the corner of the table, and walked towards the cashier, adding "Our first meal in my own home town is on me." I noticed through the front plate glass window that Lil' Mut had gathered a small crowd. I feared this might happen. The unique design had always caused some curiosity every time I took it out for a ride. I mumbled my satisfaction to the older woman sitting at the cash register when asked how I liked my meal, distracted, and shoved the change and bills into my front left pocket as I walked out to talk to the admirers.
"Where're ya headed?" This from an old bearded guy with yellow teeth and an impeccably ironed pair of new blue jeans. It doesn't matter what you're riding, or where you are, the questions usually center around something original like that. You get the occasional, "Nice bike", or "Good day for a ride, ain't it?" But with the bikes loaded and bungee cords straining in the morning cool air, "Where're ya headed?" must have seemed like the logical question.
Of course if he rode a bike with any regularity he'd assume the few days before Daytona and a packed bike might signal the obvious, but I just answered with a shrug and a nonchalant, "Heading south for a couple weeks." I wasn't in the mood to spout out all our plans with a stranger - gonna be enough times we're going to have to go over the story as it unfolds.
That prompted the next pearl of wisdom, "Nice bike", although I noticed he was looking at Lance's this time. Fortunately, Lance approached and took up the chore of shooting the crap with this guy while I checked the hitch one more time and climbed on top of Huck to wait out the obligatory recitation to Petey's admirer. I had to notice, though, that it was at times like this that Lance was bright-eyed and smiling the most. Talking about one of the things he loved the most. I had to smile myself as I let him bring it to an end as the old guy sighed wistfully with "Well, good day for a ride!"
Lance had heard me say the practiced response to that often enough that he looked over at me as he repeated, "They're all good days to ride - some are just better than others!" I nodded, and with that he fired up his bike, and with a wave of his hand off toward the horizon finished with, "Let the fun begin."
And fun it was, too. We only rode about 170 miles that first day. Determined to avoid the interstates and large cities as much as possible, I took the lead, and rode the back roads towards the coast. It wasn't all that cold but the sky threatened rain all day. I was heading for a little bar I knew down in Beaufort, North Carolina on Ann Street across from the cemetery. If you don't know Beaufort, the flavor of the place will be lost in the telling. Quaint is often the word I've heard used to describe it, but I prefer 'colorful'. There's a fair amount of tourist traffic to water down the local color, but settle in any bar more than a block off the main road and you're nestled in the deep tradition of this little harbor town. I found this place on one of my rides to the Outer Banks with my riding buddy, The Colonel. It was a couple days after he dropped his bike going around a slow speed corner, catching his front tire in the sand, and broke his ankle. We had ridden to the next town, got him casted up, and he insisted on continuing the trip regardless of the fact that he could no longer brake with his right foot. Front braking would have to do.
"The Low Tide" emblazoned proudly on the front door, this coastal harbor-town drinking hole was just that - a hole. A combined wattage between the few lights in the place added up to less than 75, further darkened by the smoke of a half dozen cigars and various other things burning between the dozen lips sitting at the horseshoe wooden bar. The Low Tide was a working man's bar, devoid of the neon and chrome you find in most tourist lounges two blocks away. The Barkeeper was the typical ex-marine type who had let his exercise routine slip over the years, displaying a well-rounded gut under his paper thin white t-shirt. At least the haircut survived all these years.
Holding up two fingers and announcing simply "Budweiser", Lance and I parked our weary asses on the unpadded stools and took in the interior as our eyes began to adjust to the dim light. The ride down was fairly easy, mostly on 3-digit highways that snaked through the eastern part of the state. A gas stop in New Bern being the only stop we made, we were both thankful that the day's ride was ended, and the nights drinking begun. We were both half way through with our first longneck before a word was said.
"Man, I thought this day would never get here."
Lance turned and looked at me in the red glow of the Coors Sign above our heads, took in a deep breath and said, "I knew it'd get here all too fast."
We had already agreed that Lance wasn't interested in knowing where we were going from one day to the next - that was my chore for this trip - and one I really kinda enjoyed anyway. I've always been the planner and plotter. Instead, our conversation on this first night out centered around things like strategies for rain riding (just keep riding); and cold weather (just put more crap on and keep riding); and night riding (whenever possible, especially on the full moons); and sunrise rides (absolutely!); and… well, you get the idea. The obvious was clear, that he was uncertain how long this would last and wanted to take advantage of whatever riding was ahead.
"Listen. Let's get some of the details behind us." He said between long pulls on his beer. He then looked at me with a sidelong glance confirming this is no time to joke around. "Here's a debit card for some of the expenses you'll run into when I'm not around. Otherwise I'll just belly up and take care of things." He nodded toward the card he held extended in my direction. I just took it without saying anything. "There's five grand on it." That one got a raised eyebrow, but I kept quiet.
"In the envelope I gave your wife, is the title to Petey. I already got it signed over to ya." He was holding his beer in both hands, looking intently at the label, but I doubted he even saw it.
"There's also my will and some phone numbers of people I want you to call when you get back." Sounded like he didn't think he'd be with me. "To make things easy, I named you as my Executor, too."
I started to say something, but his raised hand stopped me before I got anything out. Without looking at me he continued, "Doc says I'm gonna start hurting pretty soon, so I wanted you to hear all this now. After tonight we don't discuss it anymore." I nodded and motioned to the Barkeep for two more Buds.
"There's a bag in the bottom of my left saddlebag with some prescription drugs. Mostly painkillers, but I hope not to need them for a while. Once I start taking them, the days get a little shorter on the bike I'm afraid, and I want to see all I can before then." He took a deep breath and turned to look me in the eye before he went on. "I really don't expect I'll be coming back this way, Muthuh. In fact I don't intend to in any case."
He let that sink in before he finished with, "Whatever happens, dude, I'm grateful for your helping me do this thing, ya know."
"Yeah, I know", I said raising my beer in front of his face, "That's what Buds are for!" At first I didn't think he got the joke, but slowly the corners of his mustache curled up and revealed a smile and a twinkle in his eye, followed by a slap on the back.
That was the last time our conversation was anything but positive and upbeat. I had more of a task at hand than being a guide on this trip - I was conducting Lance's Last Rights and we both knew it. We downed our second beers, nodded to the marine and left The Low Tide just as the sun was setting behind the trees to the west. I loved riding this time of night, and we only had a few more miles to go before I wanted to find a place to crash - somewhere in Morehead City, away from the tourist prices of Beaufort Harbor. As we crossed the bridge over to Morehead City, the sun was hovering on the horizon, a bright orange ball that left the trees in silhouette. This was gonna be an interesting ride.  For Information, contact: Muthuh@Muthuh.com
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