Cycle News - Archive Issues - 1970's

• I c- ) c :> • ~ t ~. • • ..... .. " l ~ _ .1 ~ 011 o 0 II 00°1: ,,t " i =-.. A_ .... . _,_.=;::.:.ll • rl By K. P. Boyte Harry Daher was 42. All he had left were 'his name, number and motorcycle and those were fading fast. He was as crusty as the Nevada desert and just about as tolerant of life. Harry counted the change in his pocket before he ventured J 46 inside the tavern to cool himself wi th a beer. Just enough. He ambled in, ignoring the layer of dust that shook free as his boots stepped heavy across the wooden floor. The beer was cool and quenced his thirst for a time, but one was short and when he met the harsh noonday sun, he was thirsty once moore. He ignored it. Practice. He lingered in the shade of the tavern for a time, watching a younger version of himself ride in and stop. There were several but all were himself years past and so he was taken momentarily. They were noisy [or his benefit; loud, boisterous, full of embl'erns and mischief. Punks, Harry' thought. He remembered what it was like to be one. He wondered where they'd go. He'd stopped wondering wbere he'd go. He was there. Nowhere. They caught his bike, worn and dirty, its faded number pIate hanging loosely across the bandlebars. Tbey approached. Harry tried not to smile; they didn't want a smile. That's how it was supposed to be. It was hard to keep a straigbt face. It was so far back. A dark shaggy one fingered the number, then spoke. "You race?" "I have." A quiet nod. A slow examination of the machine. Did the punk actually think it raced anymore? Age had it now, not performance. "The number for real?" "Not anymore. n "I can dig it." Tbe punk looked Harry over once then said witb a patronizing smile, "A good trip?" A long onc." "J can dig it." He joined his friends and they disappeared in a gust of noise inside the tavern. Harry moun ted the bike and brough t its engine to life, its familiar loose clatter far more pleasing than the strained impressions of his fellow man. Out on the highway with hot air pounding a sunburn into his face, Harry thought of the punks, the re-runs of Harry Daher. Re-runs yes, but one thing was missing. They couldn't talk. He replayed their words - "J can dig it, a good, trip." He'd heard them often, so often, in fact, that he wondered wby Ii the kids made their jargon so narrow. Everything had to be a good or bad trip and you didn't enjoy or love or dislike or hate. You did or did not dig. A good trip. How could life be a trip? All the years, tbe struggle, the learning, the climb. Hard work, time, agony covered in dirt and bruises. Races. Tbe dirt oval repeated until it didn't stop, not even in sleep. Tension building, wondering, hoping, then racing - pushing, daring, winning.. .Iosing. A trip? No, my friend, nothing in life was merely a trip. Signs broke Harry's tIfought, signs that spelled money. He stopped and read one. He'd never been a hill climber but he knew he was a hell o[ a rider, SO" he followed the signs to Hanna's Hill. There he found a couple hundred people, fifty or so motorcycles and a cbance to win $100. He entered, waited his turn and watched. Hanna's Hill wasn't the little old lady of its name. Though not the tallest, it surely was one of the steepest he'd ever seen and as be watched rider after rider make his run and fail, Harry wondered what he would do up there. Did be really want a body full of aches and pains? No. He wanted $100. They slid, tumbled, flipped and came apart in just about every way imaginable. Some tried to stay with their bikes, some bailed out at the first sign of" difficulty. A crew perched alongside the run, retrieving downed motorcycles before they ground a path down the hillside. Where necessary, they also retrieved riders_ Some mixed speed and caution equally and succeeded in losing power and flopping over onto their side. Others opened up wide and they were the crowd pleasers with machines pulling up onto one wheel then over backwards and riders hopping and scurrying to miss the impact. It was entertaining. Then it was Harry's tum. Harry knew he'd have to open it wide. The old horse was too loose for caution_ He built speed on the flat, then met the incline and started up. It went good for a time. The wheels ground in, chewinl{ their way up and up and Harry kept his eyes ahead, focused only on that crest that met a clear blue sky. There were cheers but Harry missed them. All he had to urge him on was the roar of"bis machine. He kept it open wide and feJt the rear wheel swaying side to side. Higher and higher, reaching out for that blue sky... Riding the crest up, up, then a cloud until it narrowed to a vague thread spiraling down in to the ou trageous marriage of a rainbow and a sunset. The motorcycle became a black stallion, sleek and shiny, breathing hard from the constant pace. Then it was a hawk, circling th~ skies; then a dove humming a p~aceful song. Harry was there, somewhere, watching, thinking, feeling, bu t never being. Just there. Someone to go along. It changed often but it never told him. It just went wbere it happened and took Harry along. Sometimes it was warm, a sensual pleasure of a heat that touched every inch of his body. Other times it passed pleasure and pushed over into sweat, fatigue, discomfort. Then sudden cold shivering, piercing, biting. Then cool, then full circle back to the loving warm. It was bright with color, then dark dull and gray. Then a step further and the dark oblivion that was frightening. A sudden white, so bright it hurt the' eyes, blazing, stinging, then fmally melJowing into yellows, oranges, reds; deepening, relaxing, blending into the sunset, falling from there into the depths of ocean greens and blues. Drowning, heavy, too heavy, the motorcycle couldn't swim and neither could Harry. Down, churning around, down past the swaying life, the curious fish, settling onto the bottom, heavy in the sand. Breathing, not breathing; taking in water and letting it out, the motorcycle still running. Trying to make it move, the sand pulling, holding on, heavy, heavy...bright again, sudden bright. Violent release sending the bike and rider across a barren desert, streaking over brush and thorn, holes, ravines, and nothing. What was happening? There was hardly time to ask, for the sensations

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