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Thank's to our Bud Rick for this Great Short Story!
Riding With The King
By Richard Celia
It was one of those perfect midsummer nights. The day was cooling, sun still bright. The gentle breeze had long ago taken the sticky, still air and blown it off to some other poor unsuspecting town.
Doris! I yelled. Are you and Liz going out, or what ? I was getting tired of waiting for her friend Liz to call. They had planned to go out and I was planning on riding my old Panhead. I knew if Liz did not call I would never hear the end of it if I went for a ride without Doris. Liz was not known for her stability and though indeed a hottie, her conversation rarely went beyond makeup and nails. The phone finally rang. To my relief they were going to do cocktails and dinner. I love Doris deeply, I just needed a ride by myself. Only one soul on board, only one soul to worry about. No shopping stops or other distractions. Since Doris and I had been dating, the solo seat on the Duoglide had not seen much of the road.
The old Panhead was as anxious as me to hit the road. I looked at the odometer, 5550. Shoot, I only put 500 miles on it this season! 500 lousy miles! Suddenly, I wanted to quit work, move back east, and start over again. I had been working six days a week for months and I needed a break, big time. Oh, well, I readied the old steed and Doris met me in the garage for a peck on the cheek and a BE SAFE! I quickly responded, You better TOO! I seemed to be able to push the beers away when I got close to the edge. Doris still enjoyed the giddy high of one too many Martinis.
I dusted off the old Pan, thinking about life and bikes and wondering if guys with old cars get the same feelings. I tried to think I owned it for the right reasons. You know a piece of history, classic iron and all that. Showin off and posing was now for the power boys with their juiced up Softails.
Dusk was slowly taking over the day. Like a meandering stream, darkness fell ever so softly on the world. I tried to drink up the night. A collage of thought, nature and romance. Not the kind of romance in cheap novels and even cheaper Lifetime Network movies. This was romance with life itself. Like the cowboy riding off into the sunset, or a great schooner sailing for the spice islands. It was indeed a romantic night. The night air was now a steady whir in my ears. The elements were calling. The rustling leaves, aromas from all kinds of foliage and the air. The air was very different tonight. Soon it would be pushing me, fighting me and caressing me all at the same time. It was beckoning me to join in the frolic. The moon was bright, almost full. Curiosly, it almost looked blue.
After easing the bike out of the garage, I pushed the choke lever on the Linkert full forward, and swung the kickstart pedal outward. A couple of prime kicks with the key off. Now find the compression stroke, key on, this ones for the money. I kick it hard and I kick it good but the Pan is reluctant. Two more prime kicks, key on, one for the money and the Pan sputters to life like a overweight boxer. Eager but not quite willing. Quickly I turn the choke off and set the throttle friction to keep the rpms up. I tie my denim shirt under the seat with a short bungee cord. While the old bike is warming, I strap on my gloves. Finally, it is time.
I pull in the clutch and the feel the mousetrap take up the tension. I toe down to first and off we go..
If you have never ridden an Panhead, it is very different. It is slow (at least mine is), it makes a lot of valve noise ( especially when you donât install felts on the rocker covers!), but it absolutely rules! The footboards are inches off the road. The pogo seat never stops undulating. The four speed tranny finds you stabbing for a fifth that doesn't exist. And yet, it stays glued to the road. Whooping over railroad tracks, and dragging the boards through a corner, it makes you want to ride fast. I ride the Pan harder than my newer dresser and I don't know why. Maybe there are spirits clinging to the old ways, when brand new bikes were raced through the woods and in hill climbs. Back when people rode for the riding not just the status. Harley makes a big deal about the "mystique". Sure it has always been a type of status. A status that used to be earned!
A couple of miles down the twisting backroads and the bike is feeling good. Tonight the earth and every rideable surface belong to us. There is an old oak I look for on this road. It is massive, hundreds of years old, and it seems like an old friend whenever I pass by. It casts a stark and daunting shadow in the evening, yet I still find it comforting. Tonight, there is a sign just past the tree. And there is a dirt road I never noticed before. The sign says "Bike Night at the Fillin Station Tavern". Well I can not believe there is a bar I might have missed. And with a name like that, how could I have never heard of it. Oh well, swing right and lets see!
The dirt road is well lit by the moon and the path is surprisingly smooth. As we rat-a-tat over the gravel, I see a dim light off in the distance. I can't believe my eyes as I pull up to the bar. Two fifties vintage Bennet gas pumps stand in front of the clapboard sided old gas station. As ancient gargoyles once stood guard, they welcome friends and ward off evil. The bikes I see are even more impressive. A 49 Panhead, an Indian chief, two military Harley 45's and a Knucklehead. I almost feel out of place with my pieced together Pan. Alrighty then, let's check it out!
I swing the door open, not knowing what to expect. There is a friendly air about the place. There are club members with their vintage ties, jodpurs and matching caps. I've seen pictures of these outfits from the thirties. I see a few folks who look like they walked out of Life Magazine in the 60s!
I find a couple of empty barstools and plant myself in one. There was a kindred spirit in the place and somehow I almost felt like I belonged..
Out of nowhere, an older bearded man sided up to the bar next to me. He looked kind of familiar. "Hey man" he said. "that's a good lookin FLH ya got there". "Yeah, Thanks, you ridin‚ tonight? I answer. "Oh yeah, night like tonight I wouldn't miss a ride." I got the blue and silver Shovelhead out back. "Cool, what year?" I ask, happy to have an ally. "It's a 66, first year generator shovel. "Sweet, Is she running good?" I inquire. "Sure kid it's running like a top! Hey man, you hungry?" "Yeah I reply. "It"s a great bar but no grub". He replied C'mon kid let's take a ride!".
His rockabilly voice bore an uncanny resemblance to Elvis. He even looked like an older version of Elvis. Ah, well maybe he's a fan. Or maybe , just a country boy. The bearded one pulls up on what looks like a showroom shovelhead. I reach out my hand, "Yo, my name is Sal." Shaking hands he replied "Aaron, my friends call me Aaron. Let's go man, best burgers in town are just a little farther down the roadââ". I took up in trail of the majestic Dresser. I have never seen a shovel this clean that wasn't in a museum. It had handrails, crashbars, a fairing, AM Radio and every other accessory available in 1966. I am not a big fan of overly dressed bikes. Somehow the old shovel looked just right. Anything less would be not enough. One more piece though would ruin it for sure. To top it off his Tennessee plate was "KING". Now it was getting a bit strange.
The gravel lent way to asphalt and the two generator motors hummed in sync as they rolled through the woods and eventually downtown. We pulled into newly renovated drive In. Girls on roller skates, clean 55 Chevy's, a couple of Vintage Caddies and a 56 Baby Blue T-Bird for good measure. Hot Damn, this is heaven! I reply in utter disbelief at the whole scene. How come I never heard of this place either!.
I must admit at this point that Aaron was a little too much like "The King". He sounded like him and talked like him. He even walked like him. I guess fans will do what fans will do.
We strode up to the counter and ordered up. The stainless steel back splashes had pressed in fan designs and were a perfect backdrop for the old Oster milk shake mixer, and percolator. Ahhh, remember perked coffee? It had a smell you never forget. How we got suckered into these drip machines is beyond me. I get a cup of joe to accompany my double burger and krinkle cut fries. I guess I am turning into a grumpy old man. I hate to see these Mom and Pop places fall to the big franchises. But everyone else seems content with the mediocre, albeit "safe" franchises.
I went to the juke box. Aaron, check this out, they got a ton of Elvis in here. Patsy Cline, Hank Williams and Nat King Cole added to the rest. "Anything you want to hear?" Striding to the end of the room, he possessed a confident nonchalance, and a natural rhythm. "Play 102 he said. It is one of my favorites. Hmmm, 102, Patsy Cline "Walk-in after MidnightÂ. How sweet to hear an old scratchy 45. The song was different. The slide guitar was more prominent, and it sounded fresher, not overly produced. This was the original version. After a bit of Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis, we had conquered our blue plates specials! Our bellies full it is time to ride. The old Pan starts on the first kick and Aaron nods in approval. A gentlemen all the way, he waited until the kicker was running. He then hit the button on his Electra Glide. The grand old shovelhead rumbled to life, then off into the night we go!
It was a nice change to ride with someone who doesn't drink a lot. We took the traditional, Harley side by side formation and headed out the backroads. Aaron was good and we kept the pace and spacing perfectly. We rode for an hour on roads I had never seen before. Through the cool low lands and up over rolling hills. We passed farmlands and dairies. The bright moon making silhouettes of the cows. They gently turned their heads to watch us motor by. Past grain elevators and old factories, the road was filled with Americana. The barns had faded Mail Pouch Tobacco, Coca Cola and other ads, hand painted on them. Traditional cottage style gas stations, with the roof extending to the pump island. It was kind of weird and I thought maybe it was just the Pan thing. I have always felt that Harleys transcend time. The two generator motors made it all the more real or unreal..
The Pan starts to sputter all of a sudden. Instinctively, I pull the plunger fuel valve all the way out, to reserve. The engine regains itself and Aaron recommends a gas station just up the road. What a hoot, the attendant at the Texaco has an old style overall and Star cap on. I remember the jingle, "You can trust your car to the man who wears the star". As we pull in, he offers his hand to Aaron. "Hey, How's the King runnin" He asks. "Like a top, Slim, Like a top" He replies. "Fillerup with Hi Test?" The eager attendant queries. "Naw, But my friend Sal here just hit reserve a couple of miles ago"
"Hello Sal Glad to meet ya!" Slim offers his hand and readies the nozzle. Most riders like to fill their own tanks and Slim seeing my reticence, retracts the nozzle. "Don't worry Sal" he encourages, "I gotta flathead at home and I never spill a drop‚ Sorry, Slim, you know how it goes, huh? I sheepishly mumble. Guarding the area around the filler necks with a heavy blue paper towel, Slim deftly fills the tanks. His uniform spotless, his manner perfect, how did this kind of service ever go away? Nowadays the attendants don't even speak English. We are off again on another new road.
We happen upon some small towns on the way. Some of the streets remind me of Camden NJ, when I was a kid. Like any small east coast city. Row homes with still wet sidewalks from the owners washing them down. The big kids rode scooters made from old wooden crates and steel roller skates. The corner bar, corner grocery, even the newstand was open. The railroad warning lights flash ahead and the gates descend to halt our progress. With a minute to collect my thoughts, I ask Aaron, "Where the hell are we? Relax Sal, we are only two towns from the Station". He assures me. "Take ya a half hour we go direct". "No worries", I respond. "I would just like to take Doris out here sometime, she hates the city". Aaron just chuckled, "Yeah, me too. The Chessie Line now well past, the railroad gates rise, and we are on the road again. This time we take a wooded road. The lighting is sparse but the moon is filling the gaps just fine. Lots of opossum, and squirrels, but nothing large, and/or deadly. I finally see what looks like an outpost of civilization, dim lights off in the distance. No, the lights are moving, coming toward us. The club members we saw at the Fillin'g station are heading our way. In a tight perfect, formation, they wave as they pass. "I guess the boys are heading in?". I ask. "Nooo" Aaron replies. "They got two, three hundred miles to go tonight". I am shocked. "They are going to ride that vintage hardware another 2-300 miles?" "Oh yeah man, they ride a big, very big circuit." He answers. Another dim light is getting brighter as we approach. Turns out, I had taken the back way to the "Fillin Station. We were approaching from the front this time. The bikes were now replaced by a few cars, a pickup here a hot rod there. The usual suspects for a Friday night. The crowd of mostly locals and motorheads are friendly enough and the jukebox is serving up Apache by The Ventures. Aaron and I grab a barstool each and settle in front of a couple beers. A while later I have to ask the question. "Aaron, you ARE a big Elvis fan, no?" He gave me a wry smile. "Well ya know, I may just be his biggest." My question seemed to make him a bit reflective, and slightly uncomfortable. It is time for me to get on home. Aaron and I shake hands and I ask if he wants to meet at the antique rally next week. "Naw" he mumbled, kind of staring at the ground. "I ain't much for crowds these days. "You can usually find me around here if you wanna do some riding. I begin the ritual of setting the choke lever lifting the plunger fuel valve and prodding the kickstart lever. Aaron gives me pat on the back and with a perfect Elvis impersonation tells me to "Keep the rubber side down, Partner." I ride the back way out down to the asphalt to where the big tree meets the road. Asphalt lends way to gravel and the moon is smiling like an old friend. I finally pick up the road. The Bike night sign is gone and the great old oak stands silently. I start to accelerate across the road but the night air has finally caught me with its accompanying chill. I pull off the road, kill the engine and rest the bike on its side stand. I retrieve the denim shirt from its place under the seat. I button up the denim and get ready to start the bike. It is late, not a car in sight, no sounds but the concerto of insects, birds and frogs. I restart the bike and stop in the middle of the street. Turning around for a last look at the old oak and the dirt road that led me to such an adventure. I am hushed! The road was gone, not a trace. Where the Bike Night sign was, an old refrigerator sat. A lot of overgrown bushes, thick trees beyond. Not a hint of a road ever being there. In the bright moon light, I thought I saw the mighty oak bow its branches to me. I looked at the odometer, 5750. Hmmm, do I tell Doris? I smiled at the oak, and he smiled back, I pulled in the clutch, feeling the mousetrap take up the tension. I toed down to first, looked back at the place where the road used to be and off I go!
..Hmmm, how do I tell Doris? ..Nawww maybe I don't.
Richard C. Celia
copyright 2001
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