RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,104
(Nanuck of the North, in her sealskin winter coat)
Swell sense of direction.
Not fairly swell; swell.
Nimble; quick; fast. Those
were sometimes the words
used about me; I never knew
why. The only reason, if it
seemed that my reactions
were quick were probably
because they only saw me
in dumb situations where I
had to be, or face the horrid
consequences. This one time,
leaving Asbury Park some
dreary late February day, all
things were sodden and wet,
it was the kind of damp and
atmospheric cold that, on a
motorcycle, there's really no
way around. You just pile on
the clothes and hope it all works.
This day I was riding out, after
an afternoon of the usual and
way too many beers, and I was
riding on the barest minimum
of rear tread too, on a big fat,
stripped down 1980 FLH, with
the braking power of a Tommy
Gun firing (meaning, little) and
what amounted to a 'slick,' or
nearly, in tire parlance. Everything
was wet, we were all wobbly
(some 6 motorcycles), and
seeing myself challenged by
an approaching stop sign to
a sort of major roadway, I
honked on the weak brakes
and went into, quite accidentally,
a sideways skid to write home
about. From the morque. But,
nimble and quick as a fast-lit
cande, yes, I recovered in time
to - instead of crashing down -
guide the bike into a slow slide,
doing little damage to anything but
pride. Maybe 30 feet, and a twirl.
This particular motorcycle had
crash bars, which I always had
particularly hated, but in this case
they saved the bike from actually
sliding on its side and destroying
everything - gas tank and the
rest, and probably me (and my
fairly lady passenger, who
somehow actually enjoyed
the quick drama. Two points
for crash bars, I suppose.
-
What appeared to me as an
out-of-control mishap, however,
apparently appeared to my sidekicks
as some sort of professional and
totally controlled masterful and
skilled maneuver. Which of course
once again bolstered my fame
and reputation as the most most
nimble of motorbike wizards.
Yeah, yeah, thank you, guys,
and it was easy. The helpful
qualities here, as well as the
hindrances were the same, but
for the lame-brain idea of running
with that rear tire of despicable
reputation. The same wet road
that had me lose traction also
worked its way to saving my
hide and skin, by being wet. The
enormous amount of Winter
riding apparel we'd piled on
helped as well. It all could have
been much worse, and we'd
maybe still be there picking
skin and bone scraping out
from he gouges in the macadam.
Which ever only LOOKS smooth
and supple. It never is. So, once
you get rolling with this stuff
quickly enough learn the opposites
the 'appearances' of all things.
-
Let me add too, that it had, all in
all, been a dishonest day by us all.
It was some kind of race day, first
race of the season, way down south
somewhere. Some Nascar stuff I
never cared about but which this
guy name Joe White (hey! Is he
going to have to change his name
now?) did. Each year, as a Spring
teaser (still months off) he'd rent
the old Howard Johnsons meeting
room, with all the glass and stuff,
that looked out over the ocean, at
Asbury Park. It was an ABATE
thing, and his Monmouth Chapter
always threw this party, and the
race was on the TV, on a stand,
at room center. (This was before
today's days of large, wall-size
TV's. Even though Wall Twsp.
was right down there, nearby).
There'd be food, bikes, bikers,
music, drinking, and then the
race. This particular day, my
friend (name withheld), while
we were hanging around, eating
and drinking, found out that the
main beer-storage cold-room
was just around the bend by us,
unattended, and unlocked. So
he got this routine going of raiding
it and bringing out 4 beers or so
at a time. This went on, and then
finally the Greek guy who ran the
place, and who'd always been nice
and happy and good to us as could
be, came steaming over, having
caught on to this ongoing beer
raid and his loss of profit. He was
furious; heaved the guy who'd been
doing it out, and lectured us sternly
about what lowlifes we were (that's
the opposite of Miller High Lifes,
I think), taking advantage of him
like that, stealing from his good
braces, etc. He was right. We'd
sure screwed it up, just by
complicity. The trouble was, at
that point, none of us really cared.
We gave him some approximated
amount of pooled money (he still
lost out), and left. Our little group.
The rest stayed on. Maybe a hundred
people; maybe 80. I don't know.
We were headed out of town, on
our way back to the Pioneer Tavern,
in Iselin (our base then), when the
Gary slide-fest occurred. All's well
that ends well, and this did.
-
Outside of all that, the day was
pretty good - if you like staring
out at a freezing cold ocean and
watching race-cars sling by on
a poorly-placed TV. I used to tell
people - even though it wasn't
true, that I 'wasn't a racist, I just
liked NASCAR.' I didn't really
at all. Confederate flags on the
cars, leftover George Wallace
bumper stickers on the bumpers
in the racetrack parking lot (on
TV), and all that hoo-hah stand
and salute patriotism crap was
never my forte. Give me a bald
tire imitation racing slick for the
rear of my motorcycle, in the rain.
Then you're really talking some
language I can understand. There
weren't even any babes on the
beach to look at, and any who
were there all looked like some
Nanuck of the North in a
giant sealskin coat.
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