by Terry Davis
They walked through the shop and out the back door to the van. Scotty extended his arm toward the open cargo door. There sat a Norton Commando rolling chassis with engine and transmission bolted down. “The rest of it’s in the crates.”
Behind the bike sat four milk crates. One held a yellow Commando gas tank.
“A 1973 Norton Commando,” Scotty said. “This is the deal we’ve been looking for. I rebuilt this engine and did the Isolastics the first year we were in Spokane. The guy was going to do the rest, but he never got to it. Now he’s headed back for California. He was happy to get five hundred bucks. Just for fun I dug up the work order. It cost him almost a grand then. The bill would be twice that now.”
“And I can buy this motorcycle?” Bert asked.
“You must buy this motorcycle,” Scotty replied. “This bike is you. I suspected all along you might be a Norton guy, and now I know. That Sportster was just a transitional ride.”
Bert took the Norton home to Gram’s in the shop van. In its dismantled condition it was easy to unload alone. He yearned to piece through the crates, but Scotty needed him back at the shop.
Throughout his workday, his weight circuit, and his drills on the court Bert thought of the Norton and the crates full of parts. He’d been tempted to skip workout and dive right into bike work, but he was afraid to cheat on his routine. He was afraid that if he skipped a day, he wouldn’t deserve to keep making progress. As much as Bert loved bikes, he loved who he was becoming more. He tried to lose himself in the physical exertion, but he couldn’t.
When Bert got back home he lost himself in Norton parts. He found a factory shop manual and a Commando parts list in one of the crates, and he checked each piece against the list and set it out on Gramp’s workbench. He made notes on his clipboard.
Most of the stuff was there. He was missing the drive chain, battery, muffler brackets, exhaust lock-rings, a rear brake cable, and a stop lamp-switch. Nothing big.
Among the treasures Bert found in the milk crates was an original Norton tool kit, including the little Lucas feeler gauge-screwdriver, and a 750 Commando rider’s manual. The cover was greasy and a few of the pages had come unglued, but it was in pretty good condition for its age. Which, Bert realized, was seventeen years, the same age as his own.
Bert was thrilled with all of this right down to the nuts and washers he dug out of the folds of the newspapers in the bottoms of the crates. He couldn’t stand still. He felt like calling the company when he saw their number printed on the first page of the rider’s manual. NORTON VILLIERS LTD., it said. MARSTON RAOD, WOLVERHAMPTON, WV2 4NW, ENGLAND. TEL. 22399.
They went out of business a few years after they made this motorcycle, Bert thought, and that’s a long time ago. What if I called this number? Maybe I’d get some old Brit biker in the Twilight Zone.
It was after midnight when Bert turned out the light and locked the garage. Tomorrow night he’d start putting his Norton together.
He peed in the grass, then washed his hands, face, and neck with water from the spigot. He grabbed the towel he kept in his room, then stepped back outside to dry himself. It was a beautiful night. Sleeping would be tough. He was too excited.
Chapter 29
Bert Bowden Calling
Bert loved riding his Norton. He loved the sound, which was softer than the Sportster but hard enough. He loved the way the suspension allowed the bike to rise with increased throttle like a living thing breathing deeper as it ran. And he loved knowing he’d put a lot of it together himself. He loved it too much to ride it to school. He didn’t want to know what other kids thought of it. What he thought of it was most important.
He rode the Norton to the shop on Tuesday, and when work was over he rolled it up on a workstand. He fit the mercury gauge to the carburetors and saw that they weren’t in sync. Scotty observed from over his shoulder. Bert adjusted the throttle stop screws and then the pilot air screws in each carb. When the levels of mercury in the two tubes were even, Scotty gave Bert’s shoulder a tap. “You’ve got it,” he said. “Can’t dial ’er in any closer than that.”
All the Norton needed now was a luggage rack, and after Bert lowered the stand he walked into the showroom, pulled one off the wall, and put the money in the cash register. Scotty walked with him as he pushed the Norton out into the alley.
“I saw the final league standings,” Scotty said.
“It’s a weak league in spring,” Bert said. He’d won B by a few points.
“It’s not that weak.”
“I’m starting to hit it by people is all,” Bert said. “Nobody looks for cross-court stuff. They stand up on the service line and think it’s gonna bounce right to ’em.”
“I think you should move up to A in June,” Scotty said. “Those guys look for everything. And you need to start playing guys who hit the ball.”
Bert made a doubtful face. “I s’pose,” he replied.
* * *
Bert rode to the club with his workout bag and the luggage rack strapped to the back of the seat with bungee cords. It was a beautiful afternoon. The sky was a little lighter blue than a racquetball. Every cloud in the southern sky was tapered on its leading end, and this quality made them appear to have a shared destination. The clouds made Bert think of a herd of animals grazing. They looked like big, contented animals up there.
Bert felt light as a cloud, which was funny because he also felt full. He was full of good feelings. He was on his way to play the winner of C league. The winner of this match played the winner of A league for the club championship. Everyone knew it wasn’t the real club championship because spring leagues were so weak, but still it was something.
Bert wasn’t as nervous as usual. Part of it was that he’d been playing well and knew he could probably win this match with his serve alone, and part of it was simply that he was happy. Bert didn’t think that even beating Lawler—in spite of the many nights he dreamed it point by point—would make him feel any better than he felt right now.
* * *
The playoff matches were two games to fifteen and a tie breaker, but Bert’s didn’t get that far. He hit drive serves and played strategically in the first game and won it 15–6. He won the second serving a variety of lobs, which worked better than his drives had the first game, and practicing the overhand shots and splat shots he’d been working on with Scotty.
He also practiced staying loose, having fun. Weird to think a guy would have to practice that, but Bert did. When he was loose, when he was absolutely out of himself and into the game—when he was playing unconscious—was when he came closest to getting it right. And sometimes he actually got it right.
Bert put in his time on the abdominal machine and was home before dark. It was his responsibility to call Lawler because he was the one challenging upward. He’d taken the number from the A sheet a long time ago. It was the first note he put by his phone when he installed it. And now he was going to dial that number. Hard to believe. Incredible. Amazing. Astonishing. This was the dream of the last five years of his life, and he hadn’t even known it until a few months ago. And then he’d committed himself to make it happen. And he did it. I did it, Bert thought as he touched the numbers. I fucking did it.
Bert hadn’t heard that voice for five years, but he could have picked it out of a concert crowd. “Gary Lawler,” he said. “It’s Bert Bowden calling about racquetball. We need to set a time for our playoff game.”
Bert had stumbled through his first few calls to guys for games, but then a guy had called him and said pretty much what he’d just said to Lawler. It was confident but friendly, and it was short, so Bert started using it himself.
“How about Saturday morning?” Lawler said.
Bert had wondered if Lawler would recognize his name. “Needs to be early for me,” he said. “I work at nine.”
“Let’s make it six-thirty, then.”
“Six-thirty,” Bert said. He said good-bye, but Lawler had already hung up. I’ll bet he doe
s remember me, Bert thought.
He took his tape player and some favorite tunes to the garage. Clapton, Seger, Dire Straits, Dylan, Eagles, John Cougar Mellencamp. Tunes to mount a luggage rack by. He worked slower than he needed to while both sides played through. Then he roared off through the blue dusk. It wasn’t long before he was rolling back under the carport and then letting Gram’s screen door bang behind him.
“Where’d you ride off to, Berty?” Gram said.
“Had to test my new luggage rack,” Bert replied. “He held up a Baskin-Robbins bag. “It carries ice cream,” he said. “That was my prime concern.”
Bert ate peanut butter and chocolate out of the quart container. He ate it all. Gram ate a little of her pint of chocolate mousse royale. Bert sat awhile, then gave Gram a kiss and said he was off for a ride. She asked if he had schoolwork, and he said he’d hit it when he got back. “Berty,” she said, “I want you to promise me.”
He promised.
It was close to ten, but Bert rode in just a T-shirt. He did, however, have his jacket strapped to the rack. He wished Darby Granger were on behind him. It probably wouldn’t hurt to call her sometime. She had a boyfriend, but a call from her associate editor for next year wouldn’t be out of line. Bert would be patient about Darby and about romance in general. He wasn’t confident about a great number of things, but he was fully confident in his belief that everything of value took patience to acquire.
Bert swung by the 7-Eleven, though, just in case Darby was there hoping he’d show up to take her for a ride. But he didn’t see her as he rolled past the gas pumps. The only patrons were some Thompson sophomores sitting on the curb eating Cheetos.
He rode south, then east along the Spokane River. Soon the houses thinned out. It was darker here and he could see the stars. Plenty of people cruising. Mostly kids. Boyfriends and girlfriends, some of them on bikes. Ninjas, Interceptors, Katanas—those bikes that are supposed to be so distinctive but are really just stamps of one another. A few Harleys.
Cars were parked at every turn-out. Bert’s contemporaries into heavy petting. But maybe they’d only pulled off to look at the stars through the pine boughs, or at the black flowing river. Maybe they’d come here from Dick’s with burgers and fries and a contempt for the dangers of cholesterol. More likely, however, they were doing the nasty with flagrant disregard for its consequences. They were doing the bad thing, all right. Everybody was but him. How Bert longed for the opportunity to make such mistakes. How does a guy be patient about a primal urge?
Thank the powers of creation for Bowdenland.
He turned south on Argonne Road and was back among the houses and streetlights. He turned west on Trent and pointed the Norton for home. He slowed at Latus Motors, Spokane’s Harley dealership, and looked through the windows at the new bikes.
Bert dipped south onto Sprague and cruised the tattoo parlor. He thought of having RIDE FAST, LIVE FOREVER written in blue on his throttle arm like Scotty and Steve and Camille Shepard. The words rang to him like a statement of faith. Bert wished he could face his life with such audacity. If he ever had anything written on his body, this imperative would be it.
Chapter 30
Young Mr. Bowden Strikes Back
Friday night Bert is too nervous to sleep. He tries reading to tire his eyes, he tries lifting the lid of his mind and allowing the nervousness to float away. He watches Terminator, Aliens, and Predator until the sky begins to lighten. He makes coffee then, but can’t drink it.
As he rides to the club he tells himself it’s just another match. But he doesn’t convince himself. Bert Bowden knows a pathetic, futile, desperate, chickenshit lie when he tells himself one. This is not just another match. If he wants to win it, though, he needs to make it one.
Bert is sitting on the steps when one of the strength instructors arrives to open up. Lawler walks through the door as Bert is getting his towel and locker key.
The locker room is silent. Bert has never been here when rock radio wasn’t pouring from the various speakers. He is bending to set his helmet on the floor of his locker when “Young Mr. Bowden!” makes him jump.
It sounds like a rooster’s crow. Bert turns and watches Lawler walk by the sinks. He holds his chin high and his chest out like a little rooster. Bert would love to let the air out of this guy.
“Young Mr. Bowden,” Lawler says as he tosses his bag down beside a locker. “I remember the name now that I see you. You were one of mine.”
“Yup,” Bert replies. He sees Lawler in the center of the line of kids walking back from recess, everybody with their arms entwined, singing. Everybody but him and Zimster. Bert sees it as though it took place minutes ago instead of years. He hears kids shouting as they take off down the slide. He hears the creak of chains as kids pump high on the swings. Bert walks out to the courts with the singing voices of his fifth-grade classmates in his ears and their backs and entwined arms in his vision.
He hits a few easy forehands and tries to feast his ears on the pop of the ball. As he hits a little harder and the pop gets a little louder he thinks he feels it nudging out the other sounds in his head. He hears Lawler warming up in another court. He watches his racquet meet the ball, he watches the ball contact the wall and bounce. Bert tries to fill his head with these sensations.
Lawler raps his racquet on the door and pushes through. “Let’s get this done,” he says. “Two games to fifteen, tie breaker to eleven. Lag for serve.”
“Let’s do it,” Bert says.
He tosses Lawler a new ball. He tries to take deep, even breaths, but his stomach is banging up against his diaphragm. He watches Lawler’s lag hit the wall and arc back. He watches it bounce a few inches from the line. Bert reaches out with every sensory receptor for the sight and the sound of that blue ball. His lag isn’t bad, but Lawler’s was closer.
“Zero serves zero,” Lawler says.
Bert can’t get a breath. Lawler’s drive bounces out of the corner fat. But Bert hits it into the floor with his frame.
“One serves zero,” Lawler says.
Don’t do this to yourself, Bert thinks. You can play this game. Play it.
This drive is harder and better placed, but Bert takes it about six inches off the floor and right to the ceiling. It bounces back hugging the wall. A beautiful shot. Beautiful and lucky. Bert locates at center court and watches Lawler set up. He swings a smooth, high backhand but gets mostly wall. “Touch shot,” Bert says.
“Nice return,” Lawler says.
“Zero serving one,” Bert says. He’s developed an effective drive serve down the right side. He doesn’t have a lot of respect for Lawler’s backcourt shots, and few guys look for the first serve of the game to come to their forehand, so he lets it go. And it’s a sweet one, hugging the wall all the way to the corner.
“Screen,” Lawler says.
Bert looks at him. Screen? he thinks. I’m standing in the middle of the court. That serve didn’t come within five feet of me. But what he says is “Second serve,” and lobs it in the same direction.
Lawler hits a leisurely ceiling shot to what he figures will be Bert’s backhand. But the ball is three feet off the side wall and the bounce doesn’t carry high enough over Bert’s head. Bert takes it overhand and buries it in the right corner. Lawler looks at him as though he’s spoken in a foreign language.
One serving one: Bert drives to Lawler’s backhand. Lawler waits for it to bounce and gets a solid hit on it. Bert doesn’t locate as far back for Lawler as he does for harder hitters, and he sees by his feet that he’s coming straight down the wall. Bert is waiting for the ball as it bounces back across the short line. He takes it cross-court with an off-speed backhand. No use for Lawler to go after it, and he doesn’t.
Two serving one: Bert’s drive takes a crazy bounce out of the corner. Lawler is set up, but only Plastic Man could hit this. “Lucky serve,” Bert says.
Lawler shakes his head.
Three serving one: Bert sets up so it looks li
ke he’s driving to Lawler’s forehand as he did with his first serve of the game, but he goes to his backhand. Lawler is moving to the right side of the court as the ball zips by behind him and bounces out of the left corner. “Nice serve,” Lawler says.
“Thanks,” Bert replies. He’s trying not to think of the score as anything but the announcement of serve. He’s trying not to get excited.
Four serving one: Bert hits a good drive and Lawler hits a good return that Bert barely gets his backhand on. Bert doesn’t see the ball at first, but he sees Lawler setting up near the service line on the right side. Pinch! Bert tells himself, and he takes off for where he thinks the ball will end up. Lawler pinches it into the right corner. It’s a good shot, but Bert’s there to take it shoelaces-high and powder it. “Bounced right to me,” he says.
Five serving one: Bert faults, then lobs his second serve. Lawler goes to the ceiling. It comes back high along the wall. Bert is lucky just to keep it in play. Lawler pinches it in.
One serving five: Lawler’s drive is hard but not low enough. Bert couldn’t have asked for a sweeter bounce if he’d dropped the ball himself. Cross-court backhand. Smoke. By the time Lawler has turned to see how Bert will take it, the ball is by him, off the wall and up the right side of the court. “You’re no B player,” Lawler says.
“Lucky shots,” Bert says.
Five serving one: Bert feels in control of the game. He doesn’t believe Lawler can get the ball by him. If Lawler’s going to score, he’s going to have to kill the ball. Bert isn’t giving Lawler anything. He isn’t serving aces, but his drives are hard and low, and Lawler isn’t getting set up. Bert plays the offensive racquetball he and Scotty have been working on. He tries to put away every shot, and for the next seven points he does. Then he skips probably the easiest forehand he’s had all game.
It’s one serving twelve, but Lawler doesn’t announce the score. He’s through giving Bert low stuff, and he goes to a backhand lob Z. The first two are perfect, bouncing high off the receiving line and into the side wall. Bert hits the first one straight up into the ceiling and dribbles the second off the wall. The third comes back too high. Bert takes it off the wall with his backhand and tries to bury it. It hits a foot off the floor, but that’s too high when the server is planted on the service line. Lawler pinches it into the corner. The swing and the look on his face suggest he’s about to close the book on young Mr. Bowden, the lucky little shit.
