50 Stories in 50 States: Tales Inspired by a Motorcycle Journey Across the USA Vol 1, Great Lakes & N.E.

by Kevin B Parsons

  “We didn’t plan on the old man walking around and shining his light into the place,” Dylan wailed.

  “No, but that’s no big deal. We’ll be fine.”

  Tears dripped down both cheeks. “No, we won’t. He’s going to find us and we’ll get arrested and go to jail and—”

  “Will you get a hold of yourself?” Tyler got behind the bike and picked him up, holding him by the shoulders. “Listen. We got this. Hello? You stop crying right now or I’m going to smack you.”

  Dylan stopped the wailing, but his shoulders heaved. He wiped his cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  He looked everywhere but at Tyler.

  “Look at me. Say it. We’ll be fine.”

  “We’ll be f-fine.”

  “Okay. Let’s go upstairs.”

  “Will you hold my hand?”

  “No. But I’ll walk right beside you.” They crouched and walked up the stairs, stopping at every step, listening for anything—the guard, a dog, an alarm. Only the buzz of electricity pierced the silence. They reached the top floor and Tyler ran to a contraption. “Look at that, Dylan. They say it’s the first bike ever made.”

  Under a dim light sat a crazy looking thing, made of wood with what looked like a saddle. A wooden motorized bicycle.

  “You suppose we could build one?”

  Dylan shook his head, then shrugged. “Maybe we could put engines on our bikes.”

  “Look at this. Evel Knievel’s bike.” Tyler read the plaque. “It can’t be the one I saw on TV. He wrecked that one bad.”

  “It’s really cool looking.”

  “I’m going to sit on it.” He approached the bike.

  “Tyler, don’t. It’ll set off an alarm or something.”

  “Don’t be silly.” He grabbed the handlebar and put his foot on the foot peg.

  “Stop right there!” A voice commanded behind a flashlight beam.

  The boys screamed.

  “Step away from the bike.”

  They moved into the center, arms raised.

  “Don’t shoot us, please don’t shoot—”

  “What are you two doing?” The light beam moved to the floor. It was the old man.

  “We didn’t mean anything,” Dylan blubbered, “we’re so sorry. Please don’t arrest us, please we’ll go now please—”

  “Listen here. You don’t touch these bikes, you hear?”

  “Yes sir.” Tyler nodded.

  “What are your names?”

  “I’m Tyler Gardner and this is Dylan Jacot.”

  The man clicked off the light. “Come with me.” He took them to a hallway and sat them on a couch. Walking back and forth in front of them, he muttered, “I don’t know what to do with you two. What are you doing in here anyway? You going to steal the bikes or something?”

  Dylan blathered, “Please sir, don’t arrest us we’ll go home and we’ll never come here—”

  “We just wanted to see the bikes, sir.” Tyler looked him in the eye. “I think they are so cool, and we came here once, but didn’t stay long. We live just up the hill. So we planned this all out. We snuck in sleeping bags and brought some food and planned on spending the night here. But we wouldn’t steal anything, or hurt anything or nothing.”

  “You were getting on Evel Knievel’s bike.”

  “I just wanted to sit on it.”

  He got down on one knee. “You never, ever touch a man’s bike without his permission. Number one rule. And these babies?” He stood and pointed to the room. “These are history. They tell the stories of men and women, famous ones, riding, racing, performing on bikes. We can’t have kids climbing all over them.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “What should I do with you?” He rubbed his grey beard. “Maybe… I work the night shift here. Maybe, if you promise to be good, I’ll take you around and at dawn when my shift’s over I’ll take you home. What do you think?”

  “We’ll be good don’t arrest us we’ll be—”

  “That would be fine, sir.” Tyler stood and held out his hand. The old man shook it, his hand thick and strong.

  “Call me Mr. B.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The man escorted them around the building, pointing out each bike and telling the history of each one. At posters of heroes, Mr. B. again regaled stories of the men, with much more detail than was written on the posters.

  “Did you know these guys?”

  “Well, sort of. I was a bit older than you when I first saw Dick Mann race, a half mile at Castle Rock in Washington state. After the race, we walked through the pits. You could do that back then. The guys would hang around the fire and they’d bench race, talking about racing. So that night, Dick Mann won the race. He and Dave Aldana—Dave was pretty crazy—went bar to bar on every lap, into the turns, dicing it out, Mann on the inside going into turn one, Aldan on the outside, sometimes Dick a little ahead, sometime Aldana. Well, on lap twenty-three, two laps to go, they flew down the straightaway and chopped the throttle into the turn, just like every other lap. But this time Dick blipped the throttle back on. Dave heard it, grabbed a handful of gas, and crashed in turn one. Dick won the race, just being smart.”

  “Cool.”

  They wandered through the building, the old man relating stories of bikes he rode like the ones displayed—Bultacos, Hondas, and Yamahas. And the men, the icons of the sport, Mr. B. talked like they were his old friends. At a picture of Bruce Ogilvie, the old man stopped.

  “Bruce was the real deal. He’d won the Baja 1000, lots of other races. Then Honda made him captain of the Team Honda off road program. I raced in the Best in the Desert series. Had a 650 Honda. Bruce set up a pit support plan for anyone racing on a Honda. He sure helped me out. Won the championship that year, four stroke open class. That guy had integrity and a fierce commitment to winning. Sure miss him.”

  The place got quiet as the old man peered at the photo, his hands behind his back.

  “Listen. Tell you what. Behind the museum is a grass area. I got an old truck wheel, we can build a fire. Sometimes I make s’mores back there. Let’s make s’mores.”

  “Cool.”

  “It’s pretty dark, isn’t it?”

  “I got a flashlight.”

  They took the supplies to the back and the man got a fire going in no time. The fire burned down to coals and they roasted marshmallows over it, Mr. B. sharing stories of riding, racing, and people. He opened his lunch box and passed Pepsis to the boys.

  “You kids have bikes?”

  “I got a little Honda fifty,” Tyler admitted.

  “It’s awesome,” Dylan said. “It must have a hundred stickers on it.”

  “Shut up, dude.”

  “It is cool.”

  “I wish I had a 150 or something.”

  The old man took a swig of his drink. “Why don’t you?”

  “They cost a lot of money.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t have much. I only get ten bucks a week allowance.”

  “So? Get a job.”

  “Too young. I’m only twelve.”

  “Kids nowadays.” He stood and paced in front of the fire. “Can you mow grass?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Save your money. Buy an old lawnmower. Cut the neighbors’ lawns.”

  “How would I get the mower there? I can’t drive.”

  “You push the thing. Make deals with the closest neighbors. Then push the mower there and cut their grass. Mowing the grass will get you in shape for riding. You want to ride or race?”

  “Someday I want to race motocross.”

  “Perfect. When you mow the grass, you run. Twice as fast, twice as much money, and you’ll get in shape to race. You need strong legs to compete in moto. That’s how you do it. You don’t sit on the sideline, pining about how you never got the chance. You take the chance.” He pointed back to the museum. “Did you see that plaque about Lars Larsen? He carried his bike in the trunk of hi
s car and slept in the car. That’s a man committed to his sport, that’s passion. You can have it, too. Winters you get a snow blower and shovel snow. Borrow your dad’s. Offer to pay him something for it. Do it better than anybody else. Get people to want your service. And always, always keep that bike in front of your vision. Cut out a picture of it and put it on your door. Know what I mean?”

  Somehow what the old man said made sense. Maybe he could do it. “I could see if my dad would match, you know, every dollar I earn, he could put one in.”

  “Sure. If he doesn’t you’ll just have to work harder and it’ll take longer. But you know something? It’ll be worth it.” He sat again and they stared at the flames in silence. Something stirred in Tyler. Hope.

  They finished the drinks and the old man stood up. “Did you boys see the Hall of Fame?

  Dylan said, “I thought the whole place was the Hall of Fame.”

  “No, the actual hall. With the placards.”

  “Uh uh.”

  “Come on.” He led them inside and up the stairs, then turned into a rounded wall with plaques on it. Each one bore a name. The old man stood there, then in a hushed tone said, “You’re looking at greatness. Look at these. Gary Nixon, champion. Jay Leno, a huge bike enthusiast. William A Davidson, one of the pioneers of Harley Davidson.” The man surveyed each plaque and told of heroes and legends, manufacturers, riders, racers, and proponents.

  “These are the people who helped make motorcycling as great as it is today.”

  Tyler nodded. “Wow. This is so cool.”

  They returned to the fire and the old man let Dylan put more logs on it.

  “How long have you been riding bikes?” Dylan asked.

  “Oh, I started racing short track when I was thirteen. So fifty-six years.”

  “Wow, that’s forever,” Dylan said. Tyler smacked him with his elbow.

  The old man told stories of desert racing, dirt riding and road touring adventures. He claimed to have ridden a motorcycle through every state. Tyler wondered if that could be true. The fire burned lower and dawn crept above the trees.

  “… So if we hadn’t stopped for the cattle truck that tipped over, we wouldn’t have gotten caught in the snow. When the bike went down, I thought, ‘I got this,’ but I was pretty scared.” He stirred the fire and sat, watching the flames curl above the coals. “Looks like your buddy fell asleep.”

  Dylan sat in a canvas chair, curled up.

  The old man stood, his hands behind his back. “Tell you what. It’s getting to be daytime and my shift’s about over. What say I take you two to MacDonald’s for breakfast, then I’ll drop you off near your houses. You can both go home and your parents won’t be the wiser. Sound good?”

  Tyler nodded. “Sure.”

  He woke Dylan and they went to the bathroom while the old man put out the fire. When the boys got out of earshot, he unfolded his phone and called.

  “Mr. Gardner? Bob here. Yeah, I got the boys… No, the night went just fine… They’re good boys, just wanted to see the bikes… No, no trouble at all… Actually, I told ’em I’d drop ’em a block away and they could walk home like nothing happened. Up to you if you want to catch ’em or not. My two cents, pretend they pulled it over on you and when they turn eighteen or get married or something, then tell ’em… My pleasure. We had a great time… Could you call Ms. Jacot and tell her, too? Great. And my advice? Help Tyler get a bike, a real bike, not that Tote Gote thing. I think he’ll be willing to work for it… Oh, it’s an old brand of mini bike… Oops, here they come. Gotta go.

  “Okay, boys, you ready?” He put his hands on their shoulders and steered them through the museum and toward his car. “You like those hash brown thingies they smash into a wedge?”

  “I love them,” Dylan said.

  Tyler looked back at the building. “Do you suppose we could come back sometime?”

  “Anytime,” Mr. B. said, “anytime.”

  Illinois

  Riding along the Mississippi River, I saw why so many people have written about it. I got to imagining what kind of a youth would be spent in a rowboat, up and down the river … with a bit of adolescent love thrown in, of course.

  THE RIVER

  In 1959, I learned on the Mississippi River that life isn’t fair. My dad, in a wonderful and unexpected show of being human, allowed me to use the rowboat that summer. We’d just gotten out of school for the summer, and Quincy Elementary School saw the last of me until September. As the principal rang the bell for dismissal, I hit the back door and didn’t look back.

  “Bobby, you’re going to be an adult soon,” Dad said, “so you need to enjoy yourself this summer. Marcia is old enough to take care of herself, so you can get out on the river with the rowboat a bit. Probably won’t get a chance like this again.”

  Incredulous and afraid he’d change his mind, I asked him how far I could take it.

  “As far as you like. Upriver or down. But be home on time for dinner or I’ll warm your butt.” I knew the threat to be real.

  I lay in bed that night and stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep, thinking of the great adventures ahead. I’d go upriver first, thinking if time got to be a problem, I could make time downstream a lot easier. The next morning I set out with Johnny Ray. We made an agreement that I would row upstream and he would take us back. Since he was two years younger than me, it seemed fair.

  That year Ritchie Valens ‘Oh, Donna’ made the top of the hits. I must have played that song a thousand times on the record player. Mom owned a couple of records, Pat Boone and Bing Crosby. She got an Elvis Presley album too, but hid it from Dad. He said the guy was too sexy, something like that. We listened to him together and I thought he was real good. Dad hated my music, too, so I only played it when he was at work. My favorite song was ‘Mack the Knife’ by Bobby Darin. I didn’t understand all the words, but the beat was really neat. Something about a tug boat, so it must be on the river. Look out, old Mack is back.

  It stuck in my head as we headed out the first day with a sack of peanut butter sandwiches and two Cokes that Johnny Ray stole from his dad. Neither one of us lived on the river, so we carried the boat between old man Crenshaw’s house and the Boysen twins’ place, older girls who never knew we existed. Crenshaw caught us and asked us what we were doing. After we told him, he said we could keep the boat at his dock. It must be the moon or something, but mean old men were suddenly all becoming nice.

  Our simple life just got simpler.

  I held the boat for Johnny Ray as he climbed in. “So how long can you stay out?”

  “My dad don’t care if I ever come back.”

  I put the oars in the oarlocks. His dad doesn’t care? He sounds more like Huckleberry Fin than I do. “Tell you what, Johnny Ray, you can be Huck Finn and I’ll be Tom Sawyer.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “Keen.”

  I rowed out a bit and we embarked on Day One of a three-month adventure into the river, the forests, and life full of adventures and heartbreak.

  I rowed upstream and Johnny—that is, Huck—held onto both sides as we glided past the park, under the railroad trestle and up to Earel Camp Road. The sun beat down and I took my shirt and shoes off. Twice Johnnie Ray and I jumped in the water after beaching the boat. I couldn’t take my eyes off that boat for fear I’d lose it and worse yet, lose the precious freedom my father granted to me.

  The sun beat down relentlessly as we ate our lunch that first day, entirely too early. We sat in a clearing with mud dried to our ankles from the gooey mess that ran from the river to firmer ground. In ’59, the river ran low from the drought.

  “Tomorrow we bring fishing poles.”

  Johnny Ray spoke around a huge gob of sandwich. “Don’t got one.”

  “I got two.” I’d take Marcia’s. She never used it. Being eleven, she steered toward dolls. I scanned the area. “We need to find a good tree. Bring a rope and make a gigantic rope swing. Bigger than Danny Arl
ens’.”

  “Think we can?”

  “Sure.”

  Johnny Ray rowed back while I fretted about the time. The first day and I better not be late. We tied the boat at Crenshaw’s dock and I ran home. I crashed through the back door with Johnny Ray in my wake. Mom stood at the oven with a mitt on and pulled out a fresh batch of cookies.

  “What time is it?”

  She set the sheet down and looked at her watch. “Almost 1:30. Would you like a cookie?”

  Johnny Ray said, “Sure.” We sat at the table and I smacked my forehead.

  We arrived four and a half hours early.

  ~

  Each day we got better. We learned our lesson and left our shoes at home. We wouldn’t put them back on until the first day of school, when we discovered they didn’t fit. I rowed farther, Johnny Ray rowed upstream some, and we packed provisions, including rope, fishing poles, my b.b. gun, matches, knives, butter, more and more food, and tackle. We found a great spot to stash much of it, at a nice landing place. We caught fish and fried them for lunch. Our expeditions got bigger, too, as we ventured to the Iowa side of the river, avoiding the huge barges that slid by. But mostly we stuck to the Illinois side and discovered more territory upstream, Lewis and Clark searching out the forests and fields. Inland, we found an oak tree that we could climb, so high we could see the surrounding landscape. I could anyway. Johnny Ray didn’t get that far up. We built a huge rope swing on the river’s edge, too. The attachment to the tree took courage, as I crawled out the massive branch and kept inching out as the branch got thinner. Three times I fell off into the water and the third time it knocked the wind out of me. I struggled to the beach and flopped on my back, gasping for air.

  Johnny Ray looked at me, choking and heaving, his eyes huge. “Maybe we should try a smaller tree. Not so far up.”

  I struggled to my feet. “No way. This is the tree.” I climbed again and got it tied.

  The swing, being so long, took a long time and a lot of pushing and swinging to reach its arc, but after numerous times I could fly. The wind blew in my face and back, and at full arc I could see way up and downriver. At the full extension, I’d jump into the river. Old Huck wouldn’t get it swinging so much. I tried to push him higher, but couldn’t get him high enough. He needed to pump his legs to help but he would have nothing of it. No matter how much I teased him about being a chicken, it yielded no better results.