Michael Stewart - The Joy of Motorcycles

More Scraping Pegs

Michael Stewart

Beaten Stick Press

For Little Stu

Warning!

I 'm not living as I should. Increasingly bitter, I may launch a vendetta, like in the movies Kill Bill or True Grit . Revenge and loathing are my companions.

Ride friends.

Find JOY.

I cannot.

DO NOT READ if you are not open to what lies down the trail, along the highway, or around the bend. With motorcycles, life, and this book, there are no guarantees. Like riding, words can lead anywhere. But never lose hope.

I believe,

J OY Will Find A Way .

PART ONE: ON-SCOOTER

Dr. Tire told me, "I couldn't repair your brakes, so I made your horn louder."

Steven Wright

.

Chapter 1 Attempted Murder

T he garage door closed . Under sunny skies, I rolled down the street uncaged. Travel delighted my neurotransmitters the way an ice cream lick triggers a tastebud explosion.

I had not smoked crystal meth, eaten dark chocolate, or otherwise chemically induced happiness. Neurologically, I was at an early stage of Motorcycle JOY. A state of mind riders nurture, similar to Jerry Lee Lewis or Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart tickling the ivories.

I think.

Take nothing I say for granted, especially on the subject of neurology.

You & Your Motorcycle : have you discovered the MAGIC in your machine?

T he front tires hopped onto the sidewalk and I nudged the bar to turnmobility scooters do not respond to countersteering.

Big Terry spotted me. Ex-military, he blocked the sidewalk like it was a Kabul checkpoint. Marta had filled me in on his disturbing motorcycle dilemma.

"Shit."

Confined for months to my basement hospital bed, I longed to ride. "Please don't bog me down, big guy. Not a good time," I said to Pearl, my dog, who was checking out the human barrier ahead. "It's important I focus solely on myself. The things I must do, to climb back on."

There are times you must,

Scrape your pegs.

Wish others well and do your own thing.

I stopped.

Terry asked, "What the fuck should I do," the way a customer pleads with the dealership service manager, after being told his pride and joy is an expensive hunk of junk? "About my motorcycle? There must be something I can do?"

I restrained a shrug, afraid the exMarine was about to leak tears the way oil drips from a sketchy amateur engine rebuild. Sure didn't want moisture landing on my new loaner mobility scooter, Scout. My dog Pearl wanted to skedaddle down the sidewalk. I longed to twist the throttle, see what Scouts made of, like Valentino Rossi, ripping down the ribbon of cement toward endless possibilities and beautiful adventures while giving society's laws and norms the biker salute. Or, perhaps as far as the local strip mall to refill my prescriptions and buy peanut M&Ms.

"Don't know what to do." Terry looked like he should be on the Pul-e Sukhta bridge, looking down at the moldy Kabul River, in the tuck position, set to jump.

Sure youll figure something out, Terry. How about a shove? Hang my old bike frame around your neck. Don't drive like a Blockhead SQUID going into a corner. What to do? Step up and jump! Football player size, I could visualize Terry's splashsimilar to a depth charge in The Enemy Below movie.

In the absence of a better solution, why not jump? We all end up in the river.

Truth About Motorcycles : bikers knowindecision is a killer.

I f Shelly showed up , it'd be a repeat of the Second Punic War (when Hannibal, riding his elephant like a biker, crossed the Pyrenees and Alps, intent on kicking ass and raising hell). The couple met and married in Idaho. Shell was "just passing through." Later she asked, "why the fuck did I stop?"

Acquaintances dismissed her rudeness until she attacked Brenda, Terry's beloved Softail. "Unforgiveable," my Guzzi riding friend Marta said. "Motorcycles are innocents."

Terry and Shelly were physically joined but divided by divergent concepts of what is necessary to live a good lifea life filled with JOY.

Terry spent six years in the Marine Corps and then rode his Harley to forget four of them. From soldier to fighting financial wars with Theisen and Nakamura Wealth Management (thanks to Shelly's uncle in Victoria, on Vancouver Island).

"Just don't know what to do." The unspoken wordsabout Shellys plan to murder Brenda.

When Im lost, my wife Dori asks, "Don't know what to do with yourself? Want to clean the gutters? Immediately I'm inspired to check oil, polish forks, or dick around with my motorcycle GPS. Nowadays, I'd love to clean the gutters, but I can't.