T. J. Haynes - Riding With the Captain: A Read Easy-Ride Hard Story

This book is fiction.

While this stories locations and roads exist, the characters, dialog, descriptions and experiences are fiction and products of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to any real person, living or dead, or any real event or circumstance is strictly coincidental. Inclusion of the names of businesses, organizations or government offices in the story does not constitute endorsement by their officers or employees. Any reference to manufacturers or products does not constitute endorsement by or for the manufacturer or product.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher. Reviewers may quote brief passages to be printed in a magazine, newspaper or online.

Published by
Posse Management Publishing
P.O. Box 781529, San Antonio, Texas 78278
www.possemanagement.com

ISBN-13: 978-0-9824700-2-2

978-0-9824700-7-7

978-0-9824700-8-4

Printed in the United States of America

Cover Photo by W. L. Haynes

Special thanks to editor Karl Monger of Austin, Texas and Wanda Haynes, Norma Jean Lehr, Robert W. Spanogle, William Tunnel Rat Haynes, Terry Hawger Smith, Bill Papa, and Joshua Eckhoff for their manuscript review, valued insight and recommendations.

Thanks also to the management and staff of The Motorcycle School, San Antonio, TX for the use of facilities and sharing of expertise during the development of this story.

To John M. Cole
June 18, 1946 - December 04, 1966
Panel 13 E Line 011

My husband, Josh Captain Dery, started writing about motorcycling and our lives after I asked him to help me with my passion for safety. I felt his writing could open a door to our world, beyond myths and machines, allowing non-riders to experience our love of adventure and respect for freedom, and maybe care just a little more. I think he was surprised by peoples reaction to his first two books: Riding with the Leader of the Pack and Big Lous Ride. I wasnt. I knew he had the talent and discipline to capture in words the passion riders feel for riding and for life. This story is my personal favorite, because it captures unforgettable moments that define our life together.

In his prologue, he tells about the night he decided to write this book. I remember it like it was yesterday. We stayed up all night, and the sunrise the next morning was the most memorable of my life. I can still see the brilliant oranges and reds radiating against the clear turquoise sky and feel his arms around me. But Josh was so concerned about our son getting his drivers license that I know he didnt see the colors. I was so proud of him when he told me of his vision for this project and his decision to get started immediately, despite other heavy demands in his life.

We talked a lot about this story as he was writing it, sometimes over the phone because he was deployed. He said he wanted to run it by me because he was concerned I might be offended by some of the secrets he disclosed. I was not. Reading it was an adventure. I laughed, cried, felt loved, amazed, frightened and excited. Along the way I learned something about the world around me, and about myself. I hope you will, too.

Linda Dakota Dery

I was sitting at the back of the pack with my wife Dakota, waiting for the group of over two hundred motorcycles to move out. My heart was pounding. It was hard to believe that another year had passed since the last Eagle Feather Run. It had begun years before as a small ride to honor our friend Big Lou. So much has changed, I thought to myself.

Riders were now coming from all over the country to attend because they added a rally to the event a few years back and it had gained a reputation of its own. Only a fraction of the participants bothered to make the 100-mile trip to the runs start point in my hometown of Junction. So in addition to the mass of humanity and machines in front of me, I knew hundreds more would meet up with us when we arrived in San Antonio. Dakota and I werent in charge anymore. I was gone a lot, and over time a full-time committee had formed to stage the annual production. Our friend Mad Dog was the only original member still involved with planning.

It wasnt adrenaline that fueled my anxiety, but the kind of fear that comes with feeling completely out of control. Instead of feeling invigorated, I felt drained of life -- it was as if even my breath had been sucked out of me. A far cry from the oh-shit experience that accompanies riding into a curve too fast or having a car pull into your path, this was more of an irrational panic created by an overactive imagination. Fortunately, I know a lot about fear and anxiety and recognized the symptoms. I understood the source of my problem -- it had nothing to do with this event. It was simply a confirmation of my fears. Life was changing at light speed, and I was having trouble keeping up.

Watching the group and listening to the sound of their motors, I could even hear the changes. Motorcycles were getting more and more powerful, and the younger the rider, the more outrageous the motorcycle. I could see a distinction, too, between young and old. Yet unlike the past, it was not the natural divide that resulted from experience. So many people had taken up riding in middle age that gray hair was no longer a badge of respect. Now it was equipment choice that defined the rider. Select a ride for speed and you are young, or at least young at heart. Choose the comfort of a bagger and you are grouped with the aging. Ride a Trike and it is assumed you have a medical condition. Unless a rider was clearly wobbling through their first ride, it was no longer possible to glean someones skill level by the way he or she looked. Even the ability to identify experienced motorcyclists by their colors (the patch on their back) was lost amidst a sea of independent riders and waves of new groups.

The way people dressed was changing, too. A scant handful wore sleeveless shirts, with the vast majority wearing riding jackets, or at least long-sleeved shirts. I saw only one idiot wearing shorts and tennis shoes -- a pointless contribution to riding made popular by my generation. With few exceptions, everyone was wearing helmets and most of them were the real deal, as opposed to the once popular knockoffs, designed to circumvent laws. All of this was happening on a run with no rules in any of these regards.

Dakota and I had spoken often about the danger of riding on our public highways. She had taken up a one-woman crusade for highway safety, placing her focus on education and finding ways to get everyone to share the road amicably. She refused to join the debate about helmet laws, saying, You cant cure cancer with an aspirin. Riders will adapt in order to survive, but unless we address the root causes of the need for helmets, eventually everyone on the highway will require one.

What I saw before me that day was a living embodiment of the evolution of riding. It confirmed my fear. Motorcyclists were adapting to the reality that motorcycling on public roads had become a life and death sport. I had been riding almost all my life. How had I missed the change? I wondered. When did it become more dangerous? And why? Then I remembered that my son Michael would be getting a drivers license soon and joining this group. Thats when my heart started to pound.