Love On A Harley

LOVE ON A HARLEY

The classic triangle: boy, girl, motorcycle

TAL NEWHART

STARING OVER MY STUFFED "IN" BASKET. I GAZED down at the crisp blue of San Francisco Bay. After several minutes of mental rehearsal I finally picked up the phone and dialed my favorite number.

She answered. After some measured small talk, I got to the point.

“So, how about dinner tomorrow night?” I asked confidently.

There was a moment of silence. Then, “Well, I guess so.” Another pause. “Sure, why not.”

“Great! I’ll pick you up tomorrow at 10,” I said quickly, trying to hang up the phone.

“Hold it. Isn’t that a bit late to start out for dinner?” she asked suspiciously.

‘'Well, no, KJ. I meant 10 a.m.”

What followed was what I’d been dreading—one of her

famous long pauses. Then she said, “Wait a sec. Tal. Where is this place?”

“Oh, just this little specialty place down the road . . ..”

me up ONCE and A asks MONTH, me “What’s MY WONDERFUL new?” Now, MOM CALLS being thehonest,once-upon-a-time Boy Scoutson that I am, I generally tell her the truth. So when she this time, I told her and with enthu-

asked me this time, I told her openly and with great enthusiasm about my plans for KJ (Karen-Jane). Big pause on Mom’s end of the phone. She finally said that what I intended to do was kidnapping, and to the best of her knowledge illegal “even here in California.” Not only that, she continued, but even if the authorities didn’t haul me off to the stony lonesome, KJ would probably, at the very least, never speak to me again.

WHEN I DECIDED TO VISIT THE SONGDOG Ranch, a motorcycle campground northeast of Santa Barbara, California, it seemed natural to take somebody along. Preferably somebody good in the morning, since I’m useless before coffee. And given what I’d heard about the accommodations at the Songdog, I’d need somebody who could brew a cup under, uh, “natural conditions.” KarenJane came immediately to mind, since she could make even “instant freeze-dried semi-coffee” taste great. At the time of selection this seemed like pure and reasonable logic. It also seemed reasonable not to tell her that the “specialty restaurant” was actually a Songdog picnic table hundreds of miles away, and that she’d be gone two days rather than just for the evening. Of course, there was another, even more important variable that I had forgotten to mention.

SO, WHAT’S THIS?” KJ ASKED, LOOKING DOWN AT THE Low Rider Custom between us. Her eyebrows angled up a bit when she noticed the second helmet.

“This is our conveyance,” I said confidently.

“Not this.” she said, indicating the whole bike. She then pointed at the fuel tank: “This?'

I walked around to her side of the bike. “Oh that. That’s the name.”

“Harley-Davidson?” she mumbled under her breath, almost whispering. Then, looking up at me in disbelief, she asked, “You expect me to ride a Harley?”

I figured speed was of the essence here. I unbuckled the extra helmet and handed it to her.

“Turn it into art,” I deadpanned.

While she was trying to figure out that one, I climbed on the Custom’s low saddle and punched the starter button. The engine thundered to life. She stepped back, her face taking on a classic female-vs.-machine look of concern. I reached over and helped her with the helmet’s D-rings. “Think of it as a friendly horse and we're ridin' double. Come on, hop on.”

“Where?”

I patted the tiny seat behind me, and said “Here.”

“But Tal, there’s no room.”

“Come on. Trust me. It’ll be comfortable.” Okay, so I exaggerated a bit.

Still under the effects of the horse analogy, she reached up and handed me her right foot, which I fed over the bike. She slid onto the munchkin seat. I leaned back, talking over the din of the engine. “Okay, put your arms around my waist,” I instructed.

“Never again,” she muttered.

I reached around with both hands and took her wrists, pulling them around me. Before she could take them away, I kicked the Harley into first and pulled away. Briskly. Hands weren’t a problem after that. My breathing was.

Intelligence takes many forms. On that day, for me, it was having the sense to fill the Harley’s gas tank to its last dram of capacity before picking up KJ. This allowed for no conversation until we pulled into the quaint seaside town of Carmel, which, not quite coincidentally, is one of KJ’s favorite places. It also has lousy bus service back to the Bay Area.

When I pulled up to the pump, KJ hopped off the bike and disappeared into the gas station. I looked around. The sky was as deep a blue as I’d ever seen. It was warm, too.

The trip down Highway One toward Big Sur and Hearst Castle would be gorgeous. I think KJ was even starting to enjoy herself.

“I had no idea you knew so many people,” she said, brushing her hair as she returned to the bike.

“Who?”

“All those people on motorcycles that waved to you,” she said, leaning down, looking in the Low Rider’s mirror.

“Oh, that. Actually, they were waving to us. Motorcyclists, especially touring ones, are like that. It’s a camaraderie thing.”

“What makes them think we’re touring?” she asked.

Just then, she took a good look at the bulging tank bag and the fat duffel strapped on the fender behind the passenger seat. “What’s all this stuff?” she asked. I watched as her brown eyes suddenly began to glow from the light that went on behind them. “Just where the hell is this ‘specialty restaurant,’ anyway?”

“Well, umm, a ways,” I answered.

“Still?”

“Still.”

‘ Wait a minute, Tal. Just how far is ‘a ways’?” Her voice had taken on that low, deliberate tone.

I had to think fast. I knew a bus was out of the question, but I’d forgotten about the airport. I looked at her straight in the eyes. “Are you having fun?” I demanded.

“Well, actually, yes.”

“Great! So am I. And we’re about to have some more,” I said, quickly reaching for the starter button.

IF THERE’S SOMETHING BETTER THAN POKING DOWN

California’s rugged Highway One, surrounded by stunning scenery and great weather, with a pal on the back of a cooperative motorcycle, well, I’d sure like to hear about it. If it’s legal, drop me a note. Everything was going sooo right. But that should have been a warning right there.

It’s strange how, when things are going smoothly, our minds kind of auto-reject hints of problems. I think this is the mode I was in when, a few miles after a glorious cliffside picnic, Karen-Jane, rapidly adjusting to her new role as a “Motorcycle Mama,” tapped me on the shoulder.

“My shoe’s wet.”

I just shrugged my shoulders. Probably just a puddle. My only concerns were some vague worries about the Harley’s back end, which seemed to be getting a little loose. About 20 minutes later came another knock at the door. “Tal, I really think there’s a problem. My foot is soaked.”

God gave me about five more minutes before the oil light flashed on. I switched off the motor, and as I coasted to a stop I looked down. The bottom half of the Harley was covered in hot oil. Smoke drifted up between my legs. KJ whacked me on the shoulder and climbed off, her shoes making a disgusting slorching sound. After some appropriate comments, she went over and sat on a rock.

I checked the oil tank. Empty. I made a cursory examination for the leak but couldn’t find it. So, with tremendous resignation, we pushed the Harley (Advice: Don’t ask a reluctant passenger to help you with this.) to a mercifully close gas station, where I pulled out my telephone credit card and started dialing. Call number one went to the Songdog Ranch. Robyn Reveley answered. I explained the situation, and between the two of us we concluded there was no way KJ and I would make it for dinner that night. We decided to switch the Songdog’s famous “Gourmet Dinner For Two” to the next night.

I then grabbed the phone book and started calling Harley dealerships. It was a waste of time. The closest one was 40 miles away, and they all were about to close.

While making those calls, I had looked up to see the strange sight of Karen-Jane examining the Harley’s massive motor. I was still in the phone booth trying to figure

something out when she came walking up and exclaimed, “There’s something wrong with the bike.”

“Gee, no kidding.”

“No, really, there seems to be something missing on the motor.”

We walked over to the Harley, whereupon without further adieu she pointed to the front valve cover. “Shouldn’t there be a bolt or something in this hole?”

After giving her a quick kiss on the cheek, I spun around, ran into the gas station and inquired about a hardware store.“Three blocks. Closes in five minutes,” came the reply.

Never before had a Harley traveled so fast under human power. I slipped through the door seconds before they flipped the deadbolt. Within minutes, a guy named Bob Raynar, a Triumph fan, had sized us a bolt, installed it and charged us nothing. Needless to say, Raynar is now on my Christmas-card list. We roared off into the rapidly darkening dusk toward Santa Maria and a dinner at Burger King. (“This is a ‘specialty’ restaurant?” “Sure. Hamburgers.”)

We spent the next 55 miles shivering as the Harley pulled us through the cold night toward the Songdog. God only knows what voodoo whammies KJ had inflicted upon me by the time we pulled into New Cuyama, about 15 miles from the ranch. The town—a small cluster of buildings, actually—was deserted. I looked down the streets expecting to see big rolls of sidewalks. Too stiff to maneuver the bike any more, I just parked it. We sat on the curb warming our hands by the crinkling engine.

KJ looked over at me. “This is it?” she rasped, vigorously rubbing her numbed hands together.

“Come on. When was the last time you nearly froze to death?” I asked. “This is drama. The edge. Life at its fullest.” I paused for effect. “Anyway, we’re almost there.”

“Where?” she shouted, “Look around!” She gestured at the empty horizon. “We’re nowhere! When people say ‘Hey, get lost,’ this is where they want you to go!”

I looked around. She had a point.

^P^P^PHEN WE WHEELED UP THE DESERTED ROAD Wi I f into the Songdog 20 minutes later, owner 2 fi Jim Reveley came walking out, sporting the

PP ww most honest smile I ever remember seeing. Robyn walked up behind. Great smile also. Pretty, too.

“You folks sure look like you could use some hot coffee,” Jim said, probably listening to our teeth. “Come inside and warm up.”

Karen-Jane shook her head. “No, thanks,” she said resolutely. “All I want is a hot shower and a bed. Which way to our cabin?”

Robyn looked over at me quizzically. I looked up at the stars and started whistling.

As we bumped the Low Rider up the mesa to the waiting tent, I was beginning to think that maybe dear of Mom had been correct in her pessimistic analysis of my plan. Conversation was, shall we say, sparse as I unpacked the sleeping bags. Mercifully, sleep arrived a few minutes later.

Something woke me up a few hours later. The inside of the tent was bright enough to read a book. I looked around. I was alone. Wide awake, I got dressed and went outside looking for the AWOL Karen-Jane. I found her sitting silently on the camp’s picnic bench. I was about to say something when she put her finger up to her lips. “Listen,” she whispered. “It’s a coyote.”

I sat beside her and listened. We could hear them singing in the distance. A full moon had risen, providing an eerily beautiful sight from the low mesa the camp is situated on. After a serene walk along the mesa, we went back to the snug warmth of our sleeping bags.

I awakened to the smell of hot coffee and the damp warmth of the earth evaporating in the rising sun. The tent flap flew back to reveal KJ, panting, holding a steaming paper cup. “Okay, we can spend another night.”

“Great! But where’d you find this?” I gasped, taking hold of the coffee.

“I was out jogging and ran into some other bikers up at

the top end of the grounds. One was a gal. She gave me this.” She paused. “Nice people, Tal. Now get up. It’s gorgeous.”

A half-hour later found us motoring up to the Songdog ranch house, which sits halfway up a narrow valley. The only other occupant of the valley, about a mile further up, is a guy with a private runway and a beautiful, red Pitts biplane.

Jim and Robyn came out when they heard the approaching rumble of the Harley. The four of us sat under the bright, warming sun talking about motorcycling and various places in the area to ride. It became obvious to me why these people are successful at what they do: They understand motorcycling. I watched curiously as KJ listened attentively then started drawing maps of their suggested side trips from the ranch.

REMEMBER THAT DAY AS YOU LATER REMEMBER MUSIC. Not bits and pieces so much as a whole experience. With the luggage off, and the Low Rider dialed to a relaxed pace, the rumbling engine lulled us into a connection with the beautiful ounT~ryside as we mean dered from the desert up into pine-covered meadows.

tverytning naa gone so well tnat uay, everytning naa been so wonderful compared to the day before, that I al most didn't want to head back to the campsite for dinner. KJ had pointed out the last three restaurants with a pro gressive insistence we eat something. What if, even with all of Jim and Robyn’s experience in setting up these dinners, something went wrong? Would KJ ever speak to me again?

I needn’t have worried. To know why, just picture this: You’ve been out riding all day, so you’re tired and hungry. You dread returning to camp because bohemian cooking can be a major pain. But, lo and behold, when you arrive at your campsite, there’s a full gourmet dinner complete with wine. The picnic table is covered in cloth and set with real china. Beside the table is an elaborate barbecue that’s ready for cooking and on which is even more food, including a hunk of beef big enough to saddle up and ride away. Behind this elaborate setup, the sun is going down in all its orange glory, and high above, a red Pitts biplane scribes loops and barrel-rolls in the sky. Then, to top it off, the person you’re traveling with puts her arms around you, mumbles something about the greatest restaurant in the world, and kisses you.

Ha! If Mom could only see me now. 0