When I stepped off the Amtrak in Portland, Paul stood up from the oak pew and got a hug from my free arm.
"One-arm hug, huh?" he grinned.
My goatskin Langlitz smelled like bad folks wearing good leathers. Sensing its gun pocket, urbane locals edged away.
Paul drove me south to fetch my black beauty. Aside from flat tires and crud, she matched my memory. It's not always that way, is it? Wobble-pumping the tires, I pushed her home for a work-over.
As a mechanic, I make a serviceable wheel chock. Paul, who's memorized every Bavarian bolt, apprenticed me to de-varnishing Bings and lubing flyweight arms. We adjusted her idle, replaced a carb slide, freshened balding grips, retarded the timing and adjusted the idle some more. We stepped back and saw a filthy bike, chuffing industriously. Beautiful!
Paul rolled out his workhorse R90/6 and we rode a shakedown trip to Ben's place. Once a scout/sniper, Ben lurks in his handmade house. We took note of his guard tower, watchpoints and a home armory not shown on the permit. He eyeballed my stained desert boots.
"I don't walk my perimeter with a weapon anymore," Ben said as I fiddled with the idle. I tightened the mixture nut, shook his hand and motored off.
"Ben's stuck, isn't he?" I asked Paul over sandwiches.
"He's OK for three or four hours a day."
"I don't want to get stuck, Paul."
He smiled. "That's what motorcycles are for."
That night, I bungeed on my gear and gave Paul a hug with both arms. Then I rolled out my patrol bag and slept one-hour shifts before pulling on my boots in the predawn, watching for moving shadows. Prayer call or no, it was time to move. Geared up and helmeted, but no weapon.
This R69-US, the American model with a telescopic fork, is an old friend. She's called Honey because that's how we communicate: "Let's go, Honey" or "Aw, c'mon, Honey!" Typical of an old flame, her seat's squishier than I remembered. A tickle to her Bings started her second-kick and we were off.
En route to Estacada I stopped for gas and stomped Honey's starter mit follow-through, snapping her sidestand bolt flush at the frame lug. Wrestling the foundered motor-cycle onto her wheels, I took inventory: one sprained ankle, one busted toe, sidestand now ballast. I splinted up with electrical tape and munched a Power Bar, envisioning Cascade roads. Good to be home. Good to be alive. Good to have a centerstand.
"Bet I can still start that bike..."
Highway 224 draws blue lanes southeast through the Mt. Hood National Forest along the Clackamas River. Bedazzled by road ecstasy, I missed my turn east at Oak Grove Fork and ended up 40 miles south in Detroit, just in time for breakfast. At a log-cabin roadhouse graced by sunbathing Harleys, I parked in the shade. Its menu asserted, "We speak bike." The proprietor held court in a flamed shirt, allowing that he tolerated old Beemers all right. My teenaged blonde waitress, cheerfully vacuous, shorted half her customers and over-reimbursed the rest.
"You know, I've just been like this all day."
Longer than that, probably, but the eggs were good and the coffee flowed.
That day was filled with rivers, forests and roads to make you weep for beauty. Honey and I straightened many crooked lines, sojourning to John Day. Growing up hereabouts, I itched for some less-boring place. Polite locals and stunning landscapes grow monotonous-until you unspoil yourself with Third World exotica. Road music came courtesy of moving water, blustering trees, the hum of vintage Dunlops and a balanced drone of aircraft-quality engineering.
Honey's the last of the Slash Twos, manufactured the year Honda birthed the first superbike. Beemers were engineered to endure; the 750 Four was designed to change the world. Honey's no slam-dancer; unlike my late, lamented Ducati, she balks at standing on her nose and insists wheelies are for punks. Even with fresh Bel-Ray, her fork remains Gummikuh-squishy. Her sprung-cellulite saddle squeaks like Auntie Joyce's love seat. She craves a firm hand on her double-shoe drum. But Honey's low CG and modest torque make hard braking irrelevant. You just carry moderate speed and attend closely to her antique tires. Steer, shuffle, ssslide to your right; steer, shuffle, ssslide to your left. Fox-trotting is dancing, too.
Breakfast carried me all day. I hit John Day around eight with a vague plan to eat dinner and roll out my bag at Clyde Holliday Park. Road-blissed, comfy on my Yesterday's Standard, I hadn't monitored fatigue as Honey carted me across a large Western state.
The Ore House served me a steak fit for three kings, alongside a berry tart my helmet couldn't have held. With blood rushing to my stomach, I nearly crashed pulling off the curb. Gluttony being the gateway to sloth, I rode one block north to the Dreamland Motel. When I inquired about military discounts, the manager saw road dust and dirty stubble.
"You're active duty?"
My Ft. Bragg mug shot, hungover in battered DCUs, makes even my driver's license picture look good. I told her the truth: "Just returned from Iraq."
She squinted at me. "Your discount is 100 percent."
Showered and packed by 0530, I knocked out some push-ups, loaded the bike, balanced on the left rear peg and trod the kicker with my sprained leg five times: nothing.
Too much idle adjusting?
Checked the gas: reserve. Throttled her from zero to WFO. Drained float bowls twice. Tried bump-starting five sweaty times. Changed plugs. Traced wires. Prayed quietly. Cussed urgently. Kicked her 50-odd times before extracting a muffled pop. Rest break. More kicks, more pops, and she burst to life after only 70 minutes. My epiphany came 100 miles down the road: I'd never tickled her! Should have kept my old T-shirt emblazoned with, "I'm not real smart, but I can lift heavy things."
Gassing at the rim of Hell's Canyon, I adjusted her idle and we rode down by the riverside, not to lay down my sword and shield but surely to lighten my load. Ghosting along Reservoir Road in the sun-washed stillness, I looked left to see sepia hilltops repeating their images across the unrippled surface, and heard my grandmother sweetly reciting the 23rd Psalm: "He leadeth me beside still waters. He restoreth my soul."