Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
pistols and fired two friendly rounds at my face then blew the smoke off each barrel tip. Ah,
California and those wild Californians, working together to keep the show going on. “It feels,
you know, different at first. But you get used to it. You'll see. I guarantee it.”
The engine sounded good, and the motorcycle cut a lean, muscular profile, though a tad
unusual in lavender. Why lavender? Because. Pedro got a good deal on the lavender, and
nobody yet come by to give him no shit. Pedro was tough, and it seemed fairly evident that
anybody on that motorcycle could be tough too.
Tall Paul and I shared a little toot one evening to gain perspective on life. Clarity came on
a bottle of wine, another line or two for momentum, another bottle to take the edge of and
a spliff for reverence. Reviewing life to date we agreed that it was largely the shits, except for
the scootering parts. So he bought a Sportster in cherry red, not his choice but the color of the
suitably priced unit.
I pointed out that cherry red and lavender looked like fruit punch. He suggested our club
name:
Los Fruitas
. But that could indicate alternate sexual preference, which would make
no difference in the wilderness, unless women came along. He modified, “Okay.
Los Machos
Fruitas
.”
AMF owned Harley Davidson through the 70s and added poor build quality to Harley's
stone-ax engineering. The AMF models self-destructed like clockwork. Between Canna
Screws and Idaho that Super Glide fell apart. Throttle cables and linkage failed in San Fran-
cisco, the brake rotors and pads went in Shasta, the clutch assembly in Bend and the trans-
mission seals in Twin Falls. New components replaced failed components, and so on to both
wheel hubs and tires in Boise, even with good tread, because failed wheel bearings caused the
back tire to tilt off center and rub a fender bracket down to the sidewall cords.
Yet adventures endure in recollection of the high points. A sunrise piss is recalled as a
bone trembling freeze—make that a frieze of unadulterated happiness, stoned again in the
wilderness only twelve miles from coffee. Rolling down the road on a frosty morning can
freeze your bones, numb your face and stiffen your joints. Breakfast on the Oregon plateau
was dough balls in grim gravy. Forlorn people watched, wondering how two fellas could just
walk in here and order up.
Small dark lumps floated beside the biscuits. “Looks like lizard chunks and peas,” Paul
said.
“Them ain't peas,” the big woman said.
Those scenes linger with the foothills, mountain passes and broad sweeps alongside
streams meandering through lush valleys. We pulled off one evening or another or yet another
and again near a bank to pitch camp. Paul built the fire while I moseyed on down to the flow,
fitting rod sections, stringing light monofilament line and tying off to a Mepps spinner. Cast-
ing across the stream six or ten times yielded a half-dozen pan-size trout.
