Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Whoredog smiled, frowned, smiled again, frowned again and twisted to full throttle on a
final smile, as if to force the beat upwards. That night, a few hundred miles down the road a
cafe owner happily engaged our group of hail-fellows drinking top drawer liquor, when into a
lull barreled the little man: “You know, I get a taste for pussy when I'm on the road. You know
where I can get some pussy around here? I had some last night, and there's nothing worse than
a little taste to make you crazy for some more.” Humanity bemoaned itself in excruciating si-
lence.
Since it was Elko, Nevada, the little man got served just up the street. We waited in the
bar, where his date emerged in flimsy negligee and moved lightly for such a heavy, worn wo-
man. With practiced mystique she drifted to the beat of a different violinist. The dour drinking
crowd moaned. In an artistic striptease she playfully revealed her rebuilt torso and multiple
stab wounds. She scanned above and beyond the fray, perhaps seeking greater appreciation of
her skills from the more sophisticated men in the bleachers. But there weren't no bleachers.
Whisking a frilly scarf from her lower self, she looked startled and then demure, till an acerbic
fellow belched and called out, “That thing looks like a carwash mitt!”
The evening's entertainment ended on a huff. Whoredog sauntered out swinging his arms
wide like President George W. Bush, and in a victorious baritone ordered the king of beers.
That was a highlight of the year of Whoredog. Sitting out was easy. What was to miss? I sat
out for years and would sit again in a rare actual feeling of win/win. I called a Triumph dealer
outside Seattle. He had two in stock but this was not happening.
For starters, daily mileage ranged three fifty to four fifty.
Posing macho is one thing; teasing death with bad judgment is another. Acuities diminish
in the cold. Joints stiffen. You get cold and lose your shit. Hands go numb. Core heat drops to
the verge of hypothermia. The trembles feel like bad bearings. Approximation loosens up. The
odds on rider mishap swing dramatically to favor the house on long, cold miles. Numbness
moves south from the ass, till a foot couldn't feel the ground if it had to. Depth perception and
reaction time follow in short order, till the laws of physics enforce the death sentence.
They say freezing is a painless death; drowsy goes to sleep. How bad could that be? But
on a motorcycle the crash would wake you just in time for the pain. Nobody has the riding
chops they had in '69 or '81, and every trip had its near-death encounters or, in road talk, close
calls. They became part of the bullshit spume, as if getting a load of a chest could displace the
lingering fear. A common close call was shooting the gap, passing Pa Kettle over the double
yellow into oncoming traffic in time to avoid the cream, but even on a shortfall you could al-
ways squeeze in there. You might get tagged by a mirror, or thwacked with an air pocket if the
oncoming was a truck.
Ha! Man! Fuck!
Stupid, stupid, and everyone knew it, especially those who nearly left it out on the road.
Drifts and short calls, close shaves and miscalls made us smart enough to doubt the margins
