Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Time Has Come Today
THE CHAMBERS BROTHERS
said it best:
Mmuhh . . . Mmmmuuuuhhhh!
We laughed out loud. We'd hardly anticipated that Chambers Brothers' gut moan could be both
prelude to a rock classic and our wakening moments in decades to come. Nothing new there:
aging people wake up slow. Drudgery and fatigue take more time as I sit up forty and fifty years
later, taking inventory on aches, daze, hangover and too much meat hanging up in the lower
G.I. like tampons in a P-trap.
Damn.
Why did I do that?
I'll tell you why: it's because a rib-eye medium rare is tough to turn down after a long day
in the saddle and a mountain pass to pucker the butthole on any rider on any scooter of any
size. Turn down? Hell, it made perfect sense, like sundown at the end of a day. A sizzling rib-
eye seemed fuckinay righteous after the sweeps and twisties at the heart of the Bitterroot range,
the scent of it blending with heart-thumping vistas and a searing stretch of interstate over the
top and down the backside at 11% grade. That's four lanes posted at seventy with brake fail-
ure warning signs every half mile giving distance to the next runaway bailout—gravel beds and
drifts to bog a big rig to a dead stop without rolling it over, maybe.
The uphill rigs chugged about thirty, requiring the breakneck speeds downhill to make up
for lost time and put these bennies to use—get outta my fuckin' way! The eight-mile drop to
the flats was a white-knuck motherfucker with headers and fluky gusts that felt much different
than French kids with pillows. Bouncers grabbed your lapels, shook you up and shoved you
out the door if you came up on a big rig too close or you didn't. The slow lane averaged about
seventy but got thick with traffic, and the passing lane ran eighty to one oh five.
Of course the slow lane wasn't too thick, and anybody could hang out with Ma 'n Pa Kettle,
trudging along, covering miles slow and steady. I took a break with them for a minute or two,
till it got too slow—till the younger guys pealed around a curve too far out front to ever catch.
Finally rolling in to Tony's ranch at the hot springs, kicking the stand out and leaning a
ticking rig over felt like a pattern. Day's end and relief was a feeling of well-being, looking for-
ward to a joint and a hot soak and a few beers and feasting with friends, road brothers in a daily
reunion of the wholly alive. Hmm. Didn't die. Well done.
