Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Bruno scanned the horizon before mounting up, and then nodded, “Spain. More cheaper
everything.”
We rode fast long hours, Bruno driving both bikes to spell John and me, because it was
the age of brotherhood, and he said he knew how. He hadn't eaten in two days except for milk
and bread, but crouching over the handlebars his energy was that of a child meeting Santa,
face-to-face. He made no secret of his belief in American magic. Americans were rich in any
man's country even if poor in their own. We laughed when Bruno complained of
moskwee-
tos
. John asked him if he thought he would ever stop being a dumb shit. Bruno smiled yet
again and sent a fine stream of wine between his two front teeth, dousing the arrogant boy. He
stammered when I asked him which moto he liked best. He fidgeted and promised to decide.
He said he could go two weeks on his current diet of bread and milk and had done it often
and was comfortable with prospects of doing it again—it kept him young and strong. But he
rubbed his belly at the other prospect of
sandweeches
in Spain, thick with meat.
He spoke sparse English and had little to say otherwise, but not from shyness. He came
alive in negotiation with others in French or Spanish, waving his hands, laughing and scowl-
ing before walking away from a deal. He would walk to John and me to tell us how we'd fared,
what the price would be for food, wine or a place to sleep. When it came time to pay, he stood
back, head down with humility. Average cash out was around two dollars. He had not one
cent, so he earned his keep and gave John at nineteen and me at twenty a look at another form
of humanity we'd never known, a man of resource. I wondered how far I could make it on
empty pockets. John wanted him to call us Bwana. Bruno puffed his cheeks with wine until
John begged off.
In the south of France sit the little sisters astride the border, Biarritz on the French side,
San Sebastian on the Spanish. After two days hard riding and little eating, we rode harder and
ate less, bearing down on the promise of herring in oil, beefy sardines, horsemeat sandwiches,
goat cheese and cheap wine waiting across the border. Light-headed we cat-and-moused,
throttled down and sped up, weaving figure eights until ten miles from Biarritz, when we
learned that even a Lightning Rocket is mortal. Its clutch cable broke near the lever. I squeezed
nothingness and wondered what.
Coasting and kicking into neutral, the little party stopped. We sat and breathed and
looked stupid, grinning as the hot metal ticked.
A motorcycle can be driven clutchless if the driver is sensitive to rpm and can hear the
right time to shift. Even so, shifting isn't smooth but must be muscled up and down with un-
avoidable gear crunching. The cable had to be fixed. So we limped into Biarritz with John driv-
ing the bum Lightning Rocket, since he was the far more experienced driver and had driven
hundreds of clutchless miles, no shit. I knew he was a punk and a liar and itching to ride my
rocket, but he was good, better than I was, maybe. I was curious anyway to see if the Thun-
derbird was smooth as it looked, and I was tired, so we switched.
