Six Months Earlier - 1969 and then Some - page 24

Inside the city limits of Biarritz we found no word that translates to motorcycle—moto
covers it all, anything with two wheels and a putt, from mopeds to Lightning Rockets. After an
hour or two of Bruno's genuflections with the peasantry, each exchange taking us a few blocks
deeper into the bowels of Biarritz, we found a small street, more of an alley, since a car would
never fit on it—not a real car. A real moto was iffy. But local motos were thick there, with the
shop double doors open wide and mopeds and mobilets spewed onto the street like hatchling
insects. 35 and 50cc models were everywhere with just as many rug rats swarming among the
motos buzzing high rpm French voices, amazed at the Americans on their giant machines.
Tired and hungry, we felt little optimism.
An old man came to the double doors like a hound to a scent, to see what was the matter,
nose up to the sound of big motorcycles. Over six feet tall with yellow-white hair and an
old jump suit to match but for the holes and grease spots, he thrust his flushed face out,
leading with his French and whiskey nose. His hand grasping a door looked like a row of
cypress knees, weatherworn and gnarled from wrench failure and age. The children followed
his movement with their own, inching closer as he did, daring finally to touch the big motos,
which got them tittering and chirping over the engine thunder, until the old man said, “ Alors
. . .”
Bruno dismounted as he spoke. We shut the engines down as he proceeded, showing the
old man the broken cable. The old man furrowed and scratched and then spoke back. The
word London came to the surface, followed by a big, helpless shrug. Bruno turned around
with the news: The clutch cable assembly was a one-piece part, from the lever to the clutch.
The little mobilets had no parts anything at all like the one required. If the old man called that
day to London, a new one would arrive in a week or three weeks.
We hung our heads, mumbled and walked in circles. The old man watched, puffing his
lower lip and throwing his hands in the air, which is French for All of life is bullshit , or What
are you going to do? In intricate charade, he shooed us off, go, all but the broken Lightning
Rocket. We should go and find a place, find a place and sleep because we looked very tired. La
moto malade c'est bonne ici, avec moi.
He patted our sleeping bags, rounded us up and pointed in a long arc, spewing French dir-
ections to a bluff off a secondary road that overlooked a beach and was partially sheltered by
bushes and trees. “ Allez! ” the old man clapped like a Sultan. “ Vite! Vite! ” And all the children
yelped and shrieked as we three mounted the old Thunderbird with our gear under our arms,
weighing her shocks down springless.
Around the corner at a shop just closing we bought a number ten can labeled
SAUERKRAUT in block letters under a picture of some fairly good looking sauerkraut and
sausage. Yum and grunt, we said, and got some mustard, bread and wine, two bottles. We
drank one bottle on the curb for fortitude and acceptance of reality, which was an issue those
days. Then we mounted up again.