It’s true to say I had lived a little in the three years of my sorry life before the accident – had an unwelcome change of owner but got plenty of miles unner my wheels. I say accident – it weren’t no ‘on purpose’ but there was a stone cold inevitability, yer gotta admit. You cain’t ride like a mad man without consequences. Hittin’ the bridge was a surprise, tho’. We parted company in mid-air, him drownin’ and floatin’ out to sea never to be seed again. Me? Well, I didn’ get to go on no maritime adventure for eternity, I jest plopped inner the water an’ sank unner the mud. And there I had stayed for mor’n thirty years. I’d long ago gived up on anythin’ like today happenin’.
I’d felt pretty weightless while I was down there, but I felt ev’ry ferkin’ ounce when I started movin’. Maybe ‘down-there’ is stretchin’ things a little. Turns out I’d bin under six inches of mud and a further six inches of water – hardly fifty fathoms; how can twelve lousy inches keep ya from attainin’ yer fulfilment? Yup, fulfilment – I didn’ even know I knew the word, but I had plenty time to think things up durin’ my solitary. Anyhoo, I was dragged to dry land by my rear wheel – butt-first again! Ferkmee! My tyres were a little gummy – not clinchin’ no more, I think I lost ‘em – cain’t say I kin feel much of what I’ve got left at the moment anyways. Damn it, there ain’t no dignity in bein’ dragged outta mud backwards. Why is it that when there’s manhandlin’ to be done it’s always ass-first? Sheesh.
My manhandler was a Limey 4×4. Some crusty ol’ Land Rover pick-up with more damn rust than I got after thirty years in the drink! By some miracle of chemistry, I was protected from corrosion by the ooze – are yer listenin’ ladies? Hardly a wrinkle, tsk. Ha! I wann’ed to dig my pegs in an’ get ‘em to stop – they was makin’ more of a mess of me draggin’ me over the ferkin’ ground than the bridge ever did. They bent my ‘bars – wasn’t happy with that, I liked them floppy rabbit ear ‘bars. Okay, I’m bein’ ungrateful; maybe I should quit the negativity and buck up some. Maybe this is gonna turn out okay – well, it will if’n they ever stop ferkin’ draggin’ me. Hey! Will you ferkin’ morons stop draggin’? Hell, they ain’t listenin’. I’m plenty far enough from the water now. They should be stoppin’ an’ standin’ me up fer chrissakes; further draggin’ jest ain’t necessary. Hmm, I guess – “hey, you morons, stop draggin’ my sorry ass” may have sounded like: ‘screeechh…’ to them?
Anyhoo, they dragged me to the top of the hill an’ jest left me lyin’ there. I was bruised an’ bemused; what were these guys doin’? It was all gonna become clear soon enough. At the top of the hill was a bigger truck, a beat-up ol’ flat bed with iron bedsteads, an’ ol’ washing machines an’ the like piled on top. Yup, that’s where I ended up. Geez, four of ‘em threw me up there like I was a rag doll. Maybe I’m jest a romantic at heart, but I thought I was bein’ rescued fer chrissakes. Turns out I was jest scrap iron with a mud glaze. I gotta tell ya, white goods don’t converse much. Strike that – don’t converse at all – all dumb-ass an’ frigid. Bedsteads don’t neither – some ‘no-kiss-and-tell’ code of conduct, apparently. ‘Kin’ell almighty.
We bounced along in squeakin’, grindin’ silence for a few miles – the distance hardly matters none, anyhoo. We stopped at a weighbridge where there was some meanin’less discourse. One of the meanin’less guys had a look over the twisted metal on the back of the truck. He rubbed at the recently dried mud on my rear fender; let me tell ya, a mo’cycle can get a little disturbed by that kinda attention. Anyhoo, he stiffened up a little with excitement an’ rubbed away at my primary, then a rocker cover and finally, my right-side fuel tank. Now I ain’t no shrinkin’ violet, but I cain’t repeat what he said next. Suffice to say, Shakespeare didn’ write it. Seems this guy was some sort of connoisseur – a ferkin’ useless one as it turns out – he thought I was a Pan! Sheesh, he was only one entire ferkin’ generation out…
I don’ suppose I should complain – he ended up freein’ me from what coulda bin a miserable crushin’ end, an’ after all I’d bin through, man – I was grateful. The draggin’ guys tipped the flatbed very slowly unner the instructions of my saviour. As I slid gracefully downwards to the road on a bed of, well – beds, he guided me by my bent ‘bars and yelled for the driver to stop as I neared the bottom of the slope. He tippy-toed through the wreckage until he got a good foothold and hauled me to my wheels. I jus’ stood there – I ain’t in no position to help at this point. He pushed. I didn’ have no problem with this, but I weren’t movin’. Wasn’t my doin’; I had no tires worth a damn an’ was in gear anyhoo. In my mind I was fixed up for more draggin’ when another meanin’less weighbridge stranger made the suggestion that they lift me. Now, as you know, I ain’t one to take nuthin’ on face value, but the draggin’ guys an’ the weighbridge guys were definitely cut from different timber. There was no way the kindlin’ weight weighbridgers were gonna lift a mud-encrusted heavyweight like me. This point was made by my primary-rubbing saviour; he was all for ropin’ my front forks an’ draggin’ me… I wanted to dig my pegs in again but, man, I jest had ter sit tight an’ wait. I waited, an’ waited some more. Mercifully, no one had a ferkin’ rope! An’ the truck’s winch was no use; all it could do was pull me backwards. I didn’ wanna go back there thanks.
The draggin’ guys were gettin’ mighty impatient; they had their cash pay-out and wanted to be outta there. They conferred a little, then strode over an’ crudely hooked me off the truck in one swift motion an’ left me crumpled in the dirt. I cain’t help thinkin’ back to the good ol’ days with Hector when I was waxed an’ fettled when I didn’ even need it. For effect, the draggin’ guys made a show of their departure – sprayin’ me with more dirt from the rear tires of their grunge truck. I suspect they ain’t too appreciative of anythin’ most folks would think of as good. Anyhoo, I was lifted onto my wheels by my saviour and dropped against my creakin’ jiffy stand. He walked round me – all the time kickin’ off lumps of drying mud. This didn’ seem to satisfy him – he strode over to a corner an’ picked up a hose, turned on the faucet an’ came back sprayin’ me with plenty of water, not too powerful but ferkin’ cold. It didn’t take long to get me released from some of the ooze that’d bin my close company for thirty some years. I was pleased to see the end of it. I was pleased to see the sky. Man, I was pleased to feel alive.
Saviour-boy was still callin’ me Pan tho’, there jest ain’t no tellin’ some people… He was yellin’ to another guy to bring his ‘phone. What kind of dude has his own telephone that can be brought to him? This was gonna be innerestin’. Anyhoo, someone turned up with a small, flat box that he tossed over to saviour-boy, clearly not a telephone, but – as I keep sayin’, I ain’t no expert. S-B held it near to me an’ prodded it a few times like he was pokin’ some dude in the eye. Then he muttered somethin’ about an ‘eebai’ an’ carried on pokin’. I guess he knew what he was doin’, but I couldn’a made more sense of it if I watched for an hour. So, I didn’.
Eventually, someone pushed me from my butt. S-B kicked me into neutral and guided me with some difficulty by my mangled ‘bars. My tires were flappin’ around an’ gettin’ tangled in my forks; that weren’t helpin’ none. They pitched me up in a wooden hut an’ slammed the door shut. I could hear a chain rattlin’ and maybe a lock turnin’ – man, outta one prison and into another. I was left alone to reflect on the day’s events. Overall, an’ considerin’ I was now on dry land, I gotta say I was kinda happy with the outcome.
I ain’t so good with timin’ as I used to be. When time is all you got an’ it’s measured in decades you lose the skill, y’know? Ain’t nuthin’ to be done ‘bout that. Bein’ in a shed was the least of my concerns, I was happy to set a spell an’ ponder how things may turn out.
I didn’ waste all my time in the mud – I did plenty of thinkin’ an’ I was often visited by my kinfolk. Yup, when one of them was passin’ they could tell I was down there an’ in trouble. Weren’t nuthin’ they could do to help but they could empathise an’ keep me informed about our development as a race of motorcycles. Seems my motor had been superseded by a new design soon after I took my dive. They called it an Evolution. Catchy…they must’a bin up all night thinkin’ that one up. Much later the Evo was replaced by the Twin Cam. These were all good guys and stopped by regular, their riders scratchin’ their heads when the motors cut out at the same spot time after time. Ha! Man, did we laugh, ha-ferkin’-ha. No, truly, it was a real crankin’ hoot. Well, they gonna find they got a miracle cure from here on in.
Anyhoo, I was in the shed for a lengthy spell. No one bothered me. So, I got to thinkin’ about what sort of condition my guts might be in. I was feeling pretty good in myself; I always had plenty of high-grade oil an’ all my gaskets were tight. I ain’t too concerned how I look on the outside, frankly. I think the ordeal had added a little character – I kinda look like some battle-scarred film star, a good look for my ten cents. I couldn’ detect no water in my crank cases or my cylinders. I even had all my valves closed – call that chance if yer like; I knows different. I had bin upgraded with braided oil lines, way back, an’ they seemed to have coped. I was concerned my carb was junk, but I always thought I could do better with somethin’ a little fancier. I don’ think my pipes and muffler survived too good an’ my cast wheels don’ feel too comfortable. My fuel tanks are okay – yeah, I’m surprised too. The gas turned into somethin’ new a long time ago – it sure ain’t gas no longer. I got a ding in the left tank, but like I said – film star…
I do have one embarrassin’ problem. My saddle weren’t never one of my favourite features, but I jest know I’m gonna lose it soon enough. It sponged up plenty of muddy water and has bin home to millions of them slimy little water critters – it seems like they bin there forever. They don’t like it one bit now I’m dryin’ out – all tryin’ to cram themselves inter the last damp patch. Cain’t say I’m gutted for ‘em – gave me the creeps plenty. They don’t belong in my saddle anyhoo, even if it is beyond savin’. I’ll be honest with ya – I didn’t pay none of this stuff no never mind while I was down there. I jest re-lived them rides, time after time. Even the last one – cain’t say I enjoyed it, but it sure was a stand-out event.
Most of the rides were just me an’ the crazy guy. His chick liked to ride but wasn’t invited along for most of the trips. I cain’t imagine she woulda enjoyed it too much, unless’n she was weirder than him. I remember her bein’ the kinda girl most folks would like; he don’t fall into that category. No siree. If he managed to get through the night without getting his nose busted, he was doin’ good. Could ride tho’, gotta give him that. He won plenty of beer in impromptu races. This fuelled his mouth and then it got buttoned up by some guy who jus’ couldn’ listen no more. Happened all the time. Anyhoo, folks did respect his ridin’ skills. Jus’ to obviate an’ remove any doubt – I’m a machine (yeah, I know they mean the same thing. I jus’ didn’t think you’d know what ‘obviate’ means. Seems bein’ a prick rubbed off on me some…). I only respond to input – I ain’t got no reflexes or influence good or bad on how I get ridden. If’n I could, I woulda avoided the damn bridge that put me in the ferkin’ mud. Well, I’m due a spruce-up somehow as a result. Cain’t wait to see how that pans out.
I ain’t got no idea how long it’s bin since I tol’ you I ain’t no good at timin’ these days. But, to prove the point, I ain’t got no idea how long it had bin since I got locked up in the shed. At some point, S-B turned up with some guy I didn’t recognise as one of his associates. The guy took one look at me an’ said that I weren’t no Pan. That was that. He didn’ say nuthin’ else, jus’ turned an’ walked away. I don’t pretend to understand his problem – I loves my Pan bro’s, but why would he be pissed that I weren’t an inferior motorcycle? Not too long later, the door opened again. Another stranger took a turn around me and pointed out that I weren’t no Pan. Ferkin’ history repeatin’ itself! But this guy took the time to explain he knew I wasn’t – seems the eebai advertisement said I was, but the pictures told him a differen’ story. The two guys stared each other down for a spell, then the new guy said somethin’ that he claimed was a fair offer for a pile of shite. I excused him for this as I have no doubt he was only referrin’ to the mud hidin’ the truth. Anyhoo, I was soon to be on my way to another new home. S-B helped the new guy load me inter his van and we were away. I guess we were moving for plenty of miles; we did some rapid travellin’ then stopped for a reasonable spell before movin’ on. Finally, it all stopped an’ I was unloaded into a garage for the night. The next mornin’ I was hosed down proper with a high-pressure washer. Gradually, I began to feel better for not bein’ encrusted in what remained of the crud I was accustomed to haulin’ around. I felt good; I was more like my normal self, but I weren’t prepared for what was gonna happen next. The last time anythin’ like this happened I was in Landan havin’ bits taken off me every now and again; this time I was in piles all over the floor in what seemed like no time. Jeez, I felt confused in a big way. I couldn’t collect my thoughts – they were comin’ at me from all directions an’ I couldn’t even tell where they were bein’ collected. All I was concerned about was that I was sure I wasn’t bein’ cannibalised this time. Next, my motor and gearbox were stripped to the last nut ‘n’ bolt. I coulda tol’ him everythin’ was fine, but I guess he had to find out fer his-self. He polished my cases where they had previously bin’ polished, painted my barrels black and reassembled my motor an’ ‘box with loads of assembly oil an’ buttoned me up all good again – just like new. This guy was growin’ on me. He did the same thoro’ job on my other parts – I was startin’ to take shape pretty good. One day he turned up with new tires an’ tubes for my cleaned-up wheels and a set of new ‘pipes. He nailed ‘em on and, forgettin’ to throw back a few words of encouragement as he left, jest disappeared like it were any ordinary day.
A few weeks later he arrived with a box. I jus’ knew what was in that box – exceptin’ a few minor parts I was done, but for bein’ fixed up with a carburettor. Yup, the box had a new carb – jus’ like my old one, same air filter too. This was a good day – I was hopin’ for a better one, ‘course I was, but just havin’ the opportunity to be up an’ runnin’ again was good enough for me, even if I was gonna be somethin’ like stock.
I had me a few grazes and the ding in my tank, but I was in pretty good shape considerin’. Growin’-on-me-guy tipped a couple of pints of fresh juice in my cleaned-out tanks and pressed my startin’ button. Now, you know I bin’ through this before, but it was still a shock to the system. Hell’s teeth, them first few seconds is unbearable. Jeez, I ain’t no rose bud but man, it hurts – no, really, it hurts plenty. Fortunately, I was diverted from the pain by a new experience – sheesh, was I loud! I could barely hear my pistons slappin’ around in my barrels! Man, that was new…
Growin’-on-me-guy seemed happy with my progress. We didn’ go ridin’. I was mighty vexed an’ sorry ‘bout that. I was sorrier when he took out a small, flat box an’ pointed it in my direction. He poked it in the eye plenty of times. I jest knew what was comin’.
Around one week later the shed door opened an’ there was this grizzly old guy. He looked like shit, even in the dim light of a November evening. GOMG turned on the light. Grizzly just nodded, handed GOMG a fat envelope an’ backed up his ol’ van, loaded me inside an’ hauled my sorry ass to another new location.
Y’know, I was gettin’ a little tired of bein’ hauled around. I’m a ferkin’ motorcycle! A ferkin’ Harley-Davidson motorcycle! A ferkin’ Harley-Davidson Shovelhead motorcycle – the best motorcycle the world ever seed! I kin still get it on given the ferkin’ opportunity, damn it! And here I am, endin’ up in another ferkin’ van and another shed. Okay, so it weren’t no shed – it was a pretty cool garage with plenty tools and stuff. Beyond noticin’ that and because I was mighty pissed, I couldn’ be bothered to take in my surroundings accurately. I jest keeled over on my jiffy an’ waited for the dawn. I was mindin’ my own when I got the feelin’ I wasn’t alone. Sure enough – right by me was this Twin Cam, grinnin’ at me like some kinda toothless idiot. I weren’t in no mood fer conversation, so I jest muted up an’ carried on mindin’ my own. I didn’ mean to be offensive but, y’know – I’d had a bad day. A bad three decades! Anyhoo, I’d certainly had enough fer the time bein’.
Dawn came. I knew it was dawn – I could smell bacon. Took me back. It was a sunny day – what’s not to like? Cold. Dry. Clear. Easy breathin’ long-shadow weather. The kind I prefer ridin’ in. Ah, to get out on the road again. Road to anywhere. Road to nowhere, I don’ mind none.
Turns out my stablemate was a Softail Slim. No ferkin’ ordinary Slim – a One-Ten FLSS, no less. He was a good dude too; I felt bad ‘bout blankin’ him an’ apologised. He graciously accepted an’ to prove there weren’t no hard feelings gave me a few pointers – said our owner was okay an’ a long-time Harley rider. Seems he wanned an ‘Old Timer’ for old time’s sake. He had a hankerin’ for a Shovel after half a lifetime without one. The bacon aroma dissipated an’ the temperature rose a little. The sun shone through the cobwebs on the garage windows and was dappled in the light breeze by the last falling leaves. Look at me gettin’ all poetic. I was itchin’ to get out there, but Slim was peacefully dozin’ with some sort of intravenous electric wire tapped into his battery.
I guess it was a Sunday – I had heard church bells ringin’ a while ago. I don’t know what this means other than it was a calm day; there didn’ seem to be no background noise to speak of – it felt kinda special, somehow. The garage door opened, allowin’ a blaze of sunlight to light up an’ warm my entire bein’. It was some kinda’ automatic door that cranked upwards in a roll. Ain’t seen nuthin’ like it. There was no one there to size up; empty driveway was all. Then, I heard a nearby door open an’ close. The grizzly guy appeared, and jus’ stood there lookin’. I shoulda said gawpin’. A few seconds later the sound of a door openin’ an’ closin’ was repeated. A woman appeared this time, dressed in blue jeans an’ a big woolly top. Had yeller hair an’ a familiar look to her. She had a mug of coffee in each hand. She gave one to Grizzly and swapped her mug into the other hand. Grizzly took her spare hand in his spare hand.
What!?
To be continued.
© Hector H Taylor 2018
Hogwash Stories + 