Harley and Me (20 page)

But the afternoon is wearing on, plus we plan to go to a birthday party for one of my former students living in Milwaukee, then on to the bash party at the Summerfest grounds to see one of my favorite bands, the Gaslight Anthem.

• • •

“Pull the bikes into the barn now!” Verne orders, sprinting from the house just as we're saddling up and saying good-bye to the Uglies. “Big storm. It's barreling towards us right now.” He points at the northeast sky. “I just got it on the radar.”

I look at Rebecca. We've ridden in rain before. What's the big deal? And even if we're not riding, why put the bikes inside?

But Verne is adamant. “You don't want to be out in what's on its way here,” he warns, pushing my bike through the roll-up door. “The bikes will take a beating.” We park the Harleys inside the barn and hunker down.

I'm still rather awed by the Uglies as a group and have found them to be quite reticent. I'm comfortable with Rebecca's father and am growing comfortable with Verne, but the others feel a bit standoffish.

As long as we're stuck here, I decide, it's time get to know these guys and nudge them out of their reserved posture. To do so, I find myself saying things to amaze them. Immediately I recognize an old pattern. I've spent my life trying to astonish aloof, hard-to-impress men. My father, who I know on some level completely adored me, was often distracted with his own worries and inner life. After failing to get his attention in the way I desired—to get him to see me as I
actually am—I did what I call my “tap-dance for daddy” routine. I do the same to get influential men to notice me, to talk to and be impressed by me. I don't do it as a flirty come-on. It's more my style to appear smart and interesting, to offer tidbits of information, to give the impression of being intelligent and worthy of weighty discussion. I flavor the conversation with technical terms like
displacement
and
cubic centimeters
calculated to convince Leroy, Verne, Oliver, and J. D. that I actually know something about motorcycles. I hear myself doing it, falling back on old behavior, even as I hate myself for the pretention.

“You guys, come look,” Edna calls from outside. The big roll-up doors are still open and we see massive black clouds stampeding toward us, rushing, all a-boil. The sky is sepia toned, drained of all color. Thunder booms over our heads and makes me jump, Rushes of lightning streak across the now murky sky, slashing brilliant Zorro strokes against the dimness. The air, humid and hot all day, suddenly cools but now feels charged with static. When the rain starts, it falls in fat droplets. Edna, Rebecca, and I in motorcycle gear rush out to dance in the downpour. We look ridiculous. But we're from Southern California, a land of drought, and by now, I've forgotten about my mission to impress the Uglies. The rain is a benediction.

We're laughing to the point of hiccups, putting on this pointedly unintelligent and non-grown-up display with the Uglies right behind us, probably shaking their heads. I don't turn to look; I'm enjoying myself too much. I'm done tap-dancing for daddy. And even if I still fall into this trap occasionally, at least today I have ceased the shuffle-ball-step routine before it went on too long. I'll settle for progress rather than perfection.

The plump raindrops turn sharp and daggerlike, turning to hail. Verne was right about bringing the bikes inside.

It's time to get under cover and Verne has shut the large roll-up doors to keep the water out of the barn.

Soaking wet, we collapse around the bistro table and Verne hands us towels. The Uglies are drinking beer and eating chips. Someone
presses a selection on the vintage jukebox. Bob Dylan starts to play. Though the weather is ferocious outside, the mood inside becomes festive. The dancing begins, though it's mostly Edna, Rebecca, and me.

What we thought would be a passing storm turns into an afternoon downpour. The white clay road we drove in on has turned to navy bean soup. And still the rain batters. We're stranded. Yet the mood inside is celebratory. We're like people stranded on a lifeboat. We know deliverance is on its way and there's nothing to do now but enjoy our time together.

I call the former student whose birthday party we were planning to attend. “We're stuck on a farm in a downpour,” I say, words I never thought I'd ever have reason to utter. “I'm not sure we'll be able to make it.” Two hours later, just before dusk, the rain finally stops.

Outside, two inches of rain have left the road pockmarked, puddles everywhere. The air heats again almost immediately. Rebecca and I wander down to Terri's vegetable garden, tromping through ankle-deep puddles in our motorcycle boots. The nearly setting sun breaks through the gloom and lights up a tomato plant as if God is directing my attention to it. The sunlit tomato almost falls from its vine into my hand. It's as big as a grapefruit and still warm from the earlier heat of the day, but washed in a sparkle of rainwater. I bite into it as if it's an apple. Sunlight and sweetness made from rain and grace and goodness fills my mouth. Verne said to help ourselves to whatever we like from the garden, so as Rebecca collects chili peppers to bring home to California, I eat two more fat orbs of tomato. The pale red juice runs down my chin and stains my T-shirt. By the time we saddle up, we've abandoned all thoughts of attending either the birthday party or the concert tonight. We have been honored with a day far better than any we could have planned and we accept it as the gift it is.

We ride home, our bikes splatted with sludge, my lower legs painted in lumpy whitewash.

Day Nine:
Saturday, August 31

Milwaukee

Though we picked up passes that would have let us ride in this morning's Harley parade through downtown Milwaukee, we opt to sleep in. Who needs the hoopla when life, as offered, is so good? Donna is leaving today to fly back to L.A., and George and Edna will start their return trip home by noon. We enjoy a leisurely farewell breakfast with our host family.

Rebecca and I, finally on our own, meet up early afternoon to ride with the Uglies to the Summerfest grounds. Rebecca's dad, Oliver, shows up with a woman he'd met earlier at Sturgis who flew in for the event. She's on the back of his bike, no helmet to mess her hair, younger even than Rebecca, in raggedy jeans and stiletto heels, smoking incessantly. J. D. is along for the ride, Leroy and Sharon, too. Verne and Terri will meet us at the fairgrounds.

Yesterday, the day we expected to going to be humdrum, turns out one of the best of the trip. And today, the day we're wandering among Harley zealots at the motorcycle equivalent of Comic-Con, is supposed to be the culmination of this entire journey.

Shirtless, sunburnt men are everywhere. And beer. The men display leather and tattoos. Their “colors” distinguish their affiliations. The women seem to rank as additional accessories, mostly in the mandatory auxiliary uniform of tight jeans and bursting cleavage. Commemorative T-shirts are on sale every five feet. And beer.

We are given VIP access to a raised platform where organizers host a party for Harley dealership owners, providing an elevated view of the moving mosh pit of leather, tats, and silicone. Rebecca talks with a woman from Alaska who, like her, has recently taken over her father's dealership. We make small talk and think about leaving our roost to join the main festivities, but frankly, there's not really that much to do besides fight the current of the crowds or listen to bands we've never heard of. (All the headliners play at night.) Less than two hours after we arrive, it's time to leave.

Oliver invites us to an art exhibit by Ugly Paul Smith, the American designer who created the iconic Harley bar-and-shield logo and the company's Screamin' Eagle. The gallery parking lot is peg-to-peg with Harleys. I'm pulling off my helmet when one of the Uglies comes over to inspect my Izzy Bella, seeming to appreciate her stark lines and minimalist frame.

“You're one of Oliver's friends?” he asks.

I nod.

“From L.A.?”

I nod again.

“You rode here? On this Sportster?” he gestures at my bike. “She's beautiful, no question. But, man: That would hurt.”

“Hey guys,” he calls over his posse. “This little thing rode all the way from L.A. on this fence rail!” He claps me on the back, directing his comments at his friends: “I don't want to hear any more bellyaching from any of you gomers about your sore asses. You're on big cushy bikes with all that padding on your backside and this little woman rode some three thousand miles on a goddamn Sportster.”

The men high-five me, ask about our route, and generally accept me into the true biker community.

When I get back to L.A., I will be thrilled further to receive an official Uglies tank top in honor of my badass Sportster skills.

Inside the gallery, Paul Smith's art reels me back to the 1970s and '80s, recalling his 1976 bicentennial tribute. I would have been in junior high back then. I eat cheese cubes and drink sparkling water. It's not that different from any other art gallery, just a lot more art on the flesh than on the walls.

Rebecca and I will head home tomorrow. The point of our journey, the Harley celebration in Milwaukee itself, has proven to be a nonevent. But the ride to get here and the coming trek to get home: That's what it's been about. Being stranded on a highway unsure of how things would work out and yet finding our way. Being tired beyond the kind of exhaustion I've known previously and yet discovering a tiny pocket of drive buried beneath the fatigue. Being
unconvinced I had the chutzpah to make it this far and finding out I do. That's what I left Los Angeles to discover. And now starting the ride home tomorrow, just Rebecca and me? I'm excited and also scared. But my well of self-confidence is bigger than before.

• • •

I climb into bed and though sleep seems like the best option, I don't take it. Rather, I continue to Google orgasms and motorcycles. I still haven't told Rebecca about my experience crossing the Mississippi, but my curiosity is heightened. I find an account from one woman claiming that the experience of riding a motorcycle with Ben Wa balls is the most delicious experience possible, causing waves of orgasms to keep you company. I can't get this idea out of my head.

I learn that Ben Wa Balls, also known as love balls, geisha balls, and smart balls, come in a variety of sizes and materials and were made infamous recently in the erotic novel
Fifty Shades of Grey
.

Some Ben Wa balls are metal and naturally weighted, I read, while others are plastic with metal ball bearings inside. I gather that the smaller ball, inside a larger outer ball, creates a gentle vibration. According to
Go Ask Alice!
at Columbia University, “given their size and bright or metallic coloring, Ben Wa balls would not look out of place in the cat toy aisle of a pet store.” I laugh at the description but sit up in bed when the site continues: “Degree of enjoyment may depend upon such factors as the size of the balls, the strength of one's vaginal muscles, and whether or not the wearer happens to be on a motorcycle.”

The site claims that Ben Wa balls create about as much sensation as a tampon, but even so, they provide fantasy value for many people, increasing their pleasure-inducing effects. “They are rumored to have two main functions: strengthening the Kegels (thus intensifying sexual pleasure and orgasm) and providing sexual stimulation themselves.”

Do they really work or is it all just a lot of urban mythology? “The jury's still out,” the site concludes. “But worst-case scenario, if they
don't turn out to be loads of fun or a good source of vaginal vigor, the cat will likely get a big kick out of them.”

At least they approach the subject with a sense of humor. I realize I have taken sex far too seriously my entire life. Previously, I had cautiously discussed sexual matters with my friend Tara and she pointed out that while most of my friends were busy exploring their young sexuality as twentysomethings, I was married and having kids. Maybe it's time for some exploration. And really, let's face it: I'm fifty years old. If not now, when?

•
    
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    
•

COMING HOME

It's not because things are difficult that we dare not venture.

It's because we dare not venture that they are difficult.

—SENECA

Day Ten:
Sunday, September 1

Brookfield, Wisconsin, to Atlantic, Iowa: 446 miles

Rebecca and I get away early, leaving the interstate for a route through miles and miles of cornfields and farmlands. The smell is terrible. Manure and fertilizer, I guess. Ugly Vern has given us a route into Iowa that leaves the interstate after Madison. “It's much prettier than the main highway,” he'd assured us.

He was right. Corn and agriculture and corn and agriculture, but lovely rolling hills and lots of green.

I know it's unreasonable, but I have held a grudge against Iowa my entire life, and yet this is the first time I've visited the state. When I was a child, my friend from across the street, Denyse, used to visit her older sister in Iowa every summer. I learned later that Denyse was being sexually abused by her father, our neighborhood mailman. To escape her home situation, the summer she was eighteen, she abruptly married an AWOL marine and stayed in Iowa. Her life
there did not improve. One pregnancy was immediately followed by a second. Her husband was an alcoholic who couldn't hold a job. Denyse ended up working the graveyard shift at a chicken-processing plant to support their family. One morning her husband picked her up after her shift, still drunk from the night before. He ran the car off the road, and Denyse was killed. But he lived. Misdirected anger, I know, but I have held a grudge ever since.

Now the state has a brief chance to change my opinion.

“Think we can make it to Nebraska?” I ask Rebecca when we stop at a gas station some five hours into the day's miles.

“Not likely,” she replies. “Not if we want to stay alert.”

Using my smartphone, I randomly pick Atlantic, Iowa, another two hours further on, and I book a motel.

We arrive at our motel and within minutes realize the mistake. The motel is indeed right off the highway as we'd hoped. But all the shops and restaurants that once flanked it are shuttered. The place is a ghost town with this one nearly abandoned motel still standing. We might be the only guests in the joint. But we've already paid for the room and are exhausted. We want to strip off our riding clothes, shower, and get something to eat before we crash. At the check-in desk, there's a small, refrigerated case. The sign tells us that we can buy Swanson frozen potpies for only $1.75 and that Hungry-Man frozen dinners are also available. A complimentary microwave sits on the counter for guest use.

“Is there a restaurant within walking distance?” I ask the clerk.

“No, ma'am.”

“Nothing?”

“No, ma'am. That's why we offer these frozen entrées.”
Entrées.
That's the actual word she used.

“Thank you. But where
is
the nearest place to get a cooked meal?”

“Ten miles,” she points in the opposite direction of the highway. “In town.”

Showering and changing will have to wait. Everything hurts when we again mount the bikes we thought we had parked for the night.
In “town” we find a Burger King. The only other option is Oinkers, and though the restaurant has closed its main dining room for the season, they offer to serve us in the bar. We opt to share an Iowan steak, touted as some of the best beef in the country. The steak is only fair and barely an improvement on the frozen entrées back at the motel.

But the joy we feel when we can finally peel off our riding gear and fall into bed is unspeakable. Though I'm sorry to say, my opinion of Iowa has not improved.

Day Eleven:
Monday, September 2

Atlantic, Iowa, to Ft. Morgan, Colorado: 513 miles

Nebraska is a uniform plane of grassland, cornfields, and more of the smothering of late summer. When we stop for gas and cautiously ask for a restaurant suggestion, we are directed for the second time on this trip to a local airport, this one in North Platte. We order the lunch special: something like chicken noodle soup poured over mashed potatoes and a side of canned green beans. For two days we have been riding through cornfields. I ask for corn on the cob, a seemingly reasonable request.

“Sorry,” the waitress tells me. “We don't have corn.”

“What fresh vegetables
do
you have?”

“There's a nice salad bar,” she says, gesturing to the counter with trays of iceberg lettuce, canned vegetables, and goopy blue cheese dressing. Here we are, in the agricultural epicenter of the continent, and it's impossible to find anything to eat that hasn't arrived by way of a processing plant.

Our plan is to stop at a hotel in Sterling, Colorado, which we are careful
not
to book in advance after our last motel experience. When we turn off the interstate at the motel exit, we don't like the look of it. Parked beneath a tree—the only shade as far as the eye can see—it's
at least one hundred degrees. We guesstimate out how much further we think we can make it.

“Forty-five miles. Fort Morgan,” Rebecca taps the map. I say we go for it.

Day Twelve:
Tuesday, September 3

Ft. Morgan Colorado, to Rocky Mountain National Park to Silverthorne, Colorado: 486 Miles

We opt for a proper breakfast and start the day later than normal. The news on the dining room TV reports on the latest attempt by long-distance swimmer Diana Nyad to swim the 110-mile distance between Cuba and Key West, Florida. I have been following for two years her repeated attempts to complete the marathon swim, a feat she'd initially attempted at age twenty-eight at her absolute physical prime. And now, the newscaster says, Diana has just completed the swim at age sixty-four on her fifth attempt, thirty-three years after her first attempt in 1978.

After thirty-three years.

On her fifth attempt.

At age sixty-four.

Over the course of fifty-three hours, without the protection of a shark cage, at times singing to herself, or counting numbers, remembering the books of Stephen Hawking, or experiencing vivid hallucinations of
The Wizard of Oz
and the yellow brick road. I am awed. How many people tried to talk her out of attempting yet again what she had failed to complete so many times? That's what stuns me the most—not so much the swimming, but the failure and then the fortitude to sustain belief in yourself even when others have begun to lose faith in you.

I have never undertaken an ordeal like that, but I do know what it's like to keep myself going, to quiet the brain when it begs the body to quit, to stifle the voices that remind me of earlier failures and imply
they're indicators of pending disappointment. The task I've chosen is undoubtedly easier than the one Diana chose. But then I correct myself. At a core level, there is no hierarchy when it comes to risk. Every challenge requires the same persistence and faith. Climbing a mountain. Getting a divorce. Starting a business. Going back to school. Healing a trauma. Swimming an ocean.

I'm filled with possibility today, knowing Diana Nyad finally made it to Florida.

We wind into Estes Park, Colorado, and then enter Rocky Mountain National Park. We ride along Trail Ridge Road, the highest continuous paved road in the United States, reaching an elevation of 12,183 feet, and following a path used by Ute and other Native American peoples for thousands of years. Forty-eight miles long, the path gives us vistas of Wyoming to the north, the Great Plains to the east, and the Rockies to the south and west. After days of riding though the furnace of the plains states, it feels odd now to have to bundle up against the cool temperatures and strong winds.

From Rocky Mountains National Park, we descend to the Glory Hole Café in Hot Sulphur Springs. At lunch, we meet three county commissioners, men who seem to wield power and know it.

“Those your bikes?” they ask.

“Nice ride,” one commissioner says.

“I bought one myself recently,” another one adds. The third one keeps flirting with us. As they leave the café, we overhear the female cook heckle the flirty one: “What would your wife say, talking to two pretty girls like that?”

We smile. I'm fifty years old; Rebecca's in her early forties. We are most definitely not above being called pretty girls. A lot has been written about how women, after a certain age, become invisible. It's nice to see that's not altogether true.

Our plan is to make it to Silverthorne, Colorado, where, oddly enough, both Rebecca and I have friends who have invited us to visit. Our first stop is to see Susan and Tom, fellow writers who are building a house there. Then we cross town to visit Amy, like Sue in Milwaukee,
another of Rebecca's college roommates. We enjoy the savory, unprocessed delight of homemade fish tacos with Amy, her husband Jim, and daughters Abby and Hannah. After a brief rainstorm, the girls take turns sitting on our bikes. We snap pictures of them, posing as mini biker chicks, just as a double rainbow arcs across the twilight.

Day Thirteen:
Wednesday, September 4

Silverthorne, Colorado, to Madrid, New Mexico: 336 miles