This is a story told by XLForum member Mosey. It's about a chance meeting that turned into tales of dare and doing.

Mosey relates in his own gripping style the fantastic stories of Ray, a white-bearded motorcycle lover.

The XLForum thread is here: http://xlforum.net/forums/showthread.php?t=1802273

The thread starts on July 25, 2014 (thru June10, 2015). As of January, 2020, it has 85,541 views.

Mosey encouraged others to reveal their own stories encountering older riders with tales to tell.
Click here for the 'Miscellaneous Tales of Meeting Interesting Characters' page for more stories.

In order to be able to link into the middle of the story, it has been (arbitrarily) headered into sections.

Life is short and brutal. Ride free…

I write those words every time I post, it's not a cut and paste kinda thang. I really mean it when I type that life is rather sharply truncated in the perspective of universal time. So y'all better believe me when I write that ya gotta ride free while ya still gots the chance… (Mosey)

A Chat With A Whitebeard

Had the day off so I went to deal with my local banker. I pulled the old Ironhead into the lot, rode to the far corner and parked up in the shade of a large tree. As I pulled off my helmet a soft voice from behind me said, “Damn, that's a nice machine.”

I turned to find a pair of gleaming, dancing eyes above an impish grin that was surrounded by a long, white beard. A fence separated us but, even through the fence, it was easy to spot a fellow motorcyclist. Instant recognition of a kindred soul.

We shot the breeze there for a few minutes, he asked about my Sporty and commented on how nice it is to see an old machine in use. He was more surprised when i told him it was my daily rider. I stuck my hand through the fence and introduced myself as we shook hands. His voice may have been soft and a little shaky, but his grip was solid.

I asked him about what machines he rode and this is where the story gets interesting. Now, just so's y'all know…the fence separates the bank parking lot from an elder/convalescent home, The fella' with the happy eyes and the easy grin musta been close to, or over, the eighty year mark. In spite of the years he had a vital, youthful air about him.

Well, dear reader, when your humble narrator inquired of this two-wheeled veteran as to his favorite steeds he proceeds to tell me, in a very understated way, about his years as a motorsickle racer in the Fifties and Sixties. He tells me about Baja 500s and Mint 500s and Baja 1000s and the Sacramento Mile and Ascot in Gardena and banging elbows in the turns with Dave Aldana and…

Holy crap! This guy is a gold mine of motorsickle lore and legend. We chat for a while about desert racing and sponsors and Triumphs and KHKs and KRs and…well, you get the drift.

I asked him if it would be possible to visit him sometime and talk more about his exploits and experiences. His eyes lit up and he proclaimed that he would look forward to my visit. He promised tales of twisting the wick and roosting the dirt. I am planning on dropping by to say hi to him next week. He said that any of the nurses would point me right to Motorcycle Ray!

I guess I'm relating this day's episode in my life to ya so all y'all remember that ya never know who the stranger next to ya really is…until ya ask. I've heard the Ironhead called “An Old Man Magnet” cuz old dudes walk up to yer bike and say sumpin' like, I used to have one back in the day“. So maybe the next time someone comments on yer bike, you just might take a minute or two and listen to their FTW tales.

I hope to update this thread in a week with more in-depth reporting on Ray's riding days. Maybe even get a pic of Ray with my motorbike if possible. BTW, just before I rode off, he mentioned that he still has quite a few old race bikes. Hmmmmm.

Life is short and brutal. Ride free…
26th July 2014 (http://xlforum.net/vbportal/forums/showpost.php?p=4921711)
======================================

For the last couple weeks I haven't been able to get to hang with Ray, but i saw him for a few minutes this morning. The last couple times when i stopped by on my day off, the nurses said that Ray was either getting a procedure or wasn't feeling up to visitors.

But today I stopped off to try and see my new buddy. Lo and behold, as I'm walking up the sidewalk towards the entrance of the assisted living facility, the door opens and out walks Ray! What a pleasant surprise. He's looking sharp and I tell him so. He grins and we chat for a couple minutes.

We arranged to meet up this coming Tuesday. I told him to prepare to tell me all the dirty details of any race that he happened to remember. he laughed through his beard and replied that he remembered EVERY race and EVERY competitor. My answer that I couldn't wait to hear his tales brought a grin to his weathered face.

I think I'm gonna have a good time hangin' with old Ray. His is an indomitable and inspiring spirit.

I'm glad so many of you took the time to read my thread. I only hope that I can accurately relate Rays reminiscences of past racing adventures. He intimated that he's gonna tell me about desert racing in Mexico when we meet up. I can't wait.

Life is short and brutal. Ride free…
16th August 2014 (http://xlforum.net/vbportal/forums/showpost.php?p=4942327)
======================================

Well…today was a really bitchin' day!

Not only was the weather awesome - eighty-five degrees after a long stretch of high heat and high humidity. So today, dry and cool, was a genuine corker! After cleaning, lubing and adjusting the chain on the Sporty I went for a little ride up Big Tujunga Canyon. The road was clear and twisty, traffic sparse, and I felt like the King of the World. Screw Leo and the Titanic. Gimme a Sportster any day…I don't need no stinking ship!

So me and the Ironhead had a great time up in the hills above the beautiful San Fernando Valley. After using a tank fulla fuel riding the asphalt and dirt roads, I turned the machine back towards civilization and headed for the best stop of my day.

As I rolled into the assisted-living facility there were several elderly residents sitting out front enjoying the balmy breezes. All eyes watched as I parked up the old motorbike and dismounted. With a wave and a howdy to the watchers, I headed inside.

Ray was sitting in the lobby area, grinning like a demented jack o' lantern at me through that wild, white beard. “Goddamn, it's good to see ya!” he exclaimed and stuck out his big, calloused mitt. We shook hands and I sat down in the proffered chair.

As we chatted, several of Ray's fellow lodgers wandered by and Ray took great care to introduce me as his “motorcycle ridin' friend”, lemme tell ya I felt honored to be named as such. I said hello and shook hands with some real interesting characters. Some of those folks looked like they have lived a full and interesting life. I'll bet there's an enormous wealth of tall tales and life experiences in that one building.

Ray talked a little bit about the times that he raced up Pikes Peak. His descriptions of the events curled my toes and gave me a shiver or two as well. Imagine tearing up that mountain at seventy and eighty miles per on a steep one lane dirt and gravel road that hangs precariously off the side of a precipice and yer sliding sideways. Now realize that there are no guardrails so if you miscalculate, yer going over the side in a rather spectacular fashion. Holy moly. I'm scared just thinkin' about it!

Ray said that his last run at Pike's he did the 13 miles in under 11 minutes. That deserves a tip o' the helmet, eh?

We talked about his years as a service manager at a Honda dealership outside of Portland Oregon and his years working at the Harley-Davidson shop in San Diego. The man got around and did a lot of living, plus he rode a helluva lot of motorcycles! We talked about the Triumphs that he raced and the 1954 Vincent Black Shadow that he loves and still owns. He said he still has a lot of his old race bikes stashed away down in Sandy Eggo.

The old folks started getting up and shuffling off down the hall. Ray said it was time for dinner and his stomach wasn't just growling - it was barkin' and howlin'! We said our adios and shook hands again. We made our plans to hang out again. I gathered up my helmet and gloves, gave old Ray a grin and started for the door.

“Hold on a minute.” he said and I turned around and went back. With a twinkle in his eyes he said, “Next time I'm gonna tell you about racing K-models on dirt tracks.”

Now I've got sumpin' to look forward to. Later days, faithful reader. I shall return with more two-wheeled tales as related by my new best friend. Thanks for being so damned cool, Ray. I owe ya one.

Life is short and brutal. Ride free…
20th August 2014 (http://xlforum.net/vbportal/forums/showpost.php?p=4946278)
======================================

ecampbell, thank you for adding to this thread. Your adventitious meeting and return visit are exactly in the spirit of this thread. I hope that anyone with similar experiences will feel free to add their words and pics. With everyone's input this could be an “Epic Thread”!

I asked Ray if he would pose for a pic with my bike at our next meeting and he agreed with one of his signature, sly grins. I hope to show all y'all that toothy smile and wild beard and twinkling eyes with my next update. That should be soon…real soon!

As far as recording him, well I will broach the subject eventually. Like many unique and spiritual people, Ray is kinda like a feral animal - ya gotta go slow and gentle until that bond of trust is there. I'm pretty sure that he will be overjoyed to know that his memories will live on and be enjoyed and appreciated by a vast group of hard-ridin' scooter tramps like you, Faithful Readers.

It warms the black hunk of cold rock that is my heart to know that so many of y'all are reading this and caring about my new friend, Ray. He's a good feller and I hope one day to show him this thread and all the responses. Lotsa good folk hangin' out and swappin' tales around the digital campfire that is the XLF.

Life is short and brutal. Ride free…
(http://xlforum.net/vbportal/forums/showpost.php?p=4947250)
======================================

Tales of Ray and the Isle of Man and High Speed Getoffs!

A Prelude
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

As the rear wheel spun, I watched the sprocket engaging the chain. The chain was riding a bit close to the left-hand side plates. A quick adjustment had the chain running true on the sprocket and I sat on the concrete behind my Sporty and just spun the wheel a few times.

Damn, a clean and well-lubed chain spins so smooth and free! Reduce friction - go faster! Faster! That thought, the thought of two wheels and un-bridled speed, turned my mind to my upcoming visit with Ray. “If you don't fall off, yer not going fast enough!” That's what Ray has said to me prolly a hunnerd times during our talks. Its his mantra. Om mani padme om…no effin' way! That hippie mysticism just ain't Ray. “If you don't fall off, yer not going fast enough!” Repeat that to yerself several times during this chat with Ray and you will get a better idea of my conversation.

I got my ass off the concrete (I am lucky enough to have a nice motorcycle lift table, but there are some things that ya just need to get down with the machine and sit on the floor, Or in the dirt. Y'all know.) and took the bike off the lift. Rolled it into the brassy SoCal sun. Locked up the Mosey Compound, grabbed my gear and started up that trusty lump of iron.

As she warmed, shaking enough to blur my vision, there was a feeling of anticipation, like a bell ringing so far away that you can't hear it…

Life is short and brutal. Ride free…
23rd August 2014 (http://xlforum.net/vbportal/forums/showpost.php?p=4949170)
======================================

Preview - Tales of Ray and the Isle of Man and High Speed Getoffs!

Concerto

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
“The time has come,” the Walrus said,
“To talk of many things:
Of shoes–and ships–and sealing-wax–
Of cabbages–and kings–
And why the sea is boiling hot–
And whether pigs have wings.”

Lewis Carroll
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

The sharp eyes looked at me and the words filtered through the wild, white beard, “So, whattaya do for a living?”

When I answered and showed him my latest work injury he laughed and said that I prolly deserved it and I agreed. “Looky there.” Ray directs my attention to a pretty, young, dark-haired, sloe-eyed nurse walking past. She's a cutie! Ray leans in close and whispers in a stage voice, “That there is my new girlfriend.”

“Now Ray, you know I'm married.”

“That don't make no never mind to me.”

“You be good Ray. Your friend there looks as disreputable as you.”

Ray and I both laugh.

“You boys be good now. Okay?” and she sashays off in her white uniform. That was fun.

So he then proceeds to tell me about a couple unusual pets that he owned (Or did they own him? Hmmm.) in years past. Interestingly enough, we both had cared for orphaned raccoons. Sometime I will have to tell Ray about the porcupine that I found and bottle-fed. Someday…

I turned the conversation to the two-wheeled adventures of my compatriot. I never know what he's gonna tell me so, for now, it seems best to just let him ramble. Later there will be time to ask specific questions but, for the present, I'm interested to find out the depth and breadth of the overall story. Go crazy Ray! Let it all hang out.

He starts talking about his trip to the Isle of Man in the Sixties and my eyes light up and I sat up straight in my chair. It felt like getting hit with a cattle prod. Whoa doggie.

Phrases like “Airborne at Ballaugh Bridge” and “Kate's Cottage” and “Sideways through the corner at Governor's” peppered his tale. He told a little about putting his race bike on a ship to send it across the ocean. How it took two months! Collecting it at the docks, getting through customs and finally on to the track and race prep. He learned the course and I dreamt of what that must have been like - the sounds of full on race machines, the smell of Castrol R, the sight of people lining the course. Hell, back then the spectators were practically standing on the track and racers tore past sometimes inches away. Damn!

And then he talked about being timed at a hunnerd and sixty in the TT and I could hear the pride in his voice. He started wandering away from the TT and the Manx GP and off we go across Europe to the French Grand Prix, on to Hockenheim and the Sachsenring and a host of other Continental tracks. Exotic locations, but to Ray they all were just another place to twist the wick and go hunting apexes.

And then we were back in the USA and Ray's tellin' me about gettin' highsided on a corner near the bottom of Pike's Peak. he was sideways in a curve, caught traction and the bike spit him off on the far side of a hunnerd miles per. He laughed as he remembered being filled with adrenaline. How he jumped up and ran back, hoisted his still running machine back on two wheels and took off.

About halfway up the mountain his right shoulder starts to hurt and gets worse with every jolt. It hurts from his neck to hand just to maintain a hold on the bars. Ray's grins tightens visibly through the beard as he recounts grimly hanging onto his Triumph's grip and keeping it twisted wide-effin' open all the way up the goddamned mountain!

“Excuse me. I'm sorry to interrupt.” A different, older but still sweet-faced nurse leaned in and put a gentle hand on Ray's shoulder. “Ray, it's time for dinner.”

Ray says, “I pay her extra to make sure I get into the chow hall first. I wanna get my food while it's fresh and hot.”

“Yes, Ray does like it fresh and hot.” She says this with a subtle, Mona Lisa smile on her beatific face.

“Just the way I like my women!”

“Now Ray, you be good.” I have a feeling Ray hears that phrase a lot. Just like I hear him say, “If ya don't fall off yer not going fast enough!”

Now I'm not one to get in between a hungry man and his dinner. I like my appendages. Ray and I shook hands and I asked, like a gentleman, if next week would be a good time to visit. He showed me a full set of white choppers that split his beard. “You bet! I'll be waitin' right here.”

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
The old Ironhead sounded particularly good - deep and resonant with a good dose of healthy crackle as I got on the throttle. Damn, ya gotta love a sweet-runnin' motorsickle…

“I weep for you,” the Walrus said:
“I deeply sympathize.”
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

Lewis Carroll
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Life is short and brutal. Ride free…
26th August 2014 (http://xlforum.net/vbportal/forums/showpost.php?p=4952411)
======================================

BTW, I forgot to mention that the reason his arm was hurtin' was because he had broken his collarbone!

If you have ever busted that particular lil' piece of calcium well, ya know how much it hurts just to lift yer arms…let alone twist a throttle and hold on to a bucking bronco of a motorsickle pounding it's way up a steep and unforgiving mountain.

Life is short and brutal. Ride free…
26th August 2014 (http://xlforum.net/vbportal/forums/showpost.php?p=4952437)
======================================

After doing a little online research, I think that I know exactly who Ray is. By using a few clues and doing a little hunting I found that the old boy is quite a respected competitor. When I asked Ray about posting a picture here for y'all, he adamantly replied in the negative. I respect the man's need for privacy so a lot of details and dates are purposely being left out of the story. Too much info and all y'all could track him down the same way that I did.

So now ya know that I will continue to be a little fuzzy on the dates and places. I won't tell ya everything, but I'll definitely give youse guys the bird's eye lowdown on the caper. You will get the meat and potatoes but no side dishes, appetizers or dessert.

I can't wait to go see Ray in a couple days. Who knows what I will be regaled with? Perhaps we will speak of hot shoes and left-hand turns, bangin' elbows and dirt berms. We will see.

Life is short and brutal. Ride free…
26th August 2014 (http://xlforum.net/vbportal/forums/showpost.php?p=4952759)
======================================

So today was a rather short visit due to my schedule, but we found a few minutes to sit outside in the shade and shoot the breeze. I have such a good time talkin' with Ray and I find myself counting down the days until we meet again. I know that one day, far too soon, he will be finished with his medical treatments and surgeries and will go back to Sandy Eggo. It will be a bit more of a commitment to see Ray when it means a three hundred mile round trip as opposed to a mere ten miles.

Ray wanted to talk about his time in prison, how he got there and how he spent his time in the hoosegow. Thirteen years is a long time to keep a man locked up in a cage for getting in a fistfight with an off-duty cop. I'm sure that he woulda gotten a lighter sentence if the cop had won the fight!

He talked about getting shipped all over the state of California, from prison to prison, and how he saw the way a man can become an animal when inside the system. He vowed that he would keep his humanity no matter what…I think he did a helluva job. I would trust Ray with my money and my motorsickle. But not my women! No way!!

“So tell me Ray,” I asked when the conversation lulled. “What did ya do when you were younger - ya know, before ya started racing motorbikes and going to prison?”

“I went to MIT.”

“You went where? MIT? Are you kidding me?”

“Back then I wanted to be a nuclear physicist.”

Two years he attended the most prestigious technical school in the US until his Dad got sick, the money ran out, and he had to return home to care for his family. I could hear the catch in his voice as he told of those years. I think if things had turned out a little differently old Ray woulda been racing rocketships around the Milky Way galaxy and beyond. Apollo woulda gotten to the moon a LOT faster if Ray had been on the team. And they prolly woulda slid in sideways, full opposite lock, to boot!

Well I left my friend with the promise that I would return and bring him a cigarette loaded with a little black hash. He said that he never really like smoking cannabis but a chunk of hash would always make him happy. When I told him that a Nepalese farmer taught me how to make hashish, his eyes lit up like a kid seeing the Christmas tree and all the presents.

“Hell yes, I'll smoke that! Just a little bit in a coffin nail so the nurses don't catch me and I'll be as happy as a dog with two dicks.”

(Ray has a rather colorful way of talkin' but I think all y'all can handle it, eh?)

“Okay Ray, a loaded cig it is. Would Tuesday be good for you.”

Ray grinned that warm, infectious smile of his, we shook hands and parted ways.

C'mon Tuesday!!!

Life is short and brutal. Ride free…
29th August 2014 (http://xlforum.net/vbportal/forums/showpost.php?p=4956051)
======================================

For the record - when I first met Ray I was kinda skeptical about his exploits. I mean really, who has that kind of a life? Some fictional character? Some scroungy-looking old dude that I met in a parking lot? Really?

I don't trust easily but there was sumpin' about Ray that I found impossible to deny. He never bragged about anything and most of the info I had to pry outta him. He's gotten more comfortable with me and the words flow out a little easier, but he still has that understated way of approaching a subject.

On my second visit Ray mentioned that he owns a grip of houses in San Diego and I thought, “Yeah right. I find it hard to believe that this scruffy character that is always dressed in the same shitty windbreaker and old trucker hat has two nickels to rub together”

But when one of the nurses told me that Ray's sister mentioned that Ray owns around a hunnerd and twenty houses…well, I about fell over. At that point I had to reassess this guy and what he was tellin' me. Can all this be real?

I don't think that the old guy is jivin' me. I think he lived a life that will burn across the fabric of time. And I hope that you will read this with an open mind cuz old Ray has a LOT more to tell. I just hope that I can keep up. Thank you, Faithful Reader, for coming along for the adventure.

Life is short and brutal. Ride free…
29th August 2014 (http://xlforum.net/vbportal/forums/showpost.php?p=4956100)
======================================

“Well, I was out riding my bicycle one day - I was maybe thirteen or fourteen at the time - and I heard this Gawd-awful sound. It was really a roar. It made the hair on my neck stand up when I heard it and I went looking for the source of the noise.”

His hands wandered absently to his beard and smoothed the long white whiskers. His fingers twirled the ends of his mustache into even points as his mind traveled back through the years.

“I rode my bike around through this industrial area. There was a bunch of ramshackle little buildings fulla machinists and auto shops and muffler places. Ya know what I mean.” He glanced up and continued.

“So I turned the corner and there it was,” Ray paused for effect.

“What?” I blurted out.

“This car. Well, not really a car…a dragster. It was big and mean looking with that huge motor and those slicks on the back. It had these little bitty wire wheels up front. I rode up and got off my bike. I think I just dropped it - forgot all about the kickstand - and walked around that car.”

“I was thrilled and scared at the same time. That thing looked like it wanted to kill me. But I knew then and there that I wanted to drive that car. Or sumpin' like it. Sumpin' fast!”

Old Ray flashed that slightly maniacal grin and went on, “When the guys in the shop saw me eyeballin' their car they came out and talked to me. That was scary too. These bad-ass grown men, dirty and greasy and everything that my Mother warned me about were actually talking to me.”

Ray's eyes glazed over a bit and he fell silent. I wondered what he was seeing, prolly that dragster sitting in the sun on that street on that long gone day.

“So I would go over, hang around and sweep the floor. Sometimes I got to put tools away or clean parts. Later they showed me how to bend tubing and weld. I learned a lot at that place.”

“Where was this?” I asked.

“Down in Carlsbad (a little town outside of San Diego) and the shop was called Dragmasters.”

“Dragmasters?”

“Yeah. They built a few cars.”

“They built a few cars?” I was flabbergasted. “They built almost every top contender on the West Coast. I don't know squat about drag racing and I know about Dragmasters. They were the shizznit back in the day.”

“The what?”

“Oh sorry Ray. That's some slang that I picked up from Snoop Dog.”

“Snoop? I really like that “Gin and Juice” song of his.”

Ah Ray, you blow my mind. You da man!

We chatted about the Thing Two (a twin-engined drag car built in that shop), Dode Martin, and the Dragmaster Dart until it was time for me to leave. I gathered up my helmet and gloves, shook hands with Ray and walked to my bike.

I climbed on the old Shovelhead (Sorry Faithful Readers, but yer Humble Narrator doesn't always ride an Ironhead!) and went through the drill. Petcock on, check for neutral. I feel the rockerboxes and decide not to use the choke or any prime kicks. Swing out the kicker and bring 'er up on compression.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see that Ray is watching along with ten or so other elderly residents out enjoying the evening breezes. I know I gotta make it good.

So I reach down and turn on the ignition. “C'mon ya old girl, Let's give 'em a show.”

I cracked the throttle a bit and turned to grin at Ray as I gave the kicker a whack. Boom! The old Shovel lit off with a growl that prolly shook a couple windows in the old folks home and maybe rattled a denture or two.

Ray smiled broadly and shook his fist. “Hell yeah! That sounds good!!”

“Thanks Ray!” I hollered. “Not bad for a Harley, eh?”

“Not bad at all.”

“I'll see ya later, Ray”

“Alright. Remember, if ya don't fall off–”

”–yer not going fast enough,“ I finished.

We both smiled.

A couple of the watching elders shook their heads in disapproval but most of 'em were smiling and nodding. One sweet old lady was clapping her hands in delight. I was kinda overwhelmed and pleased at their reaction. Kickstarting a motorsickle can be rewarding on many levels.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
I stopped by my friend's house on the way home. We burned a doob as we sat on his couch.

“Mosey, why you grinning like that? You been smiling since you put yer kickstand down. What gives?”

“I just came from seeing Ray.”

“That old guy in the nursing home? There must be sumething special about him.”

Yeah, there's sumpin' special about Ray.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Life is short and brutal. Ride free…
12th September 2014 (http://xlforum.net/vbportal/forums/showpost.php?p=4968526)
======================================

Is This Really The True Story of the XLCH?

After getting home from work and typing those words about the birth of the fabled and beloved XLCH, I realized that I had to find out more or I would spend the weekend wondering. So I jumped on the Sporty, my favorite 'round town steed, and rode up to the convalescent home.

When I got there Ray was enjoying a smoke in the gazebo. I parked up and joined him in the shade.

Damn hot, ain't it?” Ray asked as I walked up. A hunnerd and five and freakishly high humidity here in SoCal. Yeah, it's hot. “I wasn't expecting to see you today. wasn't you here just last Tuesday?”

“Yeah, but I just couldn't stop thinking about what you said about the XLCH.”

“You do like your Sportys, doncha?”

I grinned sheepishly. “Ya got me there.”

Ray proceeded to tell me about the day in 1957 when he was in the local Harley dealership and saw the coolest Sportster that he had ever seen sitting in the service area. It was stripped to the bone - the heavy battery gone, with a magneto ignition and the big tank replaced with the iconic Hummer tank.

He asked about it and was told that it was a prototype for the new Sportsters made just for the California dealers. Ray said that the Cali dealers were certain that there was a market for a leaner, meaner Sportster. The Factory mandated a minimum number of machines and apparently a group of California dealers bought the minimum order.

“So the Factory inserted the letter C into the XLH to denote the California models. Then the rest of the country wanted in on the act and suddenly they were everywhere.”

“But I heard that the C stood for Competition.”

“I dunno. I can only tell ya what I saw. That was a bad-ass Sporty. I wouldn't have minded riding one but I got into Triumphs for desert racing. The C model Harleys were pretty damned good.”

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
So there ya have it. Take it or leave it, this is as good as any story that I have heard about the beginnings of the XLCH. As I put my motorsickle away I couldn't wait to share this with all y'all. Ray wasn't a Sporty rider but that machine sure made an impression on him. That musta been cool seeing that bike on the distant day. I wish I had been there…but I wasn't even born yet!
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Life is short and brutal. Ride free…
12th September 2014 (http://xlforum.net/vbportal/forums/showpost.php?p=4968997)
======================================

I mentioned a couple pages back that I know who Ray is by doing a little research with race dates that he provided. He didn't want me posting his pic at present so i figures that he wouldn't want his name bandied about on the internet.

Just wanna protect the man's privacy so I have not mentioned specific dates or places that might help someone dig up Ray's identity. I'll tell ya this: His real first name is Ray and he's a seriously cool old dude.

I cannot vouch for the veracity of any of his stories but when I hear him talkin' I can't help but be drawn in and hang on every word. I believe.

Life is short and brutal. Ride free…
(http://xlforum.net/vbportal/forums/showpost.php?p=4969026)
======================================

“I can always tell when yer comin' to visit.”

I glanced up. “Whaddaya mean?”

“I must hear a hunnerd bikes pass by each day and yer like the only one that downshifts properly.”

“Oh, you mean the blip?”

“Yeah that twist of the throttle means a whole lot to me. Little things like that separate the guys that know their machines from the ones that just don't get it. When I hear that I know this guy is tuned in to his bike.”

I grinned a little thinking of the “Do you blip when you downshift” thread on this forum. All those pages of folks arguing back and forth about whether or not to blip and here it's validated by good old Ray.

“When I hear ya shifting through the gears and that V-twin howling I know it's time to get moving and get my brain in gear. I came outside so we could sit here in the shade. You don't seem to be the kinda fella' that likes being cooped up inside.”

“On target, Ray. Ya got me pegged. I can't stand boxes. We live in boxes and then most people drive a box to work. Then they go inside and work for eight hours in another box, drive the box back to the box they sleep in.”

Ray laughed heartily, his face flushing.

“Alls I'm tryin' to do is get outta those damned boxes, Ray. Ridin' is my way out of the box.”

“I do know what ya mean. I never felt so free as when I was all alone out in the desert on my motorcycle. Man, I felt alive!”

His eyes glittered and narrowed as he remembered, his mind and heart seeing the wide open of the arid landscape. The gnarled, old hands sitting in his lap fluttered and tightened as if gripping the bars. A slow grin spread across his face and he just drifted for a long moment.

The time drew out in a wordless expanse until Ray snapped back to the here and now. The lids of his eyes lifted and he turned his gaze back to me.

“Yer a good guy. Don't ever let those bastards corner ya and stick ya in a box.”

“I won't Ray. At least not 'til I'm dead.” We both laughed, sharing our little joke. “Hell, maybe not even then.”

We talked for a while about off-road four wheeled vehicles. He was really into those wild tube-framed dune buggies. He sure wasn't referring to a Manx dune buggy. He laughed a derisively when I mentioned Manx. “I ain't talkin' about street buggies. I'm talkin' off road, waaay off road.”

He started with VW power but soon switched to Porsche motors. Talkin' about Weber carbs, crazy cams and homemade headers got Ray animated, his hands describing the proper slide through a long corner and the correct attitude for a desert jump.

He spoke of working with his friend, Parnelli Jones!, to develop suspension for their off-road buggies. How they finally got Fox shocks to build exactly what they wanted. How the whole sport changed once their machines got some decent suspenders.

I told Ray a dirty joke and we both laughed. “You sure are a happy guy, Mosey. I'm glad ya take the time to come visit me.” He looked at me with squinted eyes. “Why does a guy like you bother to visit an old man like me?”

“Cuz I like ya, Ray. And I enjoy the time I spend with you. It's just that simple.”

“Well you sure are a bright spot in my week.”

I shuffled my boots in the dust. “Same for me, Ray, Same for me.” Looking up, I stuck out my hand. “See ya later, buddy.”

We shook on it, I gathered up my helmet and gloves, fired up the Sporty and rode out, giving Ray the high sign. His wave followed me down the road for a long, long time.

Life is short and brutal. Ride free…
30th September 2014 (http://xlforum.net/vbportal/forums/showpost.php?p=4984902)
======================================

“Can I have a gander at that?”

He reached out a hand across the table, the fingers long and strong, the skin like parchment paper but without a trace of shakiness. I dropped a chunk of hash the size and shape of a goose egg, but as black as my heart, in his palm. Those long fingers closed over it like the jaws of a wolf trap.

He looked long and hard at the resiny bit of goodness. From his expression you woulda thought he was regarding an incredibly large and valuable diamond. He sniffed and his wrinkled face broke into a toothy show of appreciation. “This takes me way back. I ain't seen nuthin' like this in a long time!”

“Tear off a chunk and then you can really appreciate the aroma.”

The well-aged fingers squeezed the hash and his smile broadened. “This is soft.” He held the hash to his nose. His eyes widened.“Spicy! This is special, like the gold seal hash that we used to get. It came with eagles and elephants and strange writing all stamped in gold leaf on the outside. Really special stuff.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I saw that a few times.”

“So where is this from? Lebanon? Morocco? It looks and smells like the sheesh we got back in the Sixties and Seventies.”

“ It ain't from Morocco or Lebanon or India. Nope. I made it in my kitchen”

He looked up from regarding the hash in hand. “No way!” He saw the expression on my face. “Yer not kidding, are you?”

“No way, Ray.” I said. “ I wouldn't kid about sumpin' that important. I made it from plants that I grew in my backyard.”

“Now I'm really looking forward to trying it. Ya make yer own hashish? Damn. Yer an unusual feller, Mosey.”

“Well Ray, I would hafta agree and the best part is I really don't need to work at it. It just comes natcherly.”

Ray handed back the hash, a bit reluctantly, and a couple fresh cigarettes. I tore off two pieces and rolled them into long snakes of hash. Using my Leatherman tool, I inserted the hash into Ray's cigarettes and handed them back. Ray's eyes twinkled merrily as he tucked them into the pack of Pall Malls.

“I'm gonna really enjoy these. Thanks for being so nice to an old man.”

“Shut up Ray. I didn't come here for thanks, I'm here to hear you talk about the Isle of Man, dammit!”

“Whattaya wanna know?”

“Well, like how did ya even get to go? From what little I know, it's really hard to even get a chance to ride there.”

“Yeah, those Brits don't really like letting outsiders into their game.”

“So? Make with the facts, wouldya?”

“Okay, okay. I was wrenching at the Harley dealership in San Diego. I has been racing a lot and winning most of 'em. Dirt, roadracing, whatever. And one day old man Davidson was in the shop and he came up to me and said, 'I hear yer a pretty good racer. do you want to race for us?' I about fell over, but I somehow managed a yessir!”

“Are you kidding? Arthur Davidson?”

“Yep. So after a couple years on the Factory team, I qualified for my International Racing License and I got sent to race on the Island.”

“For some reason I thought you were a privateer and running a Triumph.”

“Naw, I was riding a K-model.”

I blurted out, “A K-model?”

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
We need to pause for a moment, Dear Reader, as your Humble Narrator got a little freaked out by the next couple sentences that Ray uttered. I have never heard this tidbit of HD lore and I truly hope that Patrick or one of the other resident K-model experts will chime in as to the validity or ridiculousity of Ray's next statement. Now Dear readers, back to the narrative…
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

“Yup. And they weren't regular K bikes. To compete with the Triumphs and BSAs, the rear cylinder was removed and covered with a blanking plate. The front was bored and stroked to 650 cc.”

I was incredulous. “A 650, one-cylinder K-model? Was it faired in?”

“Nah, just a open bike. It was a lot of fun to ride but hard to start. Damn that thing was a bitch to start.”

Ray's attention wandered to a pretty nurse that was walking past. We chatted for a while longer about Ray's aluminum-bodied AC Cobra (He yanked out the original 289 and shoehorned in a 427 just for kicks!) and his old Cheetah with a small block Chevy 350. It sounded like old Ray really loved both those cars. That old dude really digs his toys - and the faster the better!

I could tell that Ray was getting tired so I bid him a fond farewell and rode my old Shovelhead outta the parking lot. After a couple miles I pulled off the road and just sat in the dirt next to my old Harley smoking a fat joint and thinking about how lucky i was to have met Ray. Life is good.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Well, Dear Reader, we also talked about Bonneville…
but that's for the next installment.
You ain't gonna wanna miss that, lemme tell ya!
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Life is short and brutal. Ride free…
12th October 2014 (http://xlforum.net/vbportal/forums/showpost.php?p=4994016)
======================================

I'd play the Red River Valley
And he'd sit out in the kitchen and cry
And run his fingers through seventy years of livin'
And wonder, “Lord, has ever' well I've drilled run dry?”

We were friends, me and this old man
Like desperados waitin' for a train
Like desperados waitin' for a train
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

The old man was watching me intently as I rode across the parking lot. The Sportster was feeling kinda frisky and maybe, just maybe, I was going a little fast for the conditions, but…what the hell? Ya gotta live a little, right?

As the bump in the driveway approached I stood up on the pegs and goosed the throttle. The Ironhead motor purred and gathered herself under me like a responsive horse, muscles bunching, preparing to jump. The front wheel hit the bump and followed a predictable trajectory. My little silver Sporty was airborne! Just for a moment, but what a glorious fraction of my life.

Without conscious thought, my right hand feathered the throttle and the tires hit the ground almost in unison. I grabbed the brakes hard and slid to a stop in the dirt. I flashed my best Tom Cruise/Risky Business megawatt grin and Ray answered back with a war whoop. Maybe a rebel yell, I dunno, but it was an expression of pure joy, lemme tell y'all. That old man was grinning bigger than I've ever seen before. Like to split his weathered, leathery mug from ear to ear. It makes Your Humble narrator smile just remembering it.

I put the kickstand down, turned off the petcock, gave her one last rev and shut 'er down. His sharp, blue eyes followed every move I made. He was sitting in a heavily upholstered chair carefully placed in the shade of a towering eucalyptus tree, stroking his long, white beard and watching me walk toward him.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
He's a drifter and a driller of oil wells
And an old school man of the world
He let me drive his car
When he's too drunk to

And he'd wink and give me money for the girls
And our lives were like some old western movie
Like desperados waitin' for a train
Like desperados waitin' for a train

From the time that I could walk he'd take me with him
To a bar called the Green Frog Cafe
There were old men with beer guts and dominos
Lying 'bout their lives while they'd played

And I was just a kid
They all called his “Sidekick”
Like desperados waitin' for a train
Like desperados waitin' for a train
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

“So whats the fastest that you've ever gone on a motorcycle?”

“I'm not really what you would call a fast rider. Aggressive in traffic, but not really fast.”

“Aw c'mon Mosey, I saw you ridin' into the lot just now. I know for sure that you've gone for it.”

I told him about a time that I rowed through the gears until there weren't any left and kept twisting the throttle until I pegged the hunnerd and forty mph speedo. How I felt as if the slightest twitch, a rock or a crack in the pavement and instant mechanical oblivion would follow leading to instant death or gory dismemberment. How although I loved the rush of pure speed, I wasn't sure how long I could endure that rarified atmosphere.

Ray was smiling and nodding while I spoke. The gears turning in his head were audible from across the parking lot, so I asked, “Tell me Ray, what's the fastest you've ever gone?”

His eyes got cloudy and distant as he leaned back in the big, comfortable chair. The grin faded a bit, a shadow of concentration passed over Ray's sun and his hands instinctively wandered, a tad shakily, up to stroke the long whiskers, smoothing the wild hairs as the breeze ruffled across him.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
One day I looked up and he's pushin' eighty
And there's brown tobacco stains all down his chin
To me he's one of the heroes of this country
So why's he all dressed up like them old men
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

“Fifteen.”

“In a row?”

“Yup. Fifteen years in a row I went to Bonneville, Run the salt. See how fast I could go.”

“Yer talkin' fast! Real fast. The kinda fast that I don't have the balls to experience. Don't have the wallet neither.” We both laughed a little. “So now it's your turn Ray. You gotta tell me how fast you done.”

“Well, imagine sliding yourself into a metal tube, laying flat on yer back with a motor screaming a couple inches behind your head and watching the world through a little bitty screen between yer toes. It's amazing what a man will do if he really wants go fast.” With nicotine stained fingers, Ray lit a Pall Mall and took a long drag.

“The first couple years, I rode regular motorbikes. Ya know, ones that I done a lot of hop up work on, but still regular motorcycles. Then I got bit by the streamliner bug. I was working with a guy you might have heard of, his name was Breedlove.”

I looked at Ray and interrupted. I blurted out, “Craig Breedlove? The fastest man on earth? Uhhhh, yeah. I've heard of him.”

Ray chuckled. “I got to drive one of his early machines and once I felt the power and possibilities of that streamliner…well…it was a done deal for me. I hadta have one of them things. So I went home and started building. Planning and building for next year and the next year. And the next year. It just never stopped. It was sumpin' I just hadta do. And it ended up with me going five twenty.”

What the hell?!“ Astonished I stared at this quiet, unassuming, gentle and slightly worn by the passing years man, a man walking tall in spite of the weight of the years bearing on his shoulders. “Five hunnerd and twenty miles per hour? Are you pulling my leg?”

“Aw hell, Mosey. That wasn't even a record setting run. It didn't get my name in any record books but it set a record for me. I never became famous or nuthin' but I sure had a helluva lot of fun.” He grinned pensively and I knew he was back in that flying cigar tube, smelling the hot oil and fuel, hearing the howling motor, experiencing the world at frequency and pitch that few could understand.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Drinkin' beer and playin' Moon and Forty-two
Like desperados waitin' for a train
Like desperados waitin' for a train
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Poetry courtesy of Guy Clark
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Life is short and brutal. Ride free…
26th October 2014 (http://xlforum.net/vbportal/forums/showpost.php?p=5005524)
======================================

As I pulled in the clutch lever to downshift for the railroad tracks, I felt more than heard the pop as the ferrule on the end of the cable gave up the good fight. With the lever flapping uselessly against the left grip I firmly nudged the gear selector down and felt second gear engage. Double bump and the tracks were behind me. Open road ahead. The old Harley gearbox accepted my upshifts without a complaint. Vroom, snick, vroom. Oh yeah.

Let's see…my clutch cable is busted, I live in the middle of the heavily trafficked San Fernando Valley, riding a motorsickle is dangerous enough when everything is working the way it should…hmmmm. Should I go home?

Hell no! I'm on my way to see Ray!! A stupid broken clutch cable isn't gonna stop me. Not now. I'm more than halfway there…ain't no way I'm going home. Like any self-respecting idiot, I decide I'll figure out what to do later and I continue riding my Sportster.

By carefully timing my approaches I'm able to slip through every single traffic light without coming to a stop and before too long I'm pulling into the parking lot of the convalescent home. I get real lucky and somehow ease the old dog into neutral. Whew…that wasn't so bad…but I'm really not looking forward to the ride home.

The area under the trees is fulla old folks out enjoying the warm November afternoon. They sit on their chairs and I run the gantlet. By now, most of 'em are used to my visits and they look up greeting me with nods and handshakes. I take a moment with each one, “Hey Dave, hows the hip feeling?” and “Marge it's good to see ya out here!” and, “Gus, you shouldn't be smoking. You know it'll stunt yer growth, dammit.”

After making my way down the line finally I get to Ray, sitting in the gazebo, stroking his luxuriant beard and looking for all the world like a potentate on his throne. Like a regal old biker holding court. I grinned at the old man and he motioned me closer. I drew up a chair and sat down with my friend.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
So, we'll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

“Been a while.”

“Yeah. I'm working double shifts right now.”

“What the hell would a good looking young feller like you be working that much? You should be out chasin' skirts.” Ray's beard contained the secret smile of a man that's done his share of romancin' the fairer sex. “Ya gotta have some fun while yer still on this side of the dirt.”

“Well, if it makes ya feel any better about my work schedule Ray, I'm doing all this for a woman.” Ray's eyes brightened visibly.

“My Mom.” The devilish grin softened and became an expression of maternal longing. Hell, even an eighty-five year old man misses his mother sometimes. “She needs a little help and I'm glad to do sumpin' for her for a change.” I motioned at the Ironhead parked on the concrete apron. “Busted the clutch cable on the way here.”

“No shit? Where did it happen?” He shook his head and whistled softly. “You rode all the way here like that. Most guys woulda rode back home. Hell, most guys would called a tow truck. How ya gonna get back home?”

“I been thinkn' about that. I got a couple ideas. We'll see…”

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

After a while Ray sez, “So I was out riding my Black Shadow..you know what a Black Shadow is Mosey?”

“Of course. The Vincent is one of my top three bikes. Gotta love the frameless, hotrod motorcycle. And that gigantic, frying pan for a speedometer. Classic.”

“Well, it musta been 1964 or '65. I was riding and I stopped to help out a guy sitting by the side of the road with a motorcycle. Turns out he didn't need any help. He was just taking a break on a long ride. We shared a joint and shot the shit for a while 'til he says to me. “That's one of them Vincents. I hear they're fast. Wanna trade bikes for a couple miles?”

“Lemme tell ya Mosey, I don't usually let people ride my bikes, especially strangers. And this guy was a real character. Long hair, big beard, kinda scruffy, riding a kinda beat-looking chopper. But for some reason…I said yes.”

Ray wasn't looking at me any more. His eyes were distant as he relived the memory. ” We rode along for prob'ly twenty miles or so. That chopper looked like crap but it ran pretty good. For a Harley. I was having fun! We swapped back in a gas station and went our separate ways.”

Ray paused to light a Pall Mall, working hard to get a flame against the quartering breeze. He puffed contentedly and continued. “Flash forward to the next summer and me and my girlfriend are relaxing in a campground. We're sitting by the fire planning where we're gonna take the dune buggies the next day when we hear motorcycles approaching. Harleys. A lot of 'em.”

“Forty or fifty bikes pull into the campground and set up next to us. My girlfriend is kinda freaked out when she sees that they are Hell's Angels. I tell her to be cool. Well, within a few minutes bikers are walking into our campsite and taking firewood and chairs and stuff. My girlfriend is holdin' onto me and I'm thinkin' that I'm way outnumbered and I'll get my ass handed to me if I say a word. But if I don't do sumpin' they're gonna take all my stuff and prob'ly my girl as well. Kinda in a bit of a predicament.”

The ember glows as Ray inhales. He slowly blows out a thin stream of smoke through pursed lips. “So about the time that my blood was starting to boil a couple more bikes, followed by a pickup truck and a couple cars, pulled into the campground. I heard some shouting and a couple minutes later the same bikers that took my stuff started returning it, mumbling sheepish apologies, before heading back to their camp.”

“Another biker walked up and as he got close to the fire I saw that it was the guy I swapped bikes with like a year ago. He started apologizing saying that his boys were a little outta hand and that they had no right bothering anyone. In the middle of his apology he suddenly realizes who I am and we start shaking hands and talkin' shit. My girlfriend is looking at me and him. She couldn't believe our luck.”

“Well after a little while, he goes back to his camp and a few minutes later, two Angels walk over and give us a couple big T-bone steaks and a cooler fulla beer. Now that was an ending that I sure didn't expect.”

“So Mosey, what are ya gonna do about that clutch?” I snapped back to the here-and-now, leaving that dark campground fulla dirty, hairy bikers on a warm evening back in the Groovy Sixties. Yes, Dear Reader, it was 2014 and I was smack in the middle of SoCal dreading a clutchless ride home through heavy traffic.

A pile of trash, some of it broken auto parts and what appeared to be metal shelving was visible in the dumpster of a nearby muffler shop. I wandered over and asked the attendant if I could do a little dumpster diving after explaining my plight.

“Ya ain't gonna find any clutch parts in there,” the guy scoffed.

“Yeah, I know. But I might find sumpin' that I can use. Thanks.”

A little digging rewarded me with a piece of metal about sixteen inches long with a hole in it four inches from one end. A car mirror gave up a couple strips of duct tape that had been used to hold it onto the car. I walked back to Ray carrying my prizes. The guy from the muffler shop watched as I got to work on my bike.

“What the hell ya gonna do with that?”

I stripped the sheathing off and threaded the cable through the hole in the metal bracket, then slid it down until it was almost touching the adjuster where it enters the primary cover. After kinking the cable so it wouldn't slip back through the hole, I taped the cable onto the metal. I put the last piece of tape on the primary where the improvised clutch lever would touch - I didn't wanna scratch up my nice aluminum!

Now I had a lever with which to activate my clutch. Crude and difficult to use, but it would work. By pushing forward on the lever, the cable would pull out, the ramp would rotate and the balls would do their magic dance. Yee haw! Of course, I would hafta lean forward and down to use the clutch but I don't mind a little fancy riding. Whatever does the trick, right?

Ray shook his head. “Mosey, I gotta hand it to ya. That's damned inventive and all from a trash pile. Yer alright.”

Now that was a true compliment. I managed a wry, little smile but inside I was beaming, proud, fit to bust. Ray says I'm alright! Aw shucks.

Ray watched as I tested it out in the parking lot. Not easy to use, downright difficult to be honest with ya Dear Reader, but manageable. I pulled up by Ray and with the motor idling and the front wheel dancing in the dust, we said our farewells. I dropped the trans into first using my improvised clutch lever and Ray clapped me on the back. “If ya don't fall off…”

“…yer not going fast enough!” I finished the sentence with a laugh and Ray joined in. He was still laughing as I pulled away. The guy in the muffler shop stood in the doorway, shaking his head. He waved at me and I gunned the motor and headed for home.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.

Lord Byron
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Life is short and brutal. Ride free…
17th November 2014 (http://xlforum.net/vbportal/forums/showpost.php?p=5022860)
======================================

Ya ever have one of those days?

Ya know the kinda day when you're on yer feet all friggin' day. movin' every minute and flat out bustin' yer ass for every dollar. The kinda day that when it's finally over and ya look back, do a little figurin' and realize that yer further behind than when ya started. The kinda day that just makes ya say, “Eff it all. I don't need this shit!”

Man, it was one of them kinda days fer sure. I felt beat and disgusted with it all - I just wanna get a break dammit! What the hell am I gonna do?

I'm gonna go see Ray!

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

“Mosey! Good to see ya. Pull up a chair and set a spell.”

We shot the breeze for a few, how-ya-beens and whatcha-up-tos, watched the nurses change shift and enjoyed the sunshine after a couple days of rain. Ray reached across the table and tapped my arm. “I remembered a story that I thought you would like to hear. Now this happened a long time ago, but I'm sure that you'll dig it.”

“Hell yeah! Hit me Ray.”

It was in '67 or '68 and I rode up to Oregon to see this hippie chick that I met in San Francisco. She was livin' in a cabin up in the mountains and had been writing me letters telling me how cool it was - all green and mountains and streams and everything.“

“I got to thinking that a break from the city would be just what I needed so I strapped a sleeping bag to my Shovelhead and hit the road. I was bored on I-5 mosta the way north, but once I hit Eugene and headed up into the mountains I was really enjoying the ride. Twisting through Douglas fir trees and following this wild, river…”

“That would be the MacKenzie River. I know it well.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. My old stomping grounds. I've fished up and down that river. Salmon, steelhead, trout. Good memories, Ray”

He chuckled through his beard, pleased to have mentioned sumpin' that made me smile. Leaning forward in his chair, he continued his tale.

“Took a while, lotsa wrong turns up dirt and gravel roads, but at last I found the girl. Like she said, she was living in this cool old log cabin way up in the woods and there was a stream running past about fifty feet from the door. I could see the fish in the clear, cold water just waiting to be caught. She showed me the hot springs that had been dug out and lined with rocks. perfect for soaking the ache from my motorsickle-weary muscles. The air was crisp and clean smelling. The sun shone down, the girl was beautiful in her little hippie dress and bare feet, smiling an invitation at me. You know what I'm talkin' about…the kinda invitation a real man can't refuse. Wink wink! Man, I was in heaven!”

“And then all her damned hippie friends showed up. A battered old Volkswagen van bumped up the rutted, rocky excuse of a driveway and a bunch of dirty, hairy people climbed out. Are you shittin' me? The damned girl forgot to mention the other weirdoes living there - I thought it was gonna be me and her, naked in the hot springs, running around and effing anywhere we wanna. But no!”

“You hate hippies, doncha Ray?” I laughed.

“Well, let's just say most of 'em ain't worth one hard-working real man. After a couple days of those freaks smokin' dope and running around naked, well I had about had as much as I could take. Ya ever seen a naked, hairy hippie that hasn't showered in a week? It ain't pretty lemme tell ya.”

“I was planning on spending a week or ten days just hangin' out in the Oregon woods, fishing and ballin' the little chickie but I had enough after just a few days. I packed up my junk, kissed the girl, and hit the road for home.”

“Didn't make it too far.” Ray paused to light a coffin nail. With tendrils of smoke playing about his beard he regarded me. I was listening with an expression that told him I was there ridin' next to him. He grinned like a kid.

“I found a bar in a little town just down the road a piece. It was a crazy place fulla my kinda people: lumberjacks in those boots with all the spikes in the soles - I think they call 'em “cork boots” or sumpin' - choker setters and fellers and guys that ran the donkey engines. There was a buncha guys that were building a dam somewhere upstream and then there were the local folks that called this little tavern home. Lotsa money being spent, the whiskey and beer were flowing, I was as happy as a puppy with two dicks to lick.”

I smiled inside thinking about Ray's strange fascination with double-dicked dawgs. Crazy old coot!

“Well I hung out with these good old boys and gals until they closed the bar and threw us all out. We stood in the parking lot for a while passing around a bottle but eventually everyone wandered off and I kickstarted my bike. I was feeling a little frisky so I remember peeling out in the parking lot and slinging gravel as I left. The warm, summer night air felt good as I headed outta the dark little town and turned onto the highway.”

“Ridin' through those mountains at night was friggin' incredible. The road was clean, smooth asphalt - nice and wide - with lotsa banked turns between tree-lined straights. I was lovin' it, rollin' along, slightly drunk and not a care in the world. I was ridin' high, no doubt about it, Mose.”

Old Ray leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard. “It was going great and I was makin' good time back down that hill, headed for Eugene, civilization, and points beyond. I was lookin' forward to a good night's sleep in a clean motel room when I heard that familiar sputter and a half a mile further the Shovel sputtered and coughed again, so I reached down to turn the petcock to the reserve position. No problem, reserve will prob'ly get me to the outskirts of Springfield…I can get gas there.”

“Except for one thing: My stupid drunken ass had turned the petcock to Reserve instead of On and I was really and truly outta gas. The motor died and I pulled in the clutch and let the old girl coast along. Hey! This isn't half bad. besides the rushing sound of the warm night air and the crisp sound of rubber on pavement, it was quiet. I'm rolling along, coasting downhill, at about twenty and not a car on the raod with me. I shut off my lights and just enjoyed the ride.”

“Until I came to an uphill section and I had to get off and push. It wasn't very steep but it seemed to go on forever. It was prob'ly only a mile but I felt like Sisyphus pushing that damnable rock.”

Now lemme tell ya Dear Reader, I was not expecting a Greek mythology reference in the middle of a good motorsickle story. Ray always brings a surprise or two.

“So when I pushed that heavy machine around a corner and saw that the road was downhill, I practically fell on my knees in gratitude. Well…that and sheer exhaustion. I jumped in the saddle and let 'er rip. As it rolled along it gained some speed until I was tearing along at ten or fifteen miles per but after pushing it felt like flying.”

“The stretch of road was different than what I had been on before. I previously had the mountainside on my right and the river visible on the left, but here the road veered away from the river and cut through a stand old tall, old-growth Douglas fir trees. The trees were tall and black and the road ran dead straight through them to emerge in the moonlight about a mile distant. It was kinda strange riding through the blackness between those two hunnerd foot tall trees. They blocked the moonlight completely and it was eerie rolling silently along.”

“At the far end where the asphalt was bright with moonlight i saw a figure standing in the middle of the road. 'What the hell?' I muttered. Why is someone standing in the middle of the highway? Maybe there a broken down car or an accident or sumpin'. As I got closer I realized the person was wearing a heavy coat and I wondered why they needed a coat on a warm summer evening. Hell, mine was rolled up and strapped to the handlebars.”

“Now at this point I should figured sumpin' was up but when I gots a snootful I can be kinda slow. It wasn't 'til I was about a hunnerd and fifty feet away that I finally realized that this ain't a man in a heavy coat…it's a gawddamned bear! And I'm headed straight at him!”

“My mind clicked into overdrive and ran through my options. There weren't many and they didn't seem good. If I stopped the bear would be on me in a flash. If I tried to turn around I wouldn't get very far coasting uphill. Hell if I abandoned the bike and ran I wouldn't stand a chance of beating Mister Bear in a foot race. And if I kept going the way i was it was like hand delivering myself as a late night snack. Aw sheee-it!”

“My drunken fog was receding as fast as the bear was approaching. He looked ten feet tall standing there and he drew himself up even taller as I got closer. Oh God I don't want to end this fine evening with a bear knocking me off my Harley, dragging me into the woods and gnawing on my skull. Puhleeze God, I ain't never asked for much but for the sake of all that is good and holy please save my scroungy ass from that there bear!”

“I couldn't have been more than twenty feet away when my brain spat out the answer. Still coasting I jerked the bike hard to the left and heard that beautiful sloshing sound as forgotten fuel splashed over the tunnel. In a flash I flicked the key on, yanked in the clutch lever and kicked 'er into second gear. I popped that clutch praying like dying sinner. the bear was so close that I could smell him all rank and dirty. I almost laughed when i thought he smelled slightly better than yer average hippie.”

I laughed out loud. Ray shot me a sidelong glance and forged on.

“The bear was reaching for me so I feinted, swerving the bike toward the right. Old Mister bear followed right so I swerved back to the left and popped the clutch. The bear let out a grunting bark and lunged at me paws extended when the Shovel motor caught and roared to life. I could clearly see the claws, long and deadly, swiping through the air just outta reach of my face as I flashed past. With his rank breath in my nostrils I shifted into third and would 'er out. I ran 'er as long as the gas lasted and the bear was far behind. Well…not far enough to keep me from checking the mirror as I coasted almost all the rest of the way to Springfield. I was sure that Mister Bear was hot on my trail, mad as hell and hungry from my flesh.”

“I even woke up in the middle of the night in my motel room absolutely certain that the bear was in the bathroom waiting to eat my heart. I've dreamed about that incident many times over the years. it was a night ride that I will never forget.”

“And now I won't forget it either. That's a helluva a story.”

Ray dug a cig outta the battered pack of Pall Malls and, with hands that trembled the tiniest bit, he stuck it in his piehole. I lit a match and leaned in close, holding the flame as he puffed away. “That was a great story Ray. Thanks”

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Well, Dear Reader, that's alls I got for now. Stay safe and warm, hope ya have good things to smoke and drink and loved ones to share them with. All y'all be good and don't forget…if ya don't fall off, yer not going fast enough!
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Life is short and brutal. Ride free…
14th December 2014 (http://xlforum.net/vbportal/forums/showpost.php?p=5041142)
======================================