Soundtrack to The Road

“Keys are on the rack by the door,” I tell the Ex. “Thanks for letting me borrow your truck.”

“No problem,” she waves me off. “No way you could bring KatyBeth with you on your bike. When will you get your truck back?”

“Should be painted by next week, so I’ll ride my bike until then. Speaking of, where is my bike?”

“Husband In Law took it down the street to Sheriff Deputy’s garage. We were getting hail warnings.”

“Ahhh. Well, tell him I said thanks.”

“So, how was your conference?” she asks, handing me a bowl of potato salad and a very full pot of baked beans. “How did they like your talks?”

“They laughed, they cried, they applauded. Women threw their panties at me. The usual,” I shrug. “You want to tell me what I’m supposed to do with these?”

“We’re taking them down the street to Sheriff Deputy’s,” she orders. “We’ve got brats, barbecued brisket and burgers. You’re invited, of course.”

“I’m really in a hurry…” I tell her retreating back as I dutifully follow her out the door, taking care not to spill the beans. She doesn’t give any sign of listening.

“So they threw their panties at you, huh?” she snorts. “And where was my daughter during all of this?”

“For the first lecture, sitting in the hotel room watching Enchanted. She sat through the second lecture like a big girl.”

“Like a big girl, huh?” she raises one eyebrow skeptically. “She didn’t interrupt you at all?”

“She promised to sit quietly,” I admitted, “but couldn’t quite make the whole hour.”

“Uh huh,” she nods knowingly. “How long did she last?”

“Fifteen minutes,” I chuckle. “She was sleepy, and fighting it. Wound up crawling in the Laerdal vendor’s lap and falling asleep.”

“The blonde chick with the huge fake boobs?”

“That’s the one,” I confirm with a leer. “They’re still spectacular. The room was cold, too.”

“You should have known she couldn’t sit still for that long,” she chides. “She’s five years old, dummy.”

“She had a good time, and no one complained,” I tell her firmly. “In fact, she got me a few good laughs. She has her Daddy’s sense of humor.”

“But she interrupted your lecture!”

“Only once,” I correct. “And everyone thought she was adorable. I’m thinking about bringing her to more conferences, actually. Maybe use her to play the sensitive Dad angle,” I wink. “Miss Laerdal Big Boobs seemed to think highly of me.”

“That’s because she doesn’t know you yet,” the Ex rolls her eyes, “and because she’s never followed you into the bathroom.”

“Dude,” the Husband In Law greets me as we walk into Sheriff Deputy’s back yard. “the bike rides sweet. Needs louder pipes, though.”

“You didn’t drop my bike, did you?” I ask darkly. “You know, I can forgive you for stealing my wife, but dropping my bike…dude, that would have me stalking you with my deer rifle and shopping for wood chippers again.”

“Lalalalala I can’t heeear yoouu…” chants Sheriff Deputy from amidst a cloud of hickory smoke emanating from the grill.

“Sorry,” I apologize with a grin. “How about ‘would have rendered me disconsolate and depressed, absent any thoughts whatsoever of violent reprisal’ instead? That work better for you, Mister Officer of The Law?”

“Much better,” SD coughs. “Sit down and grab a beer. Want a brat?”

“I really have to get going,” I apologize. “I want to get on the road before dark.”

“There’s rain in the forecast, with possibility of more hail, “the Ex points out worriedly. “You could stay here until it passes, have some barbecue…”

“Most of the weather is east of us now, and I’m heading west. I’d like to get there before midnight.”

“You’re going to get wet,” she warns.

“I’ve got rain gear,” I shrug.

**********

Backpack, stuffed with three days worth of clothes, shaving kit, a pair of sandals and my laptop – my only concession to responsibilities – strapped on the bike.

Saddlebags stuffed with my rain gear, and a few snacks. I may be on the road long after restaurants have closed, and you never know where I might find a scenic overlook and the opportunity to enjoy the view and a few bites of beef jerky.

Gloves on my hands, armored riding jacket zipped up, and MP3 player strapped to my wrist.

On second thought, I put the waterproof liner inside my riding jacket, and don my rain pants. Wouldn’t do to get wet only five minutes into a five hour trip.

I roll onto the highway just around the corner from the Ex’s house, toss a wave to the guys working at the fire station, and point my front tire west. The wind is cool for a change, and mist from the recent rain is rising from the road. The setting sun peeks out occasionally from behind the clouds, the western sky shot through with shafts of warm yellow light. I am literally riding my horse off into the sunset.

My MP3 player is playing Sister Hazel’s Change Your Mind. It seems fitting, somehow.

**********

Just east of Jasper, TX, a huge thunder cell looms ominously. It towers in the dusk, the entire storm front strobing with jagged streaks of lightning, like a vast Tesla coil dominating the western sky, or as Football Fullback puts it, “God taking flash photography of his creation.”

I’m riding straight towards it, and my heart quickens a little at the prospect. In my ear buds, Phil Collins is playing In The Air Tonight.

**********

An hour later, I’m on a lonely stretch of rural highway east of Lufkin. The road bends north a bit, and the thunder cell is still there, albeit shifted off to my left. My rain gear off and safely stowed in the saddle bags, the lower legs of my jeans quickly drying in the breeze, and with the highway virtually to myself, I find myself alone with my thoughts, for the first time in weeks. The roads here are dry, the dusty smell of impending rain lost somewhere over my left shoulder. Turn my head to the left, and I can still see God showing off His personal light show. Turn slightly to the right, and a blanket of stars shine like pinholes in the curtain of night. The road signs show curves ahead, and I twist the throttle, just a little.

The Suzuki V-twin chuckles throatily under me, as if to say, “You want more? All you have to do is ask…”

And ask I do, rolling open the throttle and leaning hard. The bike bellows beneath me, the Bridgestones bite the road, and I’m roaring west, barely sparing the chrome on the end of my footpegs. Midnight Rider is playing on the MP3 player.

And my grin meets in the back.

**********

Just south of Athens, the bike hiccups and dies. I coast to the side of the road, check the trip meter and discover that I’ve gone 120 miles since the last fill-up. That’s close to forty miles per gallon, but the Intruder has a little tank. I’ll use up most of my reserve getting to Athens to fill up.

Oh well, if I have to hike, it’s a nice night for it. The Proclaimers’ I Would Walk 500 Miles is ringing in my ears right now.

I hope it won’t be that far.

**********

It’s a sanctuary weekend spent in Texas, a welcome respite from job and personal pressures, deadlines and commitments. There’s a brother in Dallas I haven’t seen in a while, and once again, the phone call fails to catch him at home. No surprise there; we’ve missed each other repeatedly for the past twenty years, ever since I became a man with my own goals and dreams, and not the kid brother he practicall
y raised.

Still, there is always that pang of regret that we don’t see each other more often. I miss my brother. I miss hearing a voice much like my own, miss sharing a sense of humor akin to my own.

I quell that regret in the company of friends old and new. We sit around on a lakeside patio and eat everything I shouldn’t, drink more beer than is good for me, play penny poker as if every chip is worth ten grand, and stay up far later than my forty year old body will tolerate.

And I feel not one iota of guilt over it. It’s a good tired, not the drained, empty feeling that has consumed me of late. I spend time in the charming company of the woman who invited me, a fellow blogger I’ve talked to for months, but never formally met. All her friends assume we’re a couple, but we both chuckle and do nothing to disabuse them of the notion. Why ruin their fun?

On Saturday, we go out to a local bar in the aptly named Gun Barrel City, and I watch the daughters of one of my new friends absolutely butcher Shania Twain on the karaoke machine. I think it was Man, I Feel Like a Woman, but I couldn’t be sure of the lyrics among the atonal caterwauling and teenaged giggles.

But we all scream like fans at a rock concert anyway. The beer helps.

I spend time people watching. There’s the guy who looks like he just climbed off the oil derrick, right down to the pants so dirty that they shine. Not only does he play a mean air guitar, but apparently he also knows a few chords. He bangs his head like Angus Young, and he climbs waaaaay up the imaginary frets, really shredding his nebulous Stratocaster. He’s a virtuoso of the virtual guitar, that one, and it doesn’t even matter that his singing sounds like someone sodomizing a coyote with a hot poker, if the coyote knew the lyrics to Jukebox Hero.

Still, he’s just damned fun to watch. Of course, the beer helps.

There’s the thin guy with a cigarette dangling from his lips, and a spare tucked behind one ear, with the rest of the pack rolled artfully in one sleeve. Apparently, he believes in redundancy when comes to adequate supplies of Marlboros. He’s sporting his Sattiday go to courtin’ ensemble; the pressed Wranglers and clean white tee shirt, his best pair of shitkickers, and the Larry Mahan Limited Edition Faux Rodeo Champ ™ belt buckle, and I swear the waitress delivered our last round of beers on that very same buckle…

…but I could be mistaken. But at the least, he’s amusing, showing off his pelvic thrust and no doubt regaling some of the trailer park lovelies he’s hustling with the tale of how he supposedly won that buckle…

…and it looks like he’s making some headway. A couple are nibbling at the bait. Amazing what a smooth line and a few well-executed dance moves can do, even to the extent of making them overlook the meth mouth.

When he leads one of them out to the dance floor and proceeds to Ride That Donkey, I am briefly tempted to saunter out there and show him how it should be done. I hold back, though. He’s got more moves than I, and he just showed off The Sprinkler.

Give it time, though. A few more Coronas, and my Funky Quotient will increase exponentially. The beer definitely helps.

Then there’s the charming blogger with the classically trained, operatic voice, who sings You Ain’t Woman Enough To Take My Man like Loretta Lynn only wishes she could have done it. By way of honoring our cheers, she shakes her ta tas at the adoring crowd.

We only cheer louder. The beer helps.

Sunday, after promises to come again, I point the bike back east and head for home. I can’t believe I actually miss sitting in front of our station and watching the crack deals go down. My partner and I have a running contest to see how long each hooker with spend with a particular john. She wins most of the time.

Then again, she’s been here a year. I’ve been here a month. Give me that long, and I may even be able to predict exactly what the guy paid for, based on how soon he drops her off back at the crack house.

The sun is hot in the sky when I leave, but it only promises to get cooler, and the mesh riding jacket feels like nothing at highway speeds. Besides, a little sweat never hurt me. The characteristic guitar riffs of Carlos Santana wail in my ears as I’m Winning plays in my ear buds. I wonder as I ride, who sang the lyrics to that one? If Carlos actually sang, he’d probably sound a lot like Oil Derrick Guy.

Just outside of Jacksonville, I pass a group of guys on Harleys and one odd duck among them riding a sport bike. In almost perfect synchronization, they drop their left hands as they pass, held low alongside the bike. It’s a gesture of greeting and solidarity I’m getting used to, the fraternity handshake of riders everywhere, I suppose. I grin and return the salute.

Three miles later, two older men on touring bikes, their wives perched behind them, pull out of a convenience store parking lot and fall in behind me. They follow me all the way through Lufkin, matching my every turn. Uncle Kracker is playing Follow Me, and I wonder where they’re headed.

Apparently not the same place I am, however, because they veer off in the small town of Zavalla, tossing me a friendly wave as our paths diverge. The woman on the back of the Honda blows me a kiss. It was nice having them along for a while.

Just south of DeRidder, LA, I find my Muse standing on the shoulder of the road, thumb out, hitching a ride. She’s barefoot and sun-browned, and her dark hair is windblown and tousled. One hip is thrust out provocatively, and she gives me a knowing smile as I pull over. She climbs aboard the bike behind me and wraps her arms around my waist. She offers no explanation for where the hell she has been, not that I expect one. But she buries her head into my back, and I can feel her warm against me, murmuring inspiration like she always does. I’d like to tell you Elton John was playing The Bitch is Back, but that would be a lie.

What was playing was Angel Eyes, by Jeff Healy. Fitting enough, I suppose.

Thirty miles from the house, the weather turns suddenly for the worse, and unexpected raindrops spatter the windshield. Soon, the rain is coming down in buckets, and I am thoroughly drenched. The rain is cold, making me shiver in the wind, but behind me my Muse is cackling gleefully, face upturned and trying to catch raindrops on her tongue. I relax and enjoy the ride, what little of it there is left. The song playing is the most fitting of all; Craig Morgan’s Almost Home.

And so I am, in more ways than one.

I’m back.