Motorcycle ‘Hoods III

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Jim, Terry and I shucked out of our helmets and gloves and entered the Wagon Wheel Café. I would like to say we entered quietly and slipped into our chairs unnoticed. I would like to say that, but I cannot. Men from Mars would have drawn fewer stares. What was so strange about seeing three old men dressed in motorcycle touring/racing garb? Apparently, there was quite a bit about us they considered strange.

As we strode toward a table in the back, I began estimating the crowd’s reaction. I saw three possibilities. One possibility was they might start shooting. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I reminded myself. “Clearly, these civilized folk left their shotguns and rifles outside in their pickup trucks.” An elderly man in a cowboy hat held his fork in mid flight from the plate to his mouth, his head rotating to follow our progress through the café. “They might all get up and run out.” I mused. “Nah. Not unless they go outside to get their shotguns.” The third and most terrible possibility was they were old bikers from back in the day. If so, they would soon be regaling us with adventures and misadventures on their Harley, Indian, or God knows what. I shuddered at the thought.

Eventually, we made it to a table and stacked our gear on the floor. It felt great to sit on something that was not moving. The waitress brought water and took our orders. I did not look at the menu. “I will have the lunch special,” I recited. In this part of the country, the chicken fried steak is always the special. For those in disadvantaged parts of the world, a chicken fried steak is a piece of tenderized meat, probably from a mammal, deep-fried in a coating of seasoned flour and egg. Thick cream gravy, which contains no actual cream, covers the patty. Tradition dictates a lump of mashed potatoes, optionally covered in gravy, alongside the steak. A side of any sort of vegetable matter meets the standards of etiquette for this meal. I got corn on the cob. My colleagues were more concerned with their arteries. They ordered hamburger steaks.

Soon, our lunches arrived hot and fragrant. Ravenous, I dug in.

Truckers have a slang term for roadside eateries serving such unpretentious fare. They call them “Choke and Pukes.”

I struggled not to. My companions chewed tentatively on their hamburger steaks, their eyes darting furtively from side to side. No, there was not a potted plant nearby. We were all stuck. Across the room, another gent smiled toothlessly at me, waving a fork-load of food. “Mm, Mm. Bon Appetite,” he seemed to say. Jim and Terry fixed their gaze on their plates, pushing the food around like children sentenced to eat canned spinach. I ate my lunch. I thought sure I would clip a large tree soon and be spared the aftermath of the burnt lard patty. Over my lifetime, I have eaten hundreds if not thousands of Chicken Fried Steaks. This is the first one I met that was plain bad.  Then, the inevitable happened.

“Them are quick lookin’ bikes you got out there.”

The voice came from a middle-aged man at a nearby table. He was thin and sinewy. His face showed the marks from more than a few troubles. I cringed.

“I had a Harley once. Rode it smack into a tree. When I came to, the doctor said I had broke every bone in my body…”

Jim acknowledged the man and traded a few pleasantries with him. In the next breath, we learned a bus or something had also hit him.

“Okay, pardner, take care of yourself,” said Jim as we fled through the front door. We were hurriedly “suiting-up” when a dozen young women crossed the street and walked directly past us. Sashayed, I think. They were from the local high school and and said they were participating in a fire drill. We looked around, but could not see a school. The girls laughed and continued on their way.

“Can’t be too careful when it comes to a fire drill,” I thought.

We left town by a different road, headed toward Gatesville, a little north and west of Waco. Naturally, Jim found roads that were all curves to take us there. I was beginning to tire. My “Will to Live” meter was on the last quarter tank when we arrived in Gatesville. Then I noticed my fuel gauge was also in distress. Always thoughtful, and equally low on fuel, Jim guided the gang to a station where we filled our tanks and stretched our legs. I was still pumping gas when a car pulled up to the pump next to me. I looked up and saw a young woman driving the car. She seemed to be looking my way and I smiled reflexively. To my surprise, she returned my smile.

“That’s different,” I thought. “They usually call the police.”

I finished squirting gas and closed the fill cap. I walked over to Jim, who was standing on the other side of the pump.

The derelict school stood alone beneath gloomy skies.

“Psst. Jim. That cute young woman in the car smiled at me,” I boasted in a stage whisper.

Jim glanced at the woman filling her tank and back to me.

“Quick, put your helmet back on before she gets a good look,” he offered supportively.

“Thanks. I’ll do that,” I said, grateful.

In a few minutes, we were back on the road. It began to rain. Did I mention I hate rain when I am riding a motorcycle? No? Well, I do. Visions of zipping off the slick pavement to an awkward landing in the weeds tormented me. I felt tense and old. I slowed down. The gang disappeared around a curve ahead of me. They were out of sight. All I could do was plod along until the rain ceased. Then I caught up.

We eventually connected with Texas 22 and rode on to Hillsboro. There, as the sun sank low in the west, U.S. 77 welcomed us back. In half an hour, we were in Waxahachie. I stopped at Jim’s place long enough to get some parts for my spiffy new m/c trunk installed then headed home.

It seemed as if I arrived home an instant after leaving Jim’s house. It was night. “Hm. I must have been conscious, right?” No matter. I was home and utterly spent.

Sure, I would pay for it tomorrow. It was still the best ride in the ‘hood I ever had.

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