Still havent finished it. Lets see how the ol' blog handles a looong bit of text, shall we?
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The Run
Part 1: The Contract
I was in the zone. That special place where everything gels. Some call it Nirvana, some call it meditation. For me, I need it like others need sleep. I was cleaning up the heads on my BMW Kompressor race bike. I had stripped the heads to bare castings and was in the process of cleaning them up. and a little port clean up while I was at it. It was if I watched another’s hands at work as my carbon and aluminum grimed fingers worked over the intake port. I was deep inside myself, comfortable, relaxed. Tom Waits told me about the Gun Street Girl as I picked up the Foredom bit and kicked the pedal to remove just another chunk of carbon from the intake.
That's when the cloned cell on my bench started bleating "Brave Scotland". I set down the bit and picked up the phone. I never answer, just pick up.
It was Ricky. He was worked into a frenzy. Which is about two degrees from his normal state. He absolutely could not sit still. and that included his mouth.
"Hey man it is done! this fucker is the SHIT man! I have added the best stealth shit. And I have solved the problem with the night vis-"
I heard a click. Then a new voice. Dave.
"Sorry about that mahn. You know how he gets when that wild hair gets him. He got to the phone before I could stop him. By the way, we got a gig, mahn."
"Yeah?"
"Yah. It's on the board. You coming in?"
"Yeah"
I killed the cel. I thought about ditching it, but figured that short call wouldn’t be noticed by whatever fat cat or SUV bimbo it was cloned from.
I covered the beemer head with an oily rag, cleaned my hands and went out to the other half of the garage. The place was an old gas station I rented from an old man who now lived in Florida. The deal was; he got some green, I got a cheap rent and the station stayed looking like it did when he retired. Sentimental old fart. Inside I could do what I wanted. I had converted one bay to a shop, put up a wall and the rest of the place was living quarters and parking.
I stripped off the coveralls and pulled on the leather jacket and over pants. I paused at the keyboard and looked outside. Rain. As usual. So I grabbed the set for the MuZ Black Panther.
The Panther thumped quietly to itself as I opened the garage door. Quiet. Calm. Ready for the its job.
I set the security, kicked the bike into gear and rumbled out onto the street. I had to navigate several blocks of run down light industrial district. The landscape looking bombed out, cancerous. Slowly rusting into the swamps and landfill the area was built on. One time the home to hundreds of machine shops, foundries and small factories. Thousands of people came here every day to get one day closer to retirement. Now the place was owned by rats. Both kinds.
The rain beat a hard jazz rhythm on my helmet as I headed up onto the cracked and slowly dying split-level highway. the citizens keep wringing their hands over what to do with it. it's too unsafe. But when it comes time to chip in for the work, they turn away. I gave up on the greater good long ago. If the thing collapses, I'll make sure I'm somewhere else.
The panther and I hiss through the traffic to Moray's warehouse. The traffic is light so I don’t push it. Just slipping from blind spot to blind spot. Like a shark gliding through the shallows. Many of the weak-end warrior bike riders make their bikes loud as possible. "Saves Lives" they say. I don’t know, maybe it does. Others want to be as bright as possible. Bright orange vests, flashing headlights, three and four taillights and reflective stickers. Maybe that helps too. Maybe. But aren’t targets bright so you can see them? and the only time prey makes noise is when it mates. I go as quiet and invisible as possible. Cars and trucks are bigger and the idiots behind the wheel are asleep. Like tranquilized elephants. they have no idea what they are doing. The courts of physical law have no appeals process. So I hide. I ride in the blind spot. I slip in and out. Never in the same spot for too long. Like the highway, I make sure I'm not around when the bad things happen.
Morays warehouse is in one of the light industry parks that sprung up like mushrooms a few years ago. everything is plain and cheap. Like blobs of mustard on a row of Mcburgers. His place, his way. That it was within a couple hundred yards of the major cel hub and a couple major corporate data centers has nothing at all to do with it.
As I pull up Ricky has the side door open and is waiting for me. I can see his hopping around like a kid who has to pee even through the rain-wet visor.
"Oh man o man o man. This thing is the shit. you gotta see this"
he was practically dragging me back to his shop. His wiry body hums with nervous energy like a bare high power cable. His bald head bobs and weaves like it is trying to lead you through a song.
I shrug him off "relax. business first."
I swear to god, he actually starts to pout.
"Say Ricky, do you know what the valve angles are on a '39 BMW 500 compressor are?"
that stops him. the only time he stands still is when he either listens to a motor or dredges his memory for a fact. He stares into the middle distance between us mumbling to himself
"ummm....no...that's for a '38 standard aspirated motor....No I don't. Lemme go find out" as he heads for the shop at a dead run.
Upstairs in the loft is Moray's place. Back in the days before the dot bomb went off, nearly every magazine had some picture of some whiz kid new millionaire standing in the middle of a room packed with racks of computers running some web site or other.
Moray's place is where those data centers went after the bomb. At least it seems that way. But Moray is a neat freak. the opposite of the Hollywood hacker kid. no pizza boxes. no jolt. nothing. sterile.
Moray doesn’t even look up from the screen he is on. "don’t you come in here and muddy up my place mahn. you stay over there."
He kicks a wheel chair over to me. A while ago, after a close call, Moray brought that in. Said he was saving it for me when I finally fuck up one too many times.
"Got a good one" he says as he keeps typing. He does that and he knows I hate it. He can carry on a conversation and be doing what looks like a hundred different things on that machine without missing a beat. He says it makes me crazy because I can’t do it. But no one is better than he is with information. If it is out there, he can get it, control it, change it, add to it.
"We got a referred client. But he's a newbie, so you have to be patient with him. "
I sigh
"But it is an easy go, Mahn. The package is paper, easy stash. And it's only going to Benny in SLC. I set the pickup at the station midnight"
"you put that shit on the board? you were careful right?"
Moray actually looks at me. The look says it all. Of course he was careful and no he did not put it on the board. He's smart, I'm a paranoid dumbass.
"right. I better go see what the hell Ricky wants before he pisses himself."
Back to
Part 2: Gear
As I step into Ricky's shop, I am struck, as I always am by the contrast between the two and their habitats. As languid and relaxed as Moray is, Ricky is wired tight. Moray is a neat freak. Ricky lives in a maelstrom of chaos. tools, parts, rags, manuals are scattered everywhere. there cant be more than two square inches of clear space on anything. The only space clear is the floor itself. In the corner are a battered microfiche reader and a stained computer monitor and keyboard. And all over every available surface, vertical and horizontal are post-it notes. like a pastel vision of New England in the fall, the post-its color everything. They are scrawled with the most arcane bits of data: ".0015 - .0020" no note as to what that is for, or if it is even metric or SAE. But considering Ricky's encyclopedic knowledge of two-wheeled transport past and present, I'm not surprised it tends to overflow his brain and leak out onto the shop surfaces. And humming through it all like a human tuning fork is Ricky. But what catches my eye is not the familiar mess or Ricky's wasted energy. it is the bike.
I stop mid step and gape. Then I can only continue to stare in dumbstruck awe as I slowly circle the beast on the lift three feet off the ground. From that angle the thing is vast. Huge. Monolithic. Intimidating. Gorgeous.
As I am completing my second lap I see Ricky grinning so wide I can damn near see his wisdom teeth.
"Holy mother of god what is that thing?"
"You never seen a BMW R1150GS Before?"
"Well yeah..but this..."
"You don't like it?" His face collapses like a car fender under a tank tread.
"Its....it's...amazing"
"you like it? you really do?"
"yeah. I like it"
Ricky lets out a whoop and in the same breath launches into a rundown of specs, features and other raw data so fast it comes out as a high pitched squeal. I quickly tune him out to avoid being driven from the shop and slowly circle the beast again. And beast it is.
To anyone just glancing at it, it looks completely normal. But there is some overall sense of menace and purpose built into the bike. That's part of Ricky's magic. he infuses them with soul.
The stock paint is now a dark ink flat black. None of the gray you normally see. The trademark beak is now longer, wider and thicker and has some odd l.e.d .looking items embedded in it. . the tank was obviously a ten gallon job, but it hung very low and wide. the top of the tank has some sort of hatch toward the back and the fuel filler was at the front and highest point of the tank. the seat is stripped to a single solo seat mode. finished in a black rough grain leather. there were extra fittings on the heads. the whole motor and transmission is blacked out. the whole bike is inky jet black. the exhaust is gone. vanished. until I notice the odd looking vents at the bottom of the rear fender. all around the bike in spots are those odd led jewels. the crash bars caress the bile like a solid steel cobweb and it is decorated with no less than 2 sets of off road lights; fog and projector. all four covered with some sort of dark film. The panniers are of no make I have ever seen. the tires have no brand name and both wheels have a single thicker spoke. The bars are wide and high with brush guards that are aerodynamic, yet look like weapons. the whole fairing has been subtly reshaped into a more aerodynamic design and the windscreen is almost sportbikish and also, of course, black. the gauges and all the normal stuff that would be there are totally gone. just a set of LCD panels, some switches and other items that are lost on me. Then I notice the handle bar controls have about 3 times as many switches as normal. the whole bike looks refined. next generation. But somehow not obviously so.
About then Ricky is winding down and we are synching back up.
"The motor was blueprinted. Wanted to keep the reliability with whatever gains we could get there. Turns out this was a friday-monday build. Got about fifteen percent increases across the board. The heads were ported, but not polished. the FI map is custom written with some extra code in there for fun.
"Where's the muffler?"
Ricky cackled "The whole back end is the muffler. the exhaust exits in these louvers under the fender. heat signature dropped by fifty percent. and noise level is so low the valves are louder. The tires are um, acquired from a certain company’s R&D. The first "run flats" for a bike a-a-nd they are dual sport tires to boot. But I added my own trick. Stolen from a humvee. that extra spoke? air. you can adjust the tire pressure on the go. Ditto the suspension. The tank holds 9.5 gallons of gas. but filled up that makes it a heavy sumbitch. so I kept it as low a possible and used newer, smaller fuel pumps to lighten the load. The lighting is top shelf too. the projectors are damn near enough to start a brush fire at 100 yards. both those and the fogs are adjustable from the right handlebar. this little pencil eraser looking thing here."
"What’s with the LEDs?"
"Not LEDs Amigo. those are the sensors for the onboard radar detector. catches all the bands plus laser. LCD on the dash is the backup system that hollers and points where it is coming from. And the extra doodads on the handlebars are things like seat adjust, windscreen adjust, push button shifting, GPS, cell, etc."
"Shifting? I see the levers..."
"Those still work. but the button shift is faster and you can keep planted or if you are injured or something. But here is the best part" Ricky dashed over to a nearby bench stacked with unidentifiable bike bowels and came trotting back with a helmet painted to match the bike.
"This is the best thing I have done yet. this helmet is the key to the bike. "
"uh huh"
"No really, it is the key to the bike. See how the face shield is slightly tinted but not enough to actually be of any use against glare? that’s the coating for the heads up display"
"you are shitting me"
"No way man! this is the shit! here put it on. now you take the cord out of the dash behind this rubber cap and plug it into the helmet. now put your thumb on the right LCD..."
All of a sudden the helmet seems larger inside, like the dash of a car. trick of the eyes, I guess. But Ricky was not shitting me. there at the peripheral of my vision, clear as I could want, was more info, than I ever wanted. Tach, oil, speed, voltage, cell signal (cell signal?) temp, air pressure, everything.
" The LCDs on the panel replace the info in the hat if they become separated. but no way anyone is starting the bike without your thumbprint."
"Then I can think of at least one way it can get taken"
"Better hope you don't lose your keys, hey man? Oh and the helmet has mounts so you can stick night vision gear on the chin bar and forehead. And here the final touches....the bike is painted with the most absorbent shit I could find. should slip anything but laser, and laser wont have an easy time. the covers on the headlights are the same idea and the bike has been rebuilt from the ground up to fit you. your riding style, everything."
I took the helmet off as Ricky brought the bike down on the lift. I swung a leg over. He was right. sitting on the bike whether flat foot on the ground or foot on the pegs was like putting on a favorite pair of blue jeans. A very very strange sensation in a new bike.
As I swing off the bike, "Ricky this is the most astounding piece of James Bondery I have ever seen inflicted on a perfectly good motorcycle. This is the shit. "
I grab him by the cheeks and kiss him squarely on the top of his shaven head.
"My friend you are an amazing little freak. this run is going to be a fucking blast"
Back to
Part 3: The Client
Moray calls me upstairs.
"Client wants to know where to hand of the package. Thought you like to see the message, mahn."
From: The Crew
To: Delivery Services
We need to hand off the goods to your courier. We remind you of the need for utmost discresion. We also remind you of the necessity that the delivery takes place within the next three days. If you cannot adhere to these needs notify us immediately. If you undertake this and do not adhere then we will be most displeased.
The Crew
I sigh. "Fuck. noobs."
"Yah mahn. shall we send them off?"
"Nah. Stiff them good for the cost. And tell them to meet at Hombres. Macho assholes need to go there once in a while."
Moray laughs. A deep rumble like a dump truck digesting its transmission
"I'll tell them. midnight. nice cloak and dagger time eh? And I'll call Turk."
I gave him a thumb.
"they shipping paper or hard goods?"
"I understand it to be paper."
I tell Ricky to have the beemer ready, where to have it and then head back out into the rain to ride for my garage. I have a couple hours before the meet and need to look over the route and prep.
In the garage I cue up 'Who's Next', 'Exile on Main Street' and 'Love Over Gold' . Knopfler is just ringing out the first notes of 'Once Upon a Time in the West' as I sit down in the easy chair, pick up the laptop and run up the route planner that Moray had sent.
As the stones slide into 'Midnight Rambler I sit back and drift with the music. This client is going to be a pain in the ass. the new ones always are. That amateur threat spells it out. Me and mine do one thing. move packages. When it positively has to get there, we kick FedEx’s ass. And we don’t work on timetables. When we carry, it will get there. a contract with us is like AIDS, it may take a while but it will happen. not even Vegas makes odds against us. Well Vegas makes odds on anything. Against us the odds are really fucking long. We move things. small things. stuff that can't be moved over the net or through legal companies. The feds are getting too good at finding things sent through those companies and since 9/11 every one of them is too happy to let the suits snoop every package, if they want. Not drugs or cash. Cash isn't cost effective. Drugs, not only are not cost effective, but we don't move that stuff. They have mules for that. We move stuff that is too risky and critical for a mule. Say a group finds they have their net connect tapped. They send out false info, and we move the real info. Or a crew rips off some stones and the water is too hot for them to move them. We do it for them. Once, we moved biologicals for a biotech company. Seems industrial espionage is a growth industry.
But not drugs. With one exception. After I had to find black market pharmaceuticals for a friend who was dying, painfully, from cancer, I learned a lot. The docs wouldn't give him more than a bare minimum of pain meds because he might get addicted. As if that was the more of a concern than his body killing him slowly and painfully. I sat there looking at his ghostly gray face, lines of dull pain etched in his face as he told me.
"You want to try it? Tell you what, my friend, here’s how you do it. Take that dull butter knife from that dinner tray. Now cut your leg off at the thigh. but not all at once. an inch a day. just an inch a day. I would scream but I'm too fucking tired."
I found these people out there. a network. they steal, buy or whatever pain meds. and in some cases street drugs. Oxycodone, morphine, heroine, codeine anything they can get their hands on. And they get them to these people. People that we sentence to suffer agonies we once hung Nazis for.
Just say no.
right.
I shake off the depressing memories and gather my gear.
Of course I had the helmet that Ricky kludged up for me. I also had the one-piece suit I had made. This company out in Minnesota makes them. They are the hot ticket with the long distance riders. Which is what I am so I took a look. It's a one-piece suit that zips from ankle to neck like a flight suit. heavy textile fabric with armor and padding at common impact points. Guys have taken slides on asphalt at triple digit speeds and walked away. the suit is rags afterwards, but they are okay. and that is okay with me. It has pockets everywhere, but I don’t like having junk that can impale me in the pockets so I go light. insulated and warm, but it also has vents in strategic places that can be opened to let air pass and cool me off. I carry a gallon of water in a pouch on my back that I can drink though a tube over my shoulder and a piss tube sewn in one leg. I never use that. I hate that. but you never know. Closed up and wearing bicycling shorts and a t-shirt underneath I'm good to about 40 degrees. more than that and I have to add layers. I got mine in dark gray and removed the reflective tape. Stealth you know.
The boots were made by a cobbler in a dingy dark shop just up the road. he used to make the best logging boots around. Logging kind of dried up and his biz did too. But he makes do. I took him a set of motocross boots and he made a duplicate in black leather. And he worked his special magic to make the completely water proof. Nothing pisses off a 230-pound logger like wet feet.
I slipped on the elk skin and Kevlar thick gloves and hit the street.
It was still raining. Go figure. Around here there is only three weather types. About to rain, rain and just letting up. Natives here have a dozen terms for rain. but only one for every other weather. 'not raining'.
The Black Panther doesn’t mind one bit. the 660 cc single cylinder 'thumper' motor pounds out more torque than horsepower. not real fast on the top end, but it digs in to the road like a tractor. Its the only mass produced 'motard' on the market. That is, it is a dirt bike with street wheels. Long suspension for sucking up the potholes that breed like rats around here. I went away from complete street tires though, I use a dual-purpose tire. Less grip on the street but better able to climb through a vacant lot or up a set of stairs if I have to.
The Panther slices through the late night drunktraffic like a scalpel through a coroner's guest. In minutes I have gone to the switching yard near Hombres.
Hombres is a perfect location for a meet. the back door opens out onto an empty lot, which abuts the train rail bed. The switching yard sits in a small alley with neighborhoods climbing the hills rich on one side, more rich on the other. The yups constantly whine about the noise the trains make, forgetting entirely that the yard was there long before they were someone’s acid flashback love-in orgasm. The far end of the yard slides into the docks where the fishing fleet is located. Another industry gasping its last breath. Dotted around the yard are more industrial shops that are dying with the fleet.
I circle the bar once to give it the once over. When meeting, pick the spot. If you cant pick the spot, arrive early. Out front was the usual line of bikes. not as many on a rainy night, about a half dozen Harleys and clones. One lone Moto Guzzi SP sits out front. Workhorse. no flashy graphics. suitcase bags. big windshield and a neutral ride stance. made for putting down miles and ignoring the weather.
I spot the monster Ford Expedition with the big mud tires parked just a few yards from the door. that must be theirs.
I swing the Panther around the back of the bar and next to a dumpster. The barback who does double duty as a cook is leaning against the door, smoking.
I climb off the panther and nod to Louis.
"Hey Louis. Tell Turk I'm here?"
He nods, takes a last drag and tosses the butt. Shiny knife fighter scars on his forearm catch the light from the streetlamp.
"Hey bro!" Turk looms in the doorway of his bar. He has damn near a foot on me length wise and just about has to go through doors sideways. I go to shake his hand and he crushes me in a bear hug.
"Been too long man. Say, those guys you are meeting are a pain in the ass. 'phobes. they glare at folks and don’t tip for shit. I think the big one is gonna jump right out of his skin. He got nasty with Billy and some words went on, but the other guy chilled him out. What did you bring them here for?"
"Because they are pains in the ass. Should take just a minute or two. but you stay close in case they do jump funny."
"no sweat"
As I step into the smoky bar and walk down the short hallway past the kitchen and bathrooms I can almost sense them. Definitely hostile on both sides. They aren’t welcome and they don’t want to be welcomed.
Hombres is a gay bar. But not the disco thumping, screaming queen stereotype gay bar. Turks place was a blue collar, smoky, dark, watching the game kind of bar. The food is good and cheap. The drinks are not stingy. The customers may be gay, but they are guys. It was easy to mistake it for any other beer and shot joint, and sometimes people do. No one puts up a sign that says 'Gay Bar' right? Usually a guy would wander in, catch on, finish his beer and leave. Once in a while someone would get stupid and he would get tossed. But the cops never come in, some are customers and others don’t want to go in, thinking it might be contagious or something.
SO for me it is perfect. Quiet, strangers stick out, no cops, dark and my clients didn’t hang around. Business done and disappear.
I spot them at the corner booth. At least they got that right. Two men. The older guy dressed in high dollar thread. hint of gold on his wrist. Magazine perfect. A victim looking for a mugger. The bigger one looks like trouble. He is jumpy. All weight room muscle. Iron junky. probably 'roids. And a no-shit Brian Bosworth mullet.
As I roll up the beefcake stands up, crossed his arms and flexes his biceps. amateur. he meets me a few feet from the table.
"open your jacket"
I turn around and start for the door.
"Wait." it's the older guy.
"Damien. sit. check him at the table."
Damien? right.
Damien sits at the table and I slide in next to him. amateur. He gives me a pat down that would have made Barney Fife laugh.
Turk comes over and sets a drink in front of me "Stoli on the rocks, right love?" Damien squirms next to me. fucker. he enjoyed that. He's going to give me a rep. I sip the drink. The "vodka" is water.
The old guy is smart enough to wait for Turk to leave before he starts in
"We must discuss your fee. I thought we had an agreed price..."
I stopped him
"This isn’t an Arabian bazaar. the price stands. and no time table. it gets there when it gets there. "
"Why was it changed? And we also need some assurances..."
"Because I don't like being insulted. And questioning my rep is an insult. I don’t do advertising. I don't take out billboards. I ain't in the fucking yellow pages. my rep is the only assurance you need."
"There are other services. A Mister Smith has offered...."
"Then go with them. Smitty has dropped one package this year already. Yours gonna be the second?"
I wait.
"Very well. Here is..."
As he reaches under the table I stop him.
"Not here." moron. "take it to the can leave it in the stall. then go out the front door. and I'm adding another 20 per cent for letting Smitty know we are moving stuff for you. Risk increase. "
I could see I had just about pushed too far. His mouth thinned to a slit and his jaw worked. He was not used to this kind of treatment.
without a word he gets up and I let Damien out. Damien shoulders me as he gets out and mutters "goddam faggots". I wasn’t biting. Another time.
Old Guy stops at the can and they both leave, Damien glaring at everyone.
I sigh.
"Jesus what a couple of assholes" says Turk as he drops into the booth across from me.
"Yeah. fucking amateur hour."
"You stick them good?"
"Bled every dime I could. I have a feeling I should have walked."
As I step out of the back door, Louis smoking again and he hands me the package. I slip it into the tank bag and fire up the Panther. I head through the vacant lot and down to the rail yard, turning down the tracks. The panther eats up the uneven roadbed. no sweat. within itself. working.
I feel the hair crawl on the backs of my arms and the slight nausea of adrenaline unspent. I hate meetings. I love rides.
Back to
Part 4: The Mountain
The rain still doing its job. Now lightening to a mist that was two parts fog ,one part rain. The bone deadening cold mist cocktail that is the normal weather nine months a year here. I pull the Panther up behind the gray panel van behind the warehouse just off the rail yard. The van flashes the taillights twice. All clear. Ricky hops out and waves to me. He swings the doors open as I climb off the thumper. Together, we roll the beast out of the van and put the panther inside.
I wheel the beast under the awning on the loading dock. Ricky is all business. He's wired tight, gets excited, some times runs his mouth. But he knows the business and his job and does it. I take the package and slip it into the slit in the back of the seat. A velcroed flap covers the opening looking exactly like a seam in the leather. I give the bike my thumb print and fire it up. The motor is barely audible. Ricky is right, the cams are all that you can hear. The exhaust from the vents plumes white breath and sounds like an executioners whisper.
Ricky is on all fours crawling around the bike like a demented rat, one ear cocked at the bike. He stands up, grinning.
“All set Amigo. Be easy on my baby!”
“No sweat, freak.”
I swing over the bike and rock it off the center stand. I boot it into gear and ride it down the ramp and off in the night.
As I work my way through the streets, getting the feel for the beast, I am amazed at the comfort of the bike. Now I don't regret all the measurements and photos Ricky wanted.
I circle my way through the neighborhoods and head for the freeway. The bike is planted like concrete shoes. I can actually hear the water under the tires. I make a few hard corners, getting the feel. The bike seems to read my mind. Seems to chuckle at my feeble attempts at upsetting it. Ricky must have made a deal with the devil for this beast.
I head up a ramp onto the freeway headed south and a big black SUV decides to contest my entrance. I give the beast a handful and it surges ahead. The rearview shows the SUV so far back that any digit salutes would have been pointless. A serious deal with the devil.
I take the interchange to head east, the beast slipping through the sparse traffic.
There are only a few directions out of the state by road. North is Canada, 911 makes that less than a perfect choice. So it is south or east. East is the Cascade range which offers only 4 routes. The freeway, two northern passes or a hook down to the Columbia River and around the backside of the mountains. I chose the main freeway so I could make time, get used to the beast and then make some different routes east of the mountains.
As I drop into the last valley before climbing the mountains looming before me, I drop down to the speed limit. This is prime drunk patrol time and this is the State Patrols favorite fishing hole. The freeway drops into a long flat stretch of a few miles and the drunkheroes inevitably do some lead foot driving to impress the night’s catch from the downtown meat market. Anyone speeding gets tagged. Anyone doing the limit is suspect. Everyone loses.
As if on cue, I catch a set of lights coming up hard on my tail. The detector warnings light up my helmet. I hold steady, gritting my teeth, tensing on the throttle. Just as the headlights get a car length off my tail they dip as the car brakes hard. I can see the push bars on the front. Another favorite tactic of the patrol. Drive up hard on a victim and try to get them rattled, then pull them over for erratic driving. I flash my brake at the cop, the indignant citizen warning off a tailgater. I signal and move over a lane to the right. The cop roars past, irritated at the fish getting away.
The beast eats up the pavement clawing for altitude as we hit the foot of the mountains. The beast loves the sweepers, calling me coward as I keep under 80.
The cell icon lights up inside my helmet. Moray
“yo mahn, how does it go?”
“Green. Had a trooper try to bump and run me back in Issaquah. I'm just passing Preston. Tell Ricky this beast is a sweet machine”
“Ricky will be happy. The troops are on a deewee sweep, or so the radio traffic says. But you should be clear till you hit the pass. And you should get some clear weather about Cle Ellum. Where you heading to mahn? Gonna rest up in Boise again?”
“I think I'm gonna play it by ear this time. I'll check in about an hour”
I cut the connection.
I don't know why I didn't tell Moray my destination. I just didn't. No reason. Something tickled at the back of my head.
They come for me as I hit one of the few flat stretches in the mountains. Four black sedans, BMWs. I know something was up as soon as they start to bracket me. Traffic up here this time of night is light so they stick out. One paces me on the left. I move over a lane and number two takes his place. Then they pull the trigger. Number one drops behind as number three appears out of the mist to cut in front. Blocked in on three sides with the breakdown lane and the steep bank to my right.
Number four is a little slow on the trigger. He was supposed to take the breakdown lane. I drop anchor and beast squats hard, shedding a big pile of speed. I cut hard right and drop two gears and give the beast a fist full of throttle. The air intakes howl as the motor shoots to redline and surges ahead. Number four shoots past me on the right, two wheels in the grass slope. The other cars fight to adjust and number four works hard to stay on the pavement. It was a loosing battle as the black sedan grass sucks the wheels down the slope.
I shoot ahead, giving the beast every bit it has. The tach flashes at me as I shift gears and the speedo is diving into the triple digits. I only note it in a small way as my concentration is divided between the cars and the road.
There is no way I'm going to outrun these tuned cars on the open freeway. And even in tight two-lane country road, it is a gamble. All things being equal, a bike has only acceleration and small size on its side. . A well-handled car will out brake, out turn and out speed a bike. I need to disappear.
If I was some Hollywood dipshit, the bike would simply grow wings and a rocket launcher. Or just spin on its front wheel, head in the other direction and grow dirt knobbies.
But I did have a couple aces. I had obviously done something right that day, because there is a thick fogbank ahead. And this is my turf. My home. I know every back road and twisting washed out logging road here. This is my maze and I am the fucking minotaur.
I dive into the fog. The cold penetrated even the thick suit. I hit the lights. Ricky was not exaggerating. These lights are serious candlepower. They would give the cars something to track, but I need to see.
There is a bit more luck on my side, the fog is a thick blanket and lasts long enough to find the next exit. I had to get off the freeway. I could see the lights of the cars closing in.
But this exit I know very very well. I kill all the lights. I fly past the exit ramp, drop anchor and several gears. I still have a lot of speed as I haul the beast to the right and gun the motor. The beast throws a rooster tail of tax-funded greenery as the beast claws up the bank. I sensed two of the cars shoot past, missing the ramp entirely. I lost number three for a moment as I stand on the pegs and hit the ramp at an angle. I find him again when the bike goes airborne at the verge. He had anticipated my move and took the ramp. I hit the pavement and yank the bike left. One foot out, elbows high, practically sitting on the tank, sliding the back wheel. I feel his mirror slip under my elbow.
I had wanted to go right at the overpass. But the sedan cut that option out of the plan. To the left, I cross the freeway, punching gears. I hope Ricky had broken the beast in properly or this is going to end fast.
I hit the lights again as I work the beast through a series of lefts and rights on the wet pavement. The sedan closing fast. He is damn good.
I lean the bike hard into a left-hander. Weight on the outside peg, looking into the turn...and I just keep turning. Just at the exit of the turn is a dirt road that looks like a driveway. The bike breaks loose a bit as I hit the dirt fast and hard. I kick the button and I could feel the suspension softening as the pressure bled from the shocks and tires. The bike grips the loose dirt and mud.
I spot the sedan fishtailing into the dirt. The fool is following me into my playground.
Standing on the pegs, weight forward and we climb the switchbacks. The sedan losing ground quickly. I hope he has a good warranty.
I finally lose him when I plunge the beast across a deep stream that has washed out the road. I stop and hear the dark bass crunch and treble glass tinkle as the car crashes nose down in the stream.
I ride on for a half dozen miles, taking random branches of the logging roads and trails. Working my way around company-placed boulders and dug trenches, put there to keep the trash dumpers, poachers and meth chefs out. But the beast doesn’t even slow as we shoot gaps and dive through trenches
Finally, I stop. And listen. Then I shut the beast off. My hands shake and wont work well enough to remove the helmet. I give up on that.
“Easy run mahn” I whisper to myself.
Right.
Part 5 Daybreak
The Beast throws light ahead of me like a magnesium flare. I’m throwing enough light that I cannot be missed by anyone overhead. I’m hoping this bunch doesn’t have anything in the way of air support. I know this maze of timber roads and deer tracks like a spider knows his web. I can ride it blindfolded. But the deer don’t know that.
I had to pull a coin flip. Either keep on headed east over the pass. But they must know that I have to go that way. My other choice is to backtrack, as I am doing. But they might guess that. I’m betting that at the very least they will have to split their group to cover both options. And I ain’t using the freeway. These trails and roads are not maintained much. No money in it and a lot of liability. I have to keep skirting gates and rock piles. Timber companies or insurance groups who only think of the liability of public access own most of this land. All it takes is one mouth breather to get lost and dead playing extreme sportsdude and they get sued. It has and will happen. But those intrepid weekend warriors are lazy. If they cant get their SUV-of-the-month past, they wont go. So the beast makes short work of the barriers.
The trees close in, a black living tunnel. I work my way downhill and into the foothills. I could go over the top, but that is risky and time consuming. Soon I am back on pavement, sliding through rows of lookalike houses with covenant approved landscaping and color selections. Welcome to SUVerbia.
SUVerbia becomes the strip malls of the support infrastructure. The muscle of the semiurban body. The beast leads me on a roundabout route back to a northbound back highway. I pass dark farms clinging desperately to age-old existence. The stink of dairy farms fills my helmet with moist heavy air. The SUVerbians are always complaining about the smell and doing their best to force the farms out. Never mind that the farms were here a hundred years ago when this was deep, wet forest. Fuck You I Want Mine is the new battle cry.
The further north I go the greater the distance between houses. SUVerbian enclaves are smaller, like small melanoma on a sun worshipers face.
Eventually I turn east again. The two lane headed back into the mountains. During the summer, this highway is nose to ass with bikes and Winnebagos. I am starting to feel the length of the day. My back and legs are telling me it has been a while since I got off the bike. But this is just the entry pain. I am used to it. Like a Mayan messenger, I am familiar with the dull aches and drifting attention as he was with that first side stitch and the first knee pains jolting with each step. Like him I have been here before and I know it will pass. Everyone has their thing. Their innate talent. The one thing they do better than any other thing they do. Some write computer code. An inmate does time with infinite patience. I ride. It’s what I do. I celebrate the first internal milestone with a drink of water.
A long unmeasured time of dark road and darker thoughts later I crest the mountain pass just as the deepest black hole of night is graying with the whore promise of dawn. By the time I drop out of the mountains, it is full dawn. The eastern sunrise strips paper cuts on my retinas. I toggle the polarizing switch on the helmet. Fucking Ricky. He thought of everything. The eastern side of the mountains is as dry as the western side is wet. Brown rolling hills and minor mountains drift past. This is hardscrabble land. Hard basalt rock and dry hills make for tough living and tougher people.
They come for me again about midmorning.
I pull up to a flagger. He is stopping traffic for a road crew doing repairs on the two-lane highway. Here the road is folded in between brown hills, barbwire fence and sparse long needle pine trees. I am stopped between a truck and a big rig waiting for the flagger. I flip up the shield on the helmet. The flagger strolls over, interested in the beast. I dont let him get within a few yards when I am gunning the beast past him. Since when do flaggers wear Italian loafers and carry a gun in a shoulder rig?
The bike howls as I blow past him and the truck. I drop off the pavement and onto the gravel. The ABS light strobes at me and then shuts up. Far more men than required for a road crew are running either at me or at vehicles. Any doubt is erased as I spot a couple black sedans with doors slamming. I dodge a dump truck trying to block my way. The bike slips on the gravel. I’m up on the pegs, giving the beast its head. As I break free, I don’t see the thrown shovel until too late. I pull up my leg and it hits me in the thigh instead of my ribs. My leg goes dead and I flop into the saddle.
I grab a fistful of the throttle and the beast leaps ahead. I spot the sedans fishtailing out of the gravel in the mirrors. This is bad.
On pavement, a well-driven car will out handle a bike. Contrary to common belief, a car will go faster around corners. The only real advantage a bike has is acceleration and size. I needed to get some distance on these clowns. Now.
The bike howled as I dropped two gears for a hard corner. The beast didn’t give one shit. It was ready for whatever I had in mind. I’m nearly seated on the tank, head up and looking through the corner. Total 110 percent focus. If they wanted me it was going to be as a corpse twisted into bike wreckage. Ride hard or die.
At least one of the drivers is damned good. Never more than a second behind me. The other one is AWOL. My biggest fear is that they have another surprise ahead. I needed off this road fast.
I saw my chance. A four-way intersection. Some sort of sign. No time to read it. I hit the left signal. What the hell. Maybe he’d fall for it. To the right a big pile of boulders and a small open patch of scrabble. I dropped anchor, drifted right like I was actually going to go left and then gunned up the slope. The dirt sprayed out from the back wheel. My leg screamed fire and almost collapsed as I dabbed a foot. The beast bounced over the scrub and dirt and back to the pavement, cutting the corner. Behind me the sedan lost a couple seconds negotiating the pavement corner.
Luck was with me. I got a couple corners on him. Now I drove hard through the hills looking for a chance.
The chance came a couple miles later. I come upon a set of cars and trucks. Local traffic. As I go wide to pass, I see up ahead down the straight a line of vehicles coming the other way. I gun the beast hard, get down the road drop anchor as I pass the oncoming traffic. I double back. And drop into the ditch, banging up through the gears.
Just as I am passing the lead car, I spot the sedan going the other direction. I bounce the beast back onto the road to the sound of protesting car horns. I can almost hear the 911 calls. Maniacs on the road to Smallville.
I don’t have time to slow up. I keep the beast and me at full zone back toward the four-way intersection. Just as I round the corner before it, I find the other sedan. As I pass smoke erupts from its tires as it fights to pull a bootleggers turn. But he is not even in the game. I flip a coin and pick a direction, riding my guts out.
About the time the adrenaline is slowing and my leg is burning, the radar lights up like a dragstrip Christmas tree. Serious wake up call. I roll past the speed trap doing my best guess at the local speed limit. Just a Sunday rider.
My neck swivels on ball bearings as I dawdle through the town that owns the speed trap cop. My leg feels tight in my riding gear. I am distracted, nervous and angry. I let them have that second chance. I wasn’t expecting it.
I find a road on the GPS that heads me east to a highway heading in the same direction. Toward Idaho.
Part 6: Amy
I am riding along a long straight, just outside the Idaho Border, when I finally get it.
The ABS howls as I grab every bit of brake the beast possesses. The bike slides to a stop on the dirt shoulder. I turn it off as I yank the helmet off and throw it away from me into the weeds. My heart is doing redline. My hands are shaking as I pull the seat off and pull every fuse, and scramble for the battery wires, disconnecting them.
My knees shake and my leg gives up. I slowly fall into the dirt. Then I do something I rarely do. I dig inside my chest pocket and pull out the tobacco pouch. It takes all my concentration to roll a cigarette.
As I smoke, I think.
They know. When someone want to hijack a package they always hit either at the start or at the end of a run. The easiest things to find out are where I’m coming from and where I am going. Otherwise they would even be aware of a run happening. But to hit in the middle of a run? Out where I have so many different routes to choose from? They would either have to have a shitload of money and manpower or they would have to be tracking me. But how would they know?
I drag the bike seat over to me and pull out the package. I violate a prime rule and open it. Paper. Just like Moray said. I don’t read anything, just search for any evidence of tracking devices. Nothing. Not even the package wrapping.
How long do I have? Minutes? Hours? They could be just a mile down the road. Or they could be a long ways off setting up another ambush.
I roll a second smoke. Double my daily dose. I smoke and feel the hot sun and warm wind eddy around the bike. It is always windy here. My leg aches. My eyes feel like they are going to bleed. It’s been a long day.
If it isn’t the package, then it must be my gut. The bike. They know where the bike is. If they know that, then they know where I am. I can’t ignore it anymore. A dark stone drops through my gut. Ricky.
Now what?
I hear the whine of old tires on pavement. I look west and swimming up through the heat mirage is an old truck. First traffic I have seen out here. As it approaches, it slows. Stops. The driver’s door opens and someone stands on the running board and leans over the hood between the door and cab.
“Hey! You alright? Have an accident?”
I struggle to get up but my leg has other plans as it is stiffening into a chunk of wood.
She runs over and stops me.
“Hold up there. You’ll make it worse.”
She is stronger than she looks as she pushes me back down. A smile crinkles out from under her beat to shit Stetson. She expertly evaluates my limbs and looks into my eyes.
“ You know where you are?”
“About 500 miles east of hell.”
She laughs. A warm mahogany chuckle. “well if hell is Seattle, you don’t have brain damage. Where’s your brain bucket?”
“Over in the weeds there.”
She nods. “ good thing you had one. I don’t think anything is broken. Want to try standing?”
Again I notice her strength as the grabs the front of my suit and pulls. I make it up. But that leg is on vacation. The muscles are a solid brick. I take a few steps. I can walk. But not far. She bends down and unzips the leg of the suit. No blood. One hell of a bruise. You can damn near read the manufacturers name stamped on the shovel.
“Nope. Not broken. You want a ride to the hospital? Want me to call someone?”
“Uh. No. and no.”
“ Well you’re not getting back on that thing are you?”
“Probably not. Look, I’ll be okay. I’ll figure something out.”
She laughs that darkwood chuckle again. “Tough huh? Well I can’t leave a stray out here. Lets drag you and your bike to civilization okay?”
I look at the truck. Early 50s Chevy. And it looks like it hasn’t been washed since it was new. I shrug. “I don’t suppose you have a ramp?”
“Nope. We’ll improvise” She winks at me. She walks over to the truck and rummages around in the passenger seat. She emerges with a set of lineman’s pliers.
I had not noticed the gate in the barbed wire fence before. She unwinds the wire securing it with a quick familiarity. Then she is back in the truck. Gears complain loudly as she bounces it down the ditch and into the field beyond. I understand her plan when she backs the truck up to a cattle loading ramp. I take the handlebars and she pushes the rear of the beast as we push its limp form up the ramp and into the truck. The drop isn’t far, but it is enough that I can’t keep it upright and the beast falls gracelessly on its side, adding another dent to the collection on the truck.
She winces. “ooh. Sorry.”
I pick myself up off the bike, dull fire up my thigh. “It’s fine. Dents are fixable.”
She laughs. “Not the bike, you. Lets get you in the truck”’
She helps me out of the bed and into the cab. The inside of the truck must have a sandbox worth of dirt and dried cowshit on the floor. But it feels like a thousand dollar bed in the finest hotel. She hops in the driver side. More gear grinding and we bounce out of the field. Gate secured we hit the highway.
“So, Mister Stray. What’s your name?”
“John. “ It’s instinctive to lie anymore. She sticks a hand out. “Amy” Her hand I warm, work rough and strong.
The tires whine on the road and my mind drifts along dark passages filled with betrayal as I watch the sagebrush rush past the window.
“John, rescuing strays is hard work. Think you are up to handing me one of them beers in the cooler by your feet?”
I reach down and fish out two ice-cold bottles from the cooler. I pop the tops of the sweating bottles on the opener bolted to the dash. I hand Amy one of the bottles. She smiles and drinks deeply, the muscles working in her neck. I drink, the ice-cold beer hits the back of my throat like a blessing from a saint. Amy sets one foot up on the gearbox well and sets the beer against the inside of her thigh. I really look at her for the first time. She is a lot smaller than she seems. Rangy, but small. Her faded jeans are work items. Not meatmarket tight, but well-worn snug. Obviously lived in. Her arms are tan and freckled where they slide out of the work shirt. I watch the muscles play as the herds the old truck. Her face is angular. Eyes crinkled from the sun and easy humor. Too much nose to be featured on a magazine cover. But it fits her face. Setting just right, like a Dunstall fairing on a Ducati 900ss. She hangs an elbow out the open window and guides the old truck with a light touch. Her brown eyes crinkle at me as she catches me looking.
“Check out for a while hoss. You look like you could use it.”
I do just that.
