Chapter One: “You may all go to Hell, and I will go to Texas“.
Day One: Sunday, October 19
…and I meant it, no freakin’ foolin’ around just now, wasn’t no piss ant common sobriete in that thought. It would be a real bad idea to say something dumb, even dumber to be standing in the way. The trip had been planned, calendar marked, prep and vehicle service scheduled, but then a series of events turned the entire process upside down in the week leading up to departure. The magic wasn’t working on the Virginia end of the line, and I had some schedule constraints in the Southwest along the way that would be inconvenient to change, at best. Edgy, yeah man, was feelin’ a bit edgy.
Tossed all the moto junk in the truck, seemed willy-nilly, who the hell cares, hope I didn’t forget anything. I did call it a rodeo, ain’t the first, so there was a level of confidence in the process even though my XO was shaking her head in doubt. Gotta run, and I was gone to Charlottesville for a meeting I had to attend along the way, been on the calendar for months. Never did bother to look at a road map, heard Texas is pretty damn big, should be able to find it.
Find it, that is if those little tiny Irishmen and Scotsmen who were throwing rocks at each other inside my skull would simply calm down, declare a truce, and go the heck home…and the one that was singing “Rose of Trallee”, just stop that crap. Man, those “see-ya-when-I-see ya” trip departure parties are a bitch.
I’ve traveled around a considerable amount, now I stay in my own time zone unless I get an itch that needs scratched, and I was dealing with that malady now, be nice if I fueled the truck for the big getaway. Alchemy was always a thought, but in practice almost never works, whereas running out of fuel is much more than a perception of a torpedo below the waterline. I used to fly a lot, but that was back in the day before airlines started treating people and livestock about the same. Heck, now ya never know what could be in the seat next to you, except it will probably be wearing jammies covered with shed pet fur. Unless there are big bodies of water in the way, or logistical problems, I drive.
Into the quick mart for diesel, could have saved $.25 a gallon by driving off course ten miles, but that would have construed mission interruptus, ain’t having none of that. I’m not entirely sure of the exact time frame in which the slogan “Spay and Neuter” started a fleeting popup in my line of vision every single time I stopped at one of these damn places, but there it was again, displayed like one of them digital signboards, guaranteed puzzler…or not, depending.
Depending…on whether the woman standing in front of me was clothed in all black leather, black kitten eye makeup that could have been tattooed, had her own personal lavalier sans diamond on a heavy chain, and at the end of which was a large carved bone-like thing which bore more than a passing resemblance to a…well, let’s say it was something you wouldn’t want to wear through the front door of the local Baptist church on this bright Sunday morning, someone might have to call one of them amboolances.
Her body seemed to be pulsing to some weird subliminal backbeat, but when I caught a whiff of what she was wearing, I knew I better get my sorry butt outta there and down to Texas. Yeah folks, the scent that was coming off her in shimmering overheated waves was Passage d’Enfer, and for the uninitiated colonial pilgrims out there, the French is loosely translated as “The Road to Hell”. Good gracious, feets, get movin’.
Got a long drive to dream up the lyrics for the song that accompanies that woman, and when done I think I post them to Mac Rebennack, the “night tripper“, he’ll know what to do with it…I think he’s been there before.
It was only thirty-five miles over to I64, and by the time I got there I had stopped squirming around in the truck, my pulse was back to normal, and the goose bumps had gone away. Sheeesh, there should be some yellow safety ribbon around anyone wearing Passage d’Enfer, bad things could happen starting at no more than ten feet, although having a St. Christopher medal in your pocket and doing a few quick signs of cross tends to level the playing field and fend off the worst of the bad doodoo.
I found out quickly on my way to Charlottesville that I’d better pay close attention to the vehicles around me, there were lurkers out there who would run up on the back of the truck, tap the brakes, and ride along in the blind spots to get a look at the bike. I don’t know if they were really interested in the bike that much, they might have been opportunists wanting to capture a YouTube moment when a big honkin’ moto falls off a hitch carrier. If it did fall off in that heavy bumper-to-bumper traffic, y’all could send me a postcard care of some beat tourist bar on the Pacific coast of Mexico, ‘cause I had absolutely no intention of stopping. Cervaza fria, por favor, freakin’ Dos Equis, love that stuff.
Charlottesville had no particular appeal, been there, but the chosen meeting location turned out to be the Whole Foods store, now that I found interesting. Man, what a selection, seems they had a hundred varieties of anything you could eat or drink. I also found out what the lower half of me would look like if i ever had any hankering to wear yoga pants, either that, or a few of those women where shoplifting a dozen loaves of bread and stashed the goods where their ass should be located, yeeeeeow. Talk about a varied clientele, I’m positive some of those people were once in the Manson Family, must be there for the organic labels.
Seeing that put a dent in my appetite, I should be cutting back anyway, and I ended up with just two oatmeal cookies and a latte. Two cookies sounds good, but I’d seen smaller pizzas, ain’t going to starve or nuthin’, and I went over to pay. The pixie haired student-type cashier was wearing her Faliero Sarti scarf like they all do, and was pretty…like pretty dangerous. Hope her old man has an open bar at the wedding, it will help the groom and the rest of the bros stumble through the ceremony, especially the part where the groom mumbles the vows. Prediction, she’ll get the house, he’ll get the toaster oven.
I went to hand over the money, and got a quizzical look, no big deal, I’d been getting the same since the age of three. Then I saw her wrinkle her nose and sniff, dammit, it was that d’Enfer again, must be stuck to me like freakin’ SuperGlue. She had a snarky smile, didn’t say anything, but the message was clear, like, we’ll just let this thing be our little secret. Powerful stuff from the French, too bad they’ve never had as good a recipe for gunpowder.
Meeting over, Charlottesville looked much better in the mirrors, and I rolled west out to I81, then south, turbo glowing, figured I’d run for 3-400 miles, then call the day when the sun went down. That was the plan…before I was mesmerized by speed, power, and head long motion, launched into one of those dimensions that defies explanation.
(to be continued…)
Last edited by jdrocks; 11-16-2015 at 07:41 AM.