CHAPTER TWO - Lance West

He said it in his best James Bond imitation - although he pulled it off well. Trying not to look bewildered, I answer, "Guilty as charged," my mind working hard to figure out how he knew that. He obviously meant that we hadn't met before, but he knew who I was. I suppose I have, over the past few years of posting my Harley rides on Muthuh.com indicated that my annual campout in December is at Hanging Rock, and this guy packed up and decided to join one of my rides.

It's happened a few times before, even once on another camping trip to Merchant's Millpond. You might remember my meeting Ron on his new Sportster a year or two ago. Always enjoy those meets.

Hell, I could count at least 20 teeth as he let loose a wide grin as he began to speak again. "I read you were heading this way on a campout, and hope you don't mind if I came out to meet ya," he said.

"Not a bit," I said, getting back to my tarp as I spoke. "How'd ya know who I was?"

Lance reached out and took a hold of one corner of the tarp I was wrestling with, pulling it over my bike while leaving himself out in the cold rain. I suppose I could get to like this guy.

"I've been reading your shit on the Internet for 'bout two years, and thought I'd come out to see if you're ten feet tall like your trips make ya out to be. Besides, I've been camping here for years myself and never met somebody who enjoys solo camping in the winter as I do."

Well, I don't intend to make this a word-for-word documentary of our conversation as we put up the tarp and tent. I usually do this at a rather leisurely pace, but the steady cold rain pushed the pace a little. Lance, it turns out, lives up in Meadows of Dan, Virginia - a place I know well from my Blue Ridge Parkway rides. He mentioned that he's been to most of the places I've written about, many after he read about them on my WebSite.

It turned out that Lance owned a small construction company - mostly renovations and additions. He had been widowed for three years - some kind of Cancer he said. I could tell by the loss of sparkle in his eyes that he didn't wish to dwell on that topic long… I didn't ask questions. His wife's brother and him did most of the work with some contracted labor and tradesmen he picked up according to the job.

I suppose if I had asked my wife, Kim, what she thought, she'd say he was a good-looking guy. Notice I had to credit the description to her, cause guys never say crap like that. Obviously familiar with the insides of a Gym and tanned from the outdoors work, I mentally noted not to introduce him to Kim anytime soon!

But ya know…on the other hand, I do talk to a LOT of women online who are looking for eligible bikers. Seems to be a shortage of unmarried, good-looking guys, and an abundance of separated, divorced, widowed or single women who used to be in a relationship with a rider, and for whichever reason don't ride anymore. I'll have to ask him if he's attached, but that's not a topic guys get into too soon, hey?

With the temporary homestead buttoned up and it nearing lunchtime, I suggest we head down the mountain to Danbury and get something to eat at the grill. Actually, I was partly suggesting it hoping he'd not want to ride in the rain and I'd have a little alone time - which was the purpose of the trip. But he looked up into the gray sky, drizzle misting onto his wavy hair, eyes squinting against the rain, and without hesitation put his arms out to his side, palms up, grinned and said, "Hell yes! Lets ride into town and do a little plundering and pillaging!"

Uhhhhh, hmmmm… I was actually just hoping for a jumbo dog with cheese and sauerkraut, but plundering sounds good, I suppose. I unpacked my little pot helmet - now that the cold rainy road trip was behind me and I was commencing to plunder and pillage - and placed it on my wet head, snapped the cheap little catch and fired up the bike. Lance hopped his FL, kicked the son-of-a-bitch three times before it caught and let it idle to a purr, manipulating the choke as it wavered through the rhythms of a cold-started 48-year-old engine. I was profoundly envious.

His '53 Panhead looked like it has been well maintained but well ridden, too. No glut of chrome and fresh paint on this scooter - just function and a coat of oil.

Something unspoken controlled the timing of our departure. My two-year-old Fuel Injected Revolution Engine (this new '88b' engine still hasn't taken on an official nickname like his Panhead, but it seems to be between the 'Revolution' or the 'Fathead' Engine - both promoted by The Company but not accepted on the street yet in either form… commonly it's just referred to as 'The New Engine'), needed no warm up and was purring at the bottom of my campsite driveway. Obviously, his cold iron powerplant was gonna dictate when we took off. That ain't something you have to think about it... it just is.

After no more than a minute, and with a barely imperceptible nod of his chin, Lance passed the ride back over to me and I let out the clutch, thoroughly enjoying the reverberating rumble of the four exhaust pipes in the leafless tree-lined campground … no-one particularly disturbed by our departure.

Downhill on the slick roads was a lesson in 2nd gear compression braking, but neither one of us seemingly in a hurry, as I watched him in the distance in my mirrors. At least he ain't a hotdog biker. Most solo-riders aren't.

With the steep grade behind us, the road widening to allow a little side-by-side riding and the skies clearing slightly, the ten-minute ride to town betrayed a few secrets about this Lance guy. Generally, you can sense volumes about someone's character - or at least his personality - on a first-time ride together. I once rode off from a restaurant with a guy I had just met who throttled up at maximum, roared past me at nearly wheelie acceleration, weaving in and out of the traffic in front of us and flipped off the driver of a car who had the balls to honk at him… I turned left at the first side road and let him journey on without me. I just have no tolerance of idiots and damned sure don't care to ride with them.

Then there are the followers who stay a half-mile behind ya (I sometimes wonder if it's because they've read how I like to ride alone). Well, hell… if I do agree to ride with ya, get the hell up here and ride with me fer-chrissakes!

Lance eased up to within a foot of my right handlebar, drifted to just within the white line, and never strayed more than a foot in either direction, even on the gentle curves. We instinctively allowed the inside rider to ease forward on tighter turns, regaining position nearly before the road straightened out. This guy's ridden many a mile doubled-up and has pretty good control.

Riding through town, close formation, straight pipes echoing off the 1940's-built buildings in this little 'burg along with the smells of my wet leather brought on a good feeling. A really good feeling.

I motioned with my chin to the little grill in town, next to the General Store, and we pulled into the empty spot near the front door. Slightly damp from the ride, I do a quick wipe down of my face and beard with the towel I slipped into the saddlebags at the last minute last night. I have a feeling I'll wish I brought several before this trip was over.

"You've ridden formation before," I said as he shut down his bike. Slight puffs of smoke rose from his cylinders as he swung his scuffed black riding boots over the saddle seat of his scooter.

With spread fingers, he wipes his hair back out of his face in a combing fashion, smiles and says, "Used to. Was a time I'd ride with some guys in Virginia who enjoyed forming up in 3, 4 or 5 bike tight formations and ride for hours." He paused for a few moments, apparently while remembering some aspect of his past and went on, "It was fun for a few years, but I kinda prefer riding solo, and enjoying the view. Formation riding made it dangerous to look around and see what's out there," as he gestured in no particular direction.

Well, either he was parroting back what I've been writing about for years on my site, or he saw in me someone with the same riding style and wanted to join up for a ride. Here's a dilemma though. If you enjoy solo riding, how do you enjoy riding with someone with the same style? HUH?

I've thought about this before many times. My conclusion is that I prefer to ride alone, but arrange to meet at the end of the day with someone and enjoy the conversation and camaraderie at the restaurant or motel balcony. Either someone on the ride with me, who knows where we're going and meets me there, or doesn't mind going where I want to go, when I want to go there, and at my pace. If not - go away and go at your own pace… see ya later!

And then there are the occasions when after months of talking to someone online, I arrange a meeting on the road. Getting a first-hand tour of their hometown is far superior to wandering around the streets of a strange town. You pick up so much more that way.

We spoke about this for a few moments outside under the awning while drying off a bit. Apparently it wasn't until he read some of my rides that he ever tried to befriend someone on AOL in a town he was going to be going to. I've managed several really great stopovers with people who are now good friends that way. Like the Ranch Manager family in Wyoming on my way back from Sturgis in '00. We still say hey every week or so when I see 'em online. Next trip to Wyoming will damned sure include a stopover there again.

We finally stepped inside after one of the patrons, a rather plump bib-overalled gentleman, stepped outside and caused us to have to moved aside. It's one of those little joints that ask you to ORDER HERE at the counter. I didn't see a PICKUP sign, so assumed they'd bring it out to us.

I've been here several times on other Winter Campouts and always get the same thing… jumbo dog, cheese, 'kraut and a warmed bun, with mustard, fries and a Diet Coke. No, there's no particular diet going on here, I just prefer it to real Coke which seems too syrupy.

I go find a seat and make room for Lance to order. No 'cute waitress' section here - there's only 4 booth-tables and an old lady that bears an uncanny resemblance to Granny on the Beverly Hillbilly's. Lance can be heard across the room telling the old lady that the smell of the home cookin' from her place was first noticed a block away and we were forced to stop in and try it out. Sheeeesh. I really gotta keep Kim away from this guy!

He comes over to the table after ordering and I say to him, "You're a shameless suck-up." But I recognize a lot of me in him.

Talk turned to his bike, as we looked out the front window at his nearly half-century old Harley. An original Green FL with 74Cu.In. engine and S&S Carburetor, he described it as his close-to-home bike. From the oilspot I can see already beneath it, I can see why he doesn't go far with it, but otherwise was a gorgeous bike. He calls it Petey. It didn't register for several minutes, until he looked at the bike and said, "Petey.... come on - it's a Pan...Peter Pan?"

'Course then I had to confess my bike's name being Huck... me and Huck out on another adventure.

While eating my Kraut Dog, Vance set out to describe how he came to get the old FL. Outside, the rain began to fall considerably harder, dissipating the oil spot in a rainbow colored slick that reached the curb in a matter of minutes. Hope this story is a long one, we're gonna be here with Granny for a while. My thoughts wandered between his story and my tent 5 miles uphill.

A long story it was though, and reminiscent of some of my adventures. Before long I had him convinced to start writing them down and letting me post 'em on my site. He seemed genuinely interested in being part of it. For the next hour and a half, he laid out the story of his '53 Pan, and increased my desire to be riding one just like it.

We watched a steady stream of locals come and go from the diner. None of them less than about 50 - doesn't look like a particularly interesting town from a single guys perspective, even worse to a married guy out for a weekend bike ride. The rain never quite went away, but it relented enough to come to the conclusion during a lull in the story that it was simply time to go. Outside, I run my hands across the seat a few times to spread the puddles of water, which had pooled in the dimples of my pillow-seat, a little thinner. Waiting the requisite 5 seconds for the Ultra's computer to do it's thing, I fire Huck up. A single kick brings the Pan to life and before long we're heading into Winston-Salem to find someplace to grab a cold beer.

In the midst of the rain and road-spray and foggy spots, the world seemed Black and White… gloomy and uninviting. Under most circumstances, I'd say this was a crummy day, but for reasons I care not to have to describe, I allow a broad smile to spread across my face and lift my head up to the falling rain and let it splash across my face. (If you don't ride, this won't make sense...if ya do, then - as the saying goes - I don't have to explain). Single-file through the hills south of Danbury, onto Highway 8, back into doubled-up riding, I find I am enjoying this ride. New riding buddy, drinkin' money in my pocket and a couple days with nothing to do. Life is good! Yeah, but life was about to change...

Lance is leading us to a lil' tavern he knows of on the northern outskirts of Winston-Salem. Its a little neighborhood bar that has all the right ingredients for a biker bar, but manages to mix in the locals and mid-day business crowd as well. A wide veranda-like awning over a wooden-floored deck overlooking parking suitable for 'bikes-only' right out front. A dark interior is lit only by the lights of the numerous bar signs hung around the room. Three pool tables lit by various Budweiser fixtures are empty in the corner, while unpadded stools are nearly full at the huge dark wood stained bar. With her hand on her hip, shot out at a perfect angle from the slim waist, the hooters-girl look-alike stands waiting for our order, shadows splayed out eerily up her body from the fluorescent fixtures located under the bar on her side, down low.

"Two Bud bottles," says Lance... turns his head in my direction and says, "Hey, I read your shit - you drink Bud bottles."

Well, that's true... I do say that often in my ride stories, but in actuality, when given the chance, I go for an Absolut on the Rocks... but I didn't wanna spoil the effect. Just seems to sound more like a biker out on the town ordering a Bud in a bottle, right? Christ, half the time I say I had a couple Buds, I'm really sucking down fermented potatoes! (Is there an 'e' on the end of potato or not? I'm confused.) The barmaid brings the bottles and announces the total, while Lance fishes out a crumpled old bill from his back pocket. Gotta like somebody who doesn't keep his money all neatly folded in his wallet.

We determine the barmaid's name as Jill ... ALWAYS ask their name first thing, they pay closer attention to ya if you call 'em by name a few times right off. I swing around on the stool and watch a pool game starting up in the corner. Two young ladies in tight jeans and low-cut blouses, wearing black boots were trying to rack up an 8-ball game under the Budweiser fixture that had the whole team of Clydesdale horses pulling a sleigh full of beer. Behind them were two rather large baldheaded dudes in typical biker rags festooned with tattoo's on their forearms watching them as well. The bigger one, the one with no neck it seemed, turned and looked in our direction just as Lance twisted on his stool to see what I was looking at.

"Oh shit!," was the first thing out of Lance's mouth. I grinned thinking he was referring to one of the ladies, now bent fully over the table taking aim at the 5 ball, corner pocket. Even when he stood up, I thought he was gonna go over to one of the ladies, but simultaneously, No-Neck stood and, with a look of recognition on his face popped upright just as Lance began to sidestep towards the front door. Not knowing why, alarms started going off in my brain, and I wondered what the hell was happening here. The words "Oh Shit!" repeating in my brain.

Click here to go to the INDEX

 

"Lets Roll!"
 

 
For Information, contact:
Muthuh@Muthuh.com  

MUTHUH'S RIDES HOME | ARCHIVES | FUTURE TRIPS