CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE- Highway 17
We never talked about things like wake-up times. How early we hit the road, we knew, was going to depend on how late the night before turned out to be. We didn't stay up late at all, so it was no surprise when I heard his door slam at 7am as he made several trips to his bike to load up his gear. Lance insisted in our getting separate rooms whenever we could. I didn't argue the point. I got the impression this was not going to be a budget trip and I really enjoyed my own room. I usually select a motel, when the opportunity presents itself, on parking in front of the door and how close it is to breakfast. I figured if one of us gets up early while waiting on the other we can have our coffee and wait. I opened the door, stood in it in my shorts, and told him I needed 15 minutes to shower and pack my shit. Without turning around he simply said, "I'll be at breakfast."

Ten minutes later, I rolled Lil'Mut out the motel room door, fully packed and ready to hitch up. This little trailer was great as a one-wheeled suitcase. All my personal gear, clothes and computer gear was packed in it, and it's handle made for easy rolling into my room. I left it hitched at the motel and strolled across the parking lot to the Huddle House. Generally, you won't find me at any of the franchise restaurants, but I make an exception for Waffle House or it's clone, Huddle House. The chance to sit at the counter and bullshit with the waitresses while you watch the cook assemble your breakfast is something I enjoy at least once on any trip.

Neither one of us ate any dinner last night. We picked up a six pack at the Texaco next to the motel, along with some junk food and sat on the front porch of the rooms smoking cigars and talking about the trip. I found at times like this, Lance would show a little interest in where the ride was taking us. I didn't know it yet, but motel porches, with a beer a cigar and a joint was where we would often did our most intense talking. Sometimes about the next day's ride, often about women, usually about motorcycles, and places we've been. I made mental notes about where he seemed the most interested on hus past rides and planned to reroute portions of this ride to give him a chance to see them again.

Rounding the corner of the Huddle House, true to form, I see Lance out front with one of the waitresses showing off Petey. "Mind if I give Stacey a ride home after breakfast?" Flashing his impressive smile. "Her ride never showed up after her shift."

"Sure, long as I get home by early June, it's OK by me!" That drew a blank stare from Stacey, but Lance chuckled - hell this was his ride and we can go any damned place he wants. Having a young lady accompany us at breakfast was nice. We took a booth instead of the countertop so we could talk, and found out Stacey lived in Emerald Isle, on the coast just south of us. Unlike many of the waitresses at these joints, Stacey had all her teeth and kept an admirable shape. Of course if she was any different I have no doubt Lance wouldn't have made the ride offer in the first place. I personally find the unattractive plump ones to be friendlier and more appreciative of the conversation, since I wasn't on this ride to get laid, but I still enjoy an attractive woman as much as the next guy.

"Nice day for a ride, huh?" she asked me, sitting across from her at the table. I caught Lance's grin out of the corner of my eye, but refrained from my standard reply, mainly because I was looking out the window through half-drawn Venetian blinds at developing rain clouds.

"Let's hope so. Otherwise it'll be a cold ride for ya." I nodded in the direction of the darkening clouds, but neither one of them noticed. Stacey was shoulder to shoulder with Lance mumbling something under their breaths. I followed their lead and studied the menu, hoping the real waitress would get here - I needed coffee.

Breakfast came and went. Idle conversation barely kept my interest. Evidenced by the amount of breakfast fallen on my lap, the cleavage in Stacey's uniform two feet across from me held most of my interest. I could only hope breakfast would be this interesting over the next couple months. I doubted it.

I went back to the motel to climb aboard Huck and to call home while Lance paid the bill and waited for Stacey to return from the restroom. All was well back home. It would be another two weeks before I saw her in south Florida for the ride through the Keys. When she asked if I needed her to put anything on the list to bring with her, I said, "Yeah. A bib!" She was amused when I explained that one to her.

We shifted some of his stuff to my bike and retrieved a spare helmet out of Lil'Mut for the short ride to Emerald Isle. Coming over the causeway bridge, a brisk wind reminded us that winter had not given up its grip yet. Nothing new on Daytona rides, though. Most years, the first day heading south is always the coldest. One year, we left in 35 degree weather, only to be riding in T-shirts by the end of the day in Georgia. This time, we're taking several days to get there, and the weather was much milder.

Even though we were heading down the Carolina Coast, the coastline was such that we were heading due west with the sun rising at our backs. The early morning ride down the wide boulevard went quickly, with no sign of any other bikes on the road. Emerald Isle is a bustling tourist beach with high dollar vacation homes on our left along Ocean Drive and countless cul-de-sacs on our right with a dozen older houses on each. Directed by Stacey sitting behind Lance, we pulled into one of the unremarkable streets on the right, and rolled into the driveway of a beach-bungalow style house.

The side yard revealed an old Pontiac Firebird, rusted quarter panels and mismatched tires, with it's hood up and a pair of legs splayed out from the side, bracing their owner from falling over while bent head-deep in the engine. As the bikes pulled in a short sandy haired man in his late 30's backed away from under the hood and propped himself on one hand on the fender looking at us, unsmiling. Stacey swung her shapely leg over the rear of the bike, either unaware or uncaring how high her uniform skirt rode up her thigh, and walked defiantly over to the man. He alternated his stare between her and the two bikes in his driveway. Stacey stopped three feet away, hands on her hips, leant forward and saying something rather forcefully to him, unheard over the Harley engines idling impatiently.

I kinda enjoyed his discomfort, watching as he gestured with his greasy hand gripping the box wrench, pointing at the engine. Lance began to roll backwards, even with me and looking over his right shoulder, smiling. The grin was returned - we both knew the crap this guy was about to get into and we didn't want to be around when it fell on him. He didn't appear to be threatening and we were both eager to get on the road. Whatever fantasies Lance had bringing her home were destroyed with the scene playing itself out in front of us.

Stacey noticed the bikes backing out and came over to thank us for the ride. Her eyes were dark and furious, but softened instantly as she bent forward to give Lance a little kiss on the cheek. Her voice rose to be heard above the bikes, "Appreciate it guys, the bastard forgot I needed a ride home this morning." After a short pause she added "Sure I can't just come with you?"

I cleared my throat loudly and began backing further out into the road, hopefully expressing my vote on picking up a passenger for the ride. Backing up with a trailer is a tricky experience at best, but I was getting quite good at it. Whatever exchange took place between them I was unable, and uninterested in hearing, but the result was Lance backing out, nodding his head in the direction of the road out of town indicating a quick getaway, and a smile in Stacey's direction. I did the same and left the quarrelling couple on their own. When we caught up to each other at the stop sign, we swapped knowing smiles, said nothing, and roared off to the west, and over the other causeway off the island. We skirted the southeast side of Camp Lejeune Marine Base and back to Highway 17 South.

Twenty-four hours into the ride, the drama has begun already, and we survived the first one. I have no doubt there'll be more. But, ya know, little adventures are what makes riding worth the trouble. I began to look forward to whatever this one threw at us.

Getting through Wilmington in the early morning traffic was a chore, but buoyed by the knowledge that we were on our bikes, making our way south, and the slobs in their cars surrounding us were all going to work. That makes the stop and crawl easier to swallow. On these long rides, I often think back to when I was young - early teens - and I would watch with fascination Wednesday night's "Then Came Bronson" series. Michael Parks would ride up to a stoplight in the opening sequence on his dead buddy's Sportster, the 'seeing eye' decal on his red tank (we all copied that decal and put them on our school books in those days) and came to a stop even with some businessman's open window in the next lane. The suit would look over, gaze at the bike and ask "Where ya headed?" Bronson would look toward the horizon in his dark blue watch cap and say simply, "I dunno, wherever I end up, I guess." The suit would shake his head and say, "Pal, I wish I was you." That scene played out in my head ever since, each time I sat in traffic. There's always some poor sap driving to work, and here I am riding off to the next adventure. Even today as I view the old series on VHS - bootleg copies I got off the Internet - I marvel at the apparent lack of riding scenes. The sporty was always there to take him to, and away from, various adventures, but little riding time. Makes me glad I chose biking instead of fishin' or golfin'.

Just over the South Carolina state line, salt air breezes filling our noses, we pull over onto a bare spot on the grass beside the highway and remove our helmets. There always seems to be a bare spot like this no matter what highway you're on, mere feet inside the state line. I look at it this way; if you've taken a spill and rolling and flopping down the road, I'd really rather not have one of those five pound helmets strapped to my head. I've seen too many guys killed from broken necks from wearing a helmet. Granted if I found myself pile driven into a bridge abutment, perhaps the helmet would be a wise thing, but not knowing which kind of crash I may have some day, I choose to enjoy the riding without a helmet and hope for the floppy kind of spill, or none at all. My choice, my decision, my business.

Sitting on the back deck at Harold's in North Myrtle Beach sometime after noon that day, we both had a laugh at the poor bastard's expense back in Emerald Isle. I was scribbling notes in a small notepad, trying to capture the events of the ride so I could write up the ride journal periodically as we went. There were two people back home in Virginia who wanted to keep track of Lance's ride, and I had agreed to publish a journal as we went for them. It was difficult to find time to stop and scribble, though. Even though we saw some beautiful countryside on the ride down Highway 17 through Shallotte and Calabash, picture taking tended to take away from the experience. Pictures seemed to be something the rest of us would enjoy - Lance would likely not ever see them - so I didn't waste too much time taking them.

"I was afraid you were gonna grab that lil' girl and rescue her from her boring life back there." We were half way through our second beer, and we'd already covered our relief at not being the grease monkey and how his day was gonna be spent dodging thrown ashtrays and assorted heavy objects.

"Naw - might happen at some point on the ride, always looking for a damsel in distress ya know - but this is our ride for now. Don't wanna muck it up with a woman along. Just you and me for now, dude!" He upended his bottle swallowing the remainder in one gulp and slammed it on the table to make his point, leaned forward and headed for the John. No need to belabor the point I suppose - I swung around on the wooden bench, propped my feet up on the low railing and gazed out at the ocean 50 yards away. Life was good.

Anytime you put two Harleys in front of one bar, you draw more. Some days I think I ought to ask for free beers on those times we're the first ones there. Just tell the barkeep we parked out front, and for every two additional bikers who pull up we get free beers. We'd be drinking free for the entire trip! I don't know if it is the universal want to hang out with other bikers, or some flag to passing riders that this bar is cool, and more is better. In any case, by the end of our third cold one, the back patio was literally brimming with black t-shirts and chained wallets. Not ones to be in the middle of a rally, no matter how small, I lean forward to keep them all from hearing, and suggest we head south a bit to another of my favorite bars a couple miles south. It was a strong suggestion and I was the fuckin' Road Captain this time, so boots hit the wooden deck and chair legs squealed as we stood up and went around the side of the bar to the bikes.

Lance and I both have been to Myrtle Beach a dozen times each by bike, so there was no desire to stop at the glitzy chrome and neon mega-bars of Broadway or cruising down Ocean Boulevard. In fact over the years I've developed a strong distaste for the place. The place and the cops. Granted, they're not much of a hassle the rest of the year - but they are such assholes during rally that it carries over all year long. For the past 5 years I bypass around Myrtle Beach and haven't spent a dime inside city limits.

My destination on or off rally is Murrells Inlet - long becoming the real fun spot during rally weeks. Skirting the city on Hwy 17 Bypass, the two Harleys rode side by side, which was becoming our preferred way of grinding the miles out. One traffic light at a time, putting the playground for new riders behind us, we cut off the highway south of the Inlet Mall, slid past the old "Suck, Bang, Blow" and rode the final mile to Bullfeather's Bar and Grill.

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