Conversations with Priscilla

My trip with Priscilla from Santa Fe to Chicago began with a ceremonial oil change.

To note, for 43 year old Harleys, Priscilla was a lucky girl: she had landed in the hands of Dave Crosby, who not just took care of her, but helped her recover from an abusive childhood. In 1979, she started life as a stock FLH, traded hands a few times before a mason bought her. He drank too much, thought of Harleys as penis extensions, and hotrodded her with a big bore kit, oversize cams, S&S carb, fancy paintjob, etc, but offered her nothing he couldn’t brag about: no stiffer clutch to handle her greater power, no lube for her swingarm, no checks on her spoke tension, no maintenance. He’d ride her hard and put her away wet.

After a few hard drops and other misadventures, the mason traded Priscilla for drinking money. Dave locked eyes with her at a Dealership, and thought she’d make a great gift for his wife Faith. It was only after he got her home that discovered her many “issues”, and realized no part of her wasn’t in need of rebuilding. After major efforts, he got her into enough ruddy health to make her rideable, if not reliable. In this state, and with strict injunctions to beware of her, for multiple reasons, Dave let me buy her.

I fully understood unreliable bikes. My first was a 1991 Jawa 350 named Snake. Snake’s homicidal streak was wide, deep and long. Snake had one saving grace — a lack of power. He had an uncanny delight in seizing his front disc brake, if for a fraction of a second, at high speed. But high speed for Snake was 40-50mph, and getting there took a while, so I was rarely there. Snake threw me once, at about 10 miles an hour, and no harm but scuffed pants and dented pride resulted. In time, we learned mutual respect, and I survived.

Priscilla, on the other hand, is a different beast. A twist of the wrist, and 93 cubic inches of fuel air explosion dislodges snot back into my skull, makes my asshole pucker, and makes my eyeballs flatten, squish and hurt. Jolting forward, she clatters and vibrates so hard that I can’t keep my feet on the footboards. The noise from her straight pipes jangles consciousness. Unlike modern Japanese or German bikes that snap your neck from the acceleration but offer no difference in feel between 20mph and 120mph, Priscilla announces speed with an airhorn and a baseball bat. You notice. That’s the ol’ pepper, boy! At speed, our mortality becomes apparent and immanent. Priscilla also looks the part, more Road Warrior than weekend warrior. Thirty years of oil leaks and road grit remain intact, giving her patched parts a dingy, dark patina. Her tank and front fender are a faded peach color with black pinstriped swirls. Her tank emblem is from a ‘58. She has a plain black rear fender and leather saddle bags. She looks mean, though the peach-colored tank winks playfully. You will think twice about throwing a leg over her.

The day before I set out, Dave and I changed her oil, a final tweak to ensure her smooth running back to Chicago.

I noticed her tail light was out. Thankfully Dave had a spare, and we fixed her in five minutes. I packed a range of probable tools, spare oil, extra nuts and bolts, spare plugs, extra clothes, a rain suit, a tent, a sleeping bag, a ground pad, and three water bottles. I checked the map — hot and dry through the great plains for the next several days. Dave would ride with me for a few hours on the first day, watching and smelling for any major issues. He would be my 24/7 Roadside Assistance Contact for the whole trip, always at the end of the phone.

Dave’s offer of help was most appreciated. Still, it led to ambivalent thoughts. There is a pleasure in being out there alone on the road, with no backup plan, just one’s own wits, knowledge, and experience. I expected Priscilla to throw troubles at me, watch how I responded to her, and prove to her I was a worthy rider. I didn’t want someone else to make problems go away for me. It’s the grown up version of I can do it myself, mom! The greater pleasure, however, is in the sharing of friendship. Dave’s 24/7 Roadside Assistance was not a burden on him, but a joy to be a part of Priscilla’s and my adventure. Frankly, problemsolving is so enjoyable, saying “I got this on my own” is childishly selfish. So while I looked forward to overcoming the unexpected challenges the road led to, I also looked forward to sharing them, discussing them, and learning from Dave’s solutions.

 

That morning, we got up, breakfasted, and packed the bikes. Faith asked me to send Dave home soon as he hadn’t slept much (a long Covid effect), and he wasn’t 100%. Dave and Faith’s dog Dillan, a sweet and formidable Malinois, set the Kong of Assistance on Priscilla’s right footboard. I halp! We started motors, let them warm, contemplated the road ahead. Setting out to the nearest gas station, fifty feet out the driveway, I feel my left footboard fall away. We turn back to the house, unpack, and work on the repair. A bolt had sheared off, and a second was loose. We found replacements, and got her footboard and crash bar secured. This was the kind of break that would not have been easy to fix on the road. I’d have had to ride to a hardware store with no easy way to shift, holding my left foot up in the air, or tucked on my back peg. Priscilla was saying she didn’t want to leave Santa Fe, needed a few more minutes in Dave’s yard. Frankly, I suspect Dave had spoiled her considerably, with new wheels, new rear fender, new rear lights, probably a motor rebuild, who knows what else. But she was also being kind to me, snapping that bolt so close to Dave’s shop, where it was an easy fix.

Back on the road, we ride into the late-morning desert, bright sky and growing heat. Mornings like this out West have a particular feel: a lovely, easy warmth that makes me think of The Eagles songs “Peaceful, Easy Feeling,” and “Tequila Sunrise.” The traffic isn’t bad, and I look for my stride. Dave follows, listening and sniffing, probably judging my riding too, but he’s too gracious to comment. I keep Dave in my right hand rear view mirror, and hang a bit too far left in the lane for my comfort.

I am adamant to avoid highways and tolls. Thankfully, the highways in New Mexico have a secondary road feel to them, with little traffic and endless open space around.

Road trips on old bikes are a particular type of experience. In a car, you are insulated. On a new bike, you trust nothing will go wrong mechanically. On an old bike, your focus must include the bike's status at all times. Is that a new noise? Is that a new vibration? Is that dripping oil new? You look down as you ride to see if anything is dangling. You check oil levels and bolt tightness every fifty miles. You find problems and make decisions about what they mean. Was that bolt loose because it’s coming loose, or wasn’t tightened fully before? Will oil on my rear tire sidewall affect turns? On the first day, the mental strain of riding an old bike is heavy. You still carry the mental churn of daily life, the usual worries and concerns of life. However, your thoughts must focus on the general awareness necessary to ride a bike well, and through a world of careless car drivers. All this at once makes for a busy brain. But after a few hours, by the early afternoon, the mental chatter of daily life fades and you stop thinking about work, focusing on the road. The second day, you and the bike become one, so to speak, and you stop thinking about the rattles, sounds, and other worries. If something goes wrong, you will know from that peripheral vision part of thought and senses. Your mind empties in a lovely way, the periphery of thought occupied like a focus on breathing in mediation. By the third day, I will ride for long stretches without a single notable thought in my head.

 

Around noon, we ride through Las Vegas, NM, soon to have no municipal water supply. The West is burning and it is easy to see. Down a side road, we stop for coffee in an old Adobe building. The interior is brand new, decorated in fancy New England style. A Mormon girl at the counter gives us coffee and bean burritos with a smile. The coffee is excellent. She explains that a local (billionaire) rancher built the coffee shop, mainly for him and his local friends.

At Springer, NM, Dave and I part ways. He should have headed home earlier, but had too much fun riding together. Priscilla is running fine, though losing oil from her primary case a bit faster than we’d like. It’s a joyful, but hard parting. I wish he lived closer to Chicago.

I hit the road alone, and my head clears even more. I am no longer looking for Dave in my rear view. I move to the center of the road. So begins a pattern of riding for 50 to 70 miles, stopping for a stretch, gas, bolt and oil level checks. My ass begins to hurt in the same familiar places. My arms, hands and feet get used to the vibrations. It feels like being home.

The hills to the West of Springer (and mountains of Taos) fade in the mirrors as the Great Plains open up. The groves of trees thin out, and vast stretches of dry grass field stretch around in a flat 360 degree horizon. Desolate is the key word. Little towns poke up now and again—a few ramshackle buildings, closed businesses, the remains of a gas station, a few trees—but mostly the road is straight through the desolation. And it is hot. I can feel the sun on my black jeans and black leather jacket. I am not sweating for the wind, but I know that if I stop, I will fry. I am glad for the sunscreen Dave gave me for my nose, the only exposed but of skin, through the windscreen of my helmet. The road is feeling less Eagles’ Peaceful, Easy Feeling, and more AC/DC’s Back in Black.

Over 65 mph, the the vibrations are so strong it is hard to keep feet on the footboards. Like trying to stand on floor sander. I find a way to wedge my right foot between the crash bar and a bolt I added to keep my heel from sliding off. My right is less slippery, the gear shift linkage seems to keep my foot in place. I ride about 60 mph. The world goes by.

Priscilla stutters and starts to run on one cylinder. There is not even a shoulder on the road. I look for a tree to pull under, but there is none. I keep going. Put grumble putt grumble putt grumble putt grumble, Priscilla loses speed.

Up ahead I see a stone monolith that reads “Welcome to Oklahoma!” and I pull along side of it, Priscilla gasping out one last cough. Well, now I am in a pickle. The afternoon sun is fierce. I take off my helmet and jacket and put on my sun hat. So begins the problemsovling. Ok girl, what are you saying?

First, I take a long drink, emptying a water bottle. Second, I note that the monolith has shade on the back side. It is the only shade for miles. I take off all of Priscilla’s bags and push her behind the monolith. First problem solved. Two water bottles left.

Bad gas is my first guess. I had just fueled up a few miles back. I drain the float bowl, maybe water, add an octane booster if the misfiring is from low octane in their high-test tank, and think on it. But it can’t be. To confirm, I begin to check the plugs when I notice the green neutral light is hardly visible. I check the headlight and it won’t go on. So.

It’s not the gas, it’s an electrical issue. Near-dead battery. Why?

I take off the seat and check the battery with my voltmeter. I get numbers I can’t understand. 18 out of 50? Is that low or high? It must be low because the lights won’t go on. Voltmeter on the fritz? Am I reading it wrong? The charging system is likely out, so time to chase leads. Maybe a simple frayed wire, maybe a faulty ground. The voltmeter does seem to show accurate resistance, so the hunt begins. I follow the leads from the battery, one by one, and come across a slightly loose plug from the rectifier into the case. It looks melted. My heart sinks. I clean it off and push it back in place. I take readings that show a constant connection to positive, which is puzzling, and take pics of the plug. I send them to Dave for advice.

Then I wonder— if I can’t get her going again, which is seeming likely, considering melted wires and no battery, who is going to come pick us up on this lonely road? Who do I call? Google "Oklahoma Panhandle Motorcycle Tow Services"? There’s a campground about 5 miles up the road where I could crash, but pushing 800 lbs of bike and gear that far is a bit of a stretch. I drink half of my second water bottle thinking things through.

Dave replies with tons of advice, places to look and check, and offers bringing his truck to come get me, bless his heart. I know he just wants to join the fun, but he has work at home. He’s also exhausted. We debate options for solutions over the phone. He tells me to throw out my defective voltmeter, and get a real one in the next town. I decide it must be the rectifier plug, and maybe, in spite of being melted, a patched connection could last. I clean the plug, gently bend the wires into place, push it all back together and try to start her. Priscilla starts no problem and idles beautifully. The headlight comes back on. I let Dave know he can go take a nap, no need for roadside rescue, that the loose and melted rectifier plug was the problem, and that my patch is holding. For now. I am amazed at how simple the fix was. Dave is amazed at how simple the fix was. Thank you girl, for not stranding us. You just wanted to check how clever we were.

I load Priscilla back up, ride down the hot road feeling cooler and cooler and happier and happier every minute. I find a supermarket in a tired old town where I stock up on almonds, beef jerky, and other hard tack road food. I buy a Cobb salad and a can of coconut water. Guzzling the coconut water outside, I feel my shriveled body expand back to health. There are chunks of coconut in it. I spit the first one out thinking it’s a cigarette butt or a bug that got in during the canning process. But on recognition, I chew them down.

Freecampsites.net has recommended a lovely place a few miles off my road, close enough to roll in just at sunset, allowing enough time to get the tent up before nightfall. The heat has settled and the riding is a delight. We are back to Peaceful, Easy Feeling.

The directions take me down a poorly maintained dirt-gravel road, and I end up in the middle of a parched, cracked, sloping cattle field, not a person or campsite in miles. The strong smell of cowshit is in the wind. If someone camped there, well, good for them. Lumpy, hoof-pocked ground on an angled field, with no “permission” to be there, fertilizer in the wind, and no water spigot to replenish was too much. If I couldn’t find better, I’d hit the nearest Walmart parking lot.

Back on the road, I come up to Rolla, KS, and find a Corner Market on the edge of the town. At the counter inside, I ask the clerks if they know of a nearby campsite. They say they’re pretty sure I can camp in the town park, just three blocks down. I thank them kindly and go to investigate. At the first intersection, I see a Sheriff’s truck, so I wave him down. I’d rather have his permission than the Corner Market ladies’ goodwill. He tells me that Yes, “under normal circumstances”, people can camp there. I take that as permission and thank him, and promise not to light any fires.

I go three blocks down and get lost. There is a pool and a tennis court, but no park. I stop and ask two kids playing basketball where the town park might be. They are super friendly and point me the way with great detail, better than the ladies or the Sheriff. Maybe kids today aren’t so bad.

The park has picnic benches, fire pits, a shelter without walls, and a cinderblock building with toilets. No one is there. Hallelujah.

Wearing a headlamp in the gathering dark, I set up camp on damp grass. I eat my Cobb salad at a park bench and listen to the trucks rumble past on the highway. I call my wife Dinah and let her know I’m ok, and we talk our days through.

A large man walks out of the darkness, a small boy following him. My quietude is ruffled.

“Excuse me. Could I get a hand with my Gator? I got stuck.”

“Sure.” I put down my fork and follow the pair into the darkness, where I find a Gator ATV with its back wheels stuck in a drainage ditch. The boy is smiling at me, and I ask him if he likes the adventure of riding in the Gator.

“Yes!” he says and jumps in the passenger seat.

I push while the large man hits the gas, and they get out of the ditch.

“Thank you!” He says, and off they go.

Priscilla tucked and locked right next to the next, I lie on top of my sleeping bag in the warm night, unwind my back, stiff from the day’s ride, work in earplugs to make the truck air brakes just a bit more distant, and fall asleep like a little kid.

An amazing and lucky day done.

—

In the morning, I get up, use a washcloth in the cinderblock sink to make myself feel human, eat some jerky, and check Priscilla. She has no oil in her primary. Strange. I put a half liter in. Examining the gaskets, the usual source of leaking, I find everything tight. Strange comes back into my head, as the problemsovling kicks in. I have lots of oil, and can get more. So no big deal. But what does the leak mean? What is leaking and why? What are you trying to say now, girl?

I get on the road. The road is cool to the point of cold, beautiful and barren in the morning light. I have not a thought in my head. My senses just take in each detail of landscape, road, traffic and Priscilla sounds and shakes. I am not aware I’m taking it all in. It just happens. This is why I ride.

At the first gas station, I put more oil in the primary. At the second gas station stop, I put more oil in the primary. At the third gas station stop… the leak is getting so bad the left side of the rear tire is slick with oil. I’m worried a left hand curve will send me into the weeds. I text Dave’s 24/7 roadside assistance number to troubleshoot. I check the drain plug, and it’s tight. I check the blocked original hose, and it’s a wee bit loose, but not enough to piss out oil at a rate of a half liter every 100 miles. I’m thinking to take the primary case off and reseal, and scout gasket goo at a local truck stop. Where else could she be leaking from? The seal around the drive shaft? Dave replies that she can’t lose that much through the driveshaft, but there are no other holes to leak from. For a backup plan, I book a uHaul from Kansas City to Chicago, as that’s the nearest city with a 15’ truck. It’s still 200 miles from where I am, so I get on the road with a long way to go yet, probably into the night. Are you giving us a mystery leak because you don’t want to ride any more? Or are you testing our cleverness again?

North of Topeka, I pull over about 5pm for gas and another dose of primary oil. I am worried about riding into Kansas City at night to a closed uHaul place, where I will have to “check in” using my phone. What if it doesn’t work? What if I can’t get Priscilla up into the uHaul without help? Will I reenact one of those Failblog videos of the idiot riding his bike up a plank to have the edge of the truck bed catch the bottom of the bike, bring us to a screeching halt, before bike-and-rider tumble over sideways onto the pavement? I need a tape measure to measure distances, angles. I don’t have one. Will my headlamp battery last? Can I find local “youts” to offer $20 to help me push her into the truck? Will she let me figure out the oil leak instead?

In the gas station, for the first time on the trip, a Harley enthusiast approaches.

“Hey! Nice Shovel!” he says from 50 yards. He is about my age, white Fu Manchu mustache, sleeveless Harley T shirt, deep tan, bandana, sunglasses. S he calls out, he is climbing out of a dually truck that looks as beaten and aged as he looks. The man knows shovelheads at a distance, a good sign in my book.

“Thanks!” I call back. He comes over and we chat while I take off the primary case.

“You ride?” I ask.

“Some” he replies. Another good sign. He doesn’t try to impress with a long list of all the cool, expensive motorcycles he owns and rides. Instead he tells me how his wife has cancer that came back, how he used to ride with her, and how much he loves riding. His name is Justin.

“What’s the problem?”

“Leaking primary case. I can’t figure out from where.”

“I know a guy. Not far from here,” he says. “He might be able to help.”

“ANew Harley Mechanic?” I ask, doubtfully.

“No, old,” he stresses, and I trust him that much more.

“I’ll give him a shout,” and Justin picks up his phone.

“Yeah? What’s the problem?” a gravelly voice asks me over Justin’s phone. I explain everything.

“I’d look at it tonight, but it’s Friday, I done started drinking. Don’t put bikes up on stands after I been drinking. But if you bring it over, I can work on it in the morning.”

“Sure, thanks. Know of a place I can camp?”

“My backyard is fine, if you like.” I accept.

Justin says he’ll guide me to Dave’s shop, just a few miles away. I follow, feeling like I have a new and better plan than a uHaul 200 miles away. I have a pleasant smile in my head, for this is the adventure: who you meet, the unexpected places you go, where the road takes you.

I have friends who think this is crazy. Camping in parks? Accepting help from strangers? Sleeping in strangers’ backyards? Riding unreliable motorcycles through desolate places? They’d never do it. Too dangerous. Too uncertain. A snarky voice in my head wants to say what are you afraid of, life? I often joke “Uh oh, people” because in most circumstances I would rather be alone, or with loved ones. Modern city life grinds us together in horrible ways, bringing out the worst in our tiny, largely commercial interactions Do you want fries with that? Have a nice day. I get just as snippy as the people I fault for being snippy. But the vast majority of people are good and kind at heart. Serial murderers, narcissists, assholes, are rare, and even they can have good sides. So I trust in a basic underlying human nature. I also trust my gut. And Justin did not churn my gut in the least. He was as straightforward as a compass pointing North.

We arrive at Dave’s shop, a simple steel shed with a little sign, “81 Kustom Cycles” over the door. It is set on a patch of cracked dry brown land, surrounded by bean fields.

Dave comes out, beer bottle in one hand, cigarette in mouth, flashlight in the other hand, He says hi, and gets on his knees, and looks up around Priscilla’s chain.

“Wasn’t what I was looking for, but I can see up into your primary case here. Chain ate a hole in the case. Likely the reason why you’re losing oil. I don’t weld aluminum but I bet I could figure out a fix tomorrow for it. Likely a 6 hour job.”

A man with a giant bushy beard comes up behind Dave and says “I got a case that would fit that bike. Trade your for the one you got, and some cash. Lemme know in the morning what you want to do”, and he gets in his car and drives off.

Dave starts talking about old bikes, asking where I’m from, where I’m headed, about Priscilla.

Justin moves to leave, and I thank him deeply for getting me to Dave’s shop. “No problem. Never leave a biker on the side of the road.” A favor I won’t forget.

Dave and I go into his shop, and I suck in my breath. Next to the door, an utterly gorgeous mint ‘46 Knucklehead sits next to an utterly gorgeous mint ‘47 Knucklehead.

“I call those parts bikes. ‘Cause no two parts on them were ever originally together. I get the parts at meets and make the bikes out of them,” Dave explains with a chuckle through his cigarette.

“Don’t mind Ziggy. She’s a rescue. A little skittish. She’ll bark, but won’t bite.” The sweetest brown dog comes up and I give her pats on the head.

Looking around more, I see three pristine motors on his bench, a knuckle, a panhead and a shovelhead, lined up as if on display.

“Don’t rebuild motors myself any more. I got a guy who does ‘em.”

On a stand, there’s an early shovelhead, the seat on a post. It has the original air cleaner on it. Original early 70’s paint with rainbow striping.

“Rare bike that.” Dave explains. “One owner. Lives nearby. Put 30k miles on it. Only changed the oil. I’m rebuilding it for him. Think I’ll isolate the primary case. There wasn’t any metal coming out of it into the oil tank. Oh, the emblems on your bike are from a ‘58. If you like, I’ll give you $100 for each of them.” Dave proceeds to tell me tales of his work and his life for the next hour and a half, and I dwell on every syllable -how he started out with a shop at 19, fielding nitrous drag race. Then he worked as a race mechanic with Vance and Hines for a few years. Then he started this restoration shop. Left Vance and Hines because he hated airports and having to travel everywhere. I look around at hundreds of photographs of drag bikes, shaking hands with famous people, women with saucy smiles hanging their tits out of tiny bikini tops, trophies and other memorabilia. I feel as if I’ve stumbled into a major Harley holy site.

“Not much I haven’t already seen, kinda boring now,” Dave opines about his work. I fear he will stop working.

“Where’s your apprentice?” I ask.

“Nobody’s kicking down my door. Do I have to find one? My nephew was around for a while, but then he got married. I’m not such a good teacher anyway. Nobody asks good questions,” Dave rambled on. I wanted to apprentice with him. A rush of sadness hit me as I realized I’m watching the slow death of an exceptionally talented mechanic.

Dave shares a tomato from a friend’s garden with me. I thank him deeply for his insight into Priscilla’s problem, and wander out to set up camp before dark. The ground is hard as rock, cracked from drought. I wash my head and armpits with his garden hose, settle into a dinner of beef jerky and almonds, drink down a gallon of chalky Kansas well water.

I text with Santa Fe Dave and bring him up to speed. He is as agog as I am over what I stumbled into. The primary case hole isn’t a roadside fix. Dave says he will come to Chicago to pull the primary case with me. He wants in on the fun so much. I wish with all my heart he could be here in 81 Kustom Dave’s shop. Santa Fe Dave would boggle.

I call Dinah to let her know I’m safe and alive, and we talk our days through.

I fall asleep to the sounds of wind through the bean field, distant highway, and Ziggy’s occasional bark.

Another amazingly lucky day done.

—

I wake up to a red rising sun lifting through yellow-leafed beans. Dave told me it hadn’t rained in 120 days. I wash and eat and pack Priscilla up.

81 Kustom Dave had explained that if I used sticky chain oil, I could drive home with no oil in the primary case. Santa Fe Dave agrees that it could work, with the worry that the plastic adjuster block could melt. I sit with Priscilla for a moment and ask her what she wants. Did she bring me to 81 Kustom Dave because she wanted a rebuild from an expert? No, she says, not really, though that would be nice. I brought you here for his sticky chain oil hack so you can get me home. You’re going to rebuild my primary case and get to know me a whole lot better. It’s a deal.

81 Kustom Dave gives me directions to good motorcycle shop twenty miles North of Topeka for a particular brand of chain oil. I thank him deeply for his help and ask if I can offer him anything, which he politely declines.

Dan’s Cycle is a rare shop. A mix of new bikes and old ones for sale, including a 60’s Guzzi and some Hondas from the early 70’s. I explain what I’m looking for to the clerk, and who sent me.

“Dave? Well, you couldn’t have stopped in a better place,” the clerk notes. “He’s like the very best old Harley mechanic in the 50 states. He’ll give you good advice. He’s a good guy.” I take two bottles of PJ-1 blue chain oil and head back to Priscilla. Best in the nation? From the look of Dave’s shop, I have no reason to doubt it. A national treasure a few miles North of Topeka, KS, and Priscilla takes me there. Thank you, girl.

I get back on the road with a sense that everything is now working just fine on Priscilla (just don’t melt the plastic block!), but with worry that that other factors are shifting against us. The ride has been hot, but rain and cold are coming up. The clerk at Dan’s Cycle Shop told me a line of slow-moving thunderstorms were coming in around 1pm, that I could likely skirt them if I keep going directly East. However, if I strike North through them, stay a night in a motel to dry out, I could follow in behind them, dry, all the way to Chicago. This seems a sound plan, so I take it. I make a reservation for a Motel 6 in West Des Moines, IA that the clerk recommended. The Motel 6 clerk warns me that I must call by 6pm to cancel, or will be charged for the night. Des Moines is 260 miles away, a reasonable distance for a day’s ride.

Spittle hits my helmet as I leave Dan’s, though it’s only 9 am. I head East a ways and find a gas station with a roof to get my rain gear on. I check this and that on Priscilla and all seems well. The rain starts, then comes down in buckets. I decide to dally to avoid the worst of it, figuring it’s a passing shower.

A farmer towing a big cattle trailer pulls up to the opposite pump. He gets out, and starts fussing with the trailer wiring.

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

“No trailer lights! Can’t figure it out!” He replies.

I debate getting involved. I have a long road, through the rain, to get to Des Moines, and a dry, recommended motel room.

“Can I help?” I offer, timidly.

“Could you check if I have break lights while I hit the pedal?”

“Sure.” I go stand behind his trailer. He has no brake lights.

“Damn. What could it be then?” the farmer asks the wide world.

I’m involved.

I begin the curious social problem of figuring out how to be helpful with a total stranger. I don’t know what he knows about electrics. More than me? Less than me? I don’t want to add to his irritation, but don’t want to let him flounder. It’s a delicate ballet of letting him problemsolve, but trying to help, without touching anything. I feel a bit like Santa Fe Dave on the other end of the phone.

He checks the fuse box in the engine compartment, and replaces a few blown ones. There is a fuse for the left hand turn signal, but not the right hand one. There is a fuse for the brake light, but not the general lights. It’s confusing.

He buys a can of carburetor cleaner in the gas station shop and sprays the trailer wiring plug with it, hoping to clean out any crap that might have collected.

“Could you check if I have break lights now?”

“Nope, no lights.” I call back to him.

To get the trailer electric plug apart, he needs a tiny screw driver, and doesn’t have one. I happen to have one in my kit, so pull out Priscilla’s tools. I also pull out my defective voltmeter, which I had not yet replaced.

“You got everything in there!” the farmer exclaims.

“I need everything to keep her going!”

He pulls apart the plug to find five of six wires have pulled away from their terminals. None of the terminals are color coded, so which one goes where is a mystery.

My heart sinks, for now I can’t leave him with an electrical mess, taking my defective voltmeter and tiny screw driver with me. So I reconcile with the fact that Des Moines will be unattainable. On the other hand, I feel I’m paying forward Justin’s, 81 Kustom Dave’s, and Santa Fe Dave’s generosity within less than 24 hours. Never leave a bike, or a farmer's trailer, on the side of the road. It’s just a question of where to stay. I still had battery power in my phone.

“This one says the black is the brake light. This other one says it’s the brown.” The farmer looks up several trailer wiring diagrams online. They offer some, but not any definitive help.

I start checking for voltage and continuity at each terminal while he plays with the controls. He wires up the plug based on what I tell him each terminal does. But because the plug is backwards from the terminals in the truck, he gets most of the wires in the wrong place. So we wire the plug once, and get turn signals, but no brakes. Then we get lights and brakes but no turn signals. Then we get…. Finally, we draw maps in a notebook and walk through each, and Eureka! His trailer has all the lights working right. I use some of my zip ties to keep the plug in place, as he broke off the wire lock in frustration earlier.

I thought to ask if I could stuff the bike in his trailer, hitch a ride to Kansas City, and stay out of the rain; it was a hoot of an idea, an adventure in itself, but then I recalled the whole point of the trip. In any event, he was late for his grandson’s football game.

“My name’s Dave. Can I give you anything for your help?” He looks at me with the most sincere look of gratitude.

“Of course not.” Because of course not. I chuckle at the thought of telling him he owed me money for helping. Farmer Dave smiles, says Thanks with the most sincere look in his eyes, leaps back into his truck, and squeals a tire getting back on the road. Having pushed back selfish instincts, and seen the benefit to another person so clearly and directly, left me in a mood to pin a medal on myself. In the meantime, the rain had stopped. Mostly.

The ride towards Kansas City got rainier and colder the closer I got, until it was mid to low 60’s and pouring by the time I hit the city limits. My rain suit kept me warm at first, but slowly it showed its limits. Little leaks here and there started to add up. The velcro collar around the neck tore out its stitching the third time I tried to take it off.

I put my magnetic tank bag into a black garbage bag to keep it dry. That worked well, until the wind caught a corner of the garbage bag and yanked the tank bag out of my lap and right off the bike on the right hand side. It rolled to an on-ramp lane. I pulled Priscilla over and ran back, watching cars woosh towards me in the rain. I got to the bag, picked it up and walked back along the shoulder. No one had driven over it. While the plastic bag was torn up, nothing was broken inside. Just one granola bar was shattered to dust. What kind of luck is this?

The sticky lube solution seemed to be working fine. No smoking primary. No melted plastic. I stopped worrying so much, but faithfully lubed the chain every 70 miles.

The map said to follow I-35 through Kansas City and straight into Des Moines. I followed the map. As I got closer to the city center, the semis got thicker, the spray off their tires came more often, the idiots who didn’t see me more common. Trying to merge back onto the highway from a gas stop, I found cones limiting the road to one lane. I sped up to fit between two cars, but the one behind wasn’t having it and sped up to cut me off. He went past on my left with inches to spare. I swerved right to avoid him, then saw I was headed straight for a cone. I swerved back left just in time, the cone top snapping my knuckles hard, but not enough to destabilize Priscilla. This is, I believe, one advantage of a heavy bike. I doubt the impatient driver realized that he nearly killed me, nor did he look at the middle finger I gave him as he sped off. I rode on.

Reaching Kansas City, in heavy rain, I discovered that I-35 simply comes to an end, with an “exit now” sign. I exited, and found myself in the poorest part of Kansas City. I stopped in the parking lot of a Restaurant Supply Warehouse, pulled out my cell phone to try and make sense of the map, but my fingers were too wet to make the phone work. Pulling at dry cloths from my tumbled tank bag, a row of children stood nearby and stared at me, as if I were alien dropped from the heavens. I tried to say something through my helmet, but it was garbled and they didn’t reply.

I found on the map that I had to take the exit for the highway going East to St. Louis first, then choose another highway going North to some other place, then another exit for a route West to get to I-35 North again. Thanks, Kansas City, for the total lack of rerouting signs.

Back on the road, the rain grew dissipated and the temperature dropped. I pushed on. Maybe I could make it to Des Moines after all, not until 8 or 9 pm, but that was all right as long as I stayed warm.

In Bethany, MO, I stopped for gas, and noticed my hands were shaking with cold. This was not good, as warming up inside wouldn’t last too long once back on the road. I checked the outdoor temp and it was low 50’s. I had 103 miles to go to Des Moines, and was not going to do it without the mental fog of cold. Years earlier, I had nearly killed myself pressing on when I was cold and wet, getting so mentally confused that I forgot what the kickstand was for when I came into a gas station, ending up under my bike on its side. That was one mistake I would not make twice.

Then I noticed my headlight was out. Both high and low beam. No riding into the night, then. Santa Fe Dave had already sent me a twelve-page wiring diagram/explanation of Priscilla’s electrics, but I would not read it with shaking hands, in the dark.

It was 5:50 pm. I called Motel Six to cancel my reservation. They put me on hold for five, then six minutes... “Wow, you just made the cutoff. By two minutes. Canceled with no charge, Sir. Good evening.” The Motel 6 clerk was impressed with my fine timing. I was too.

I ask the clerk in the gas station if they were to stay in a nearby motel, which one would it be?

“Last time I was in the Family Values,” a young lady with lots of earrings and purple hair said, referring to the motel just outside the gas station, “they had like cockroaches and bedbugs and shit. Not good for business.” I got the impression that she wasn’t referring to the Family Values Motel business. An older woman who seemed to be her supervisor looked at her hard, then recommended the Super 8 across the highway. “That one’s better.”

Riding over the the Super 8, I got stuck behind a brown Dodge Caravan from the early 90’s that seemed lost, and reflected that state by driving at 11 mph, across lanes, blinker on, blinker off, blinker on, brakes on constantly, and mostly in my lane. Instead of roaring around them, I just slowed down and let them figure it out. They eventually turned into the Super 8, and I suddenly had a horror that they were looking for the same last room that I was. The Christian in me died at that moment and I parked Priscilla with speed and walked into the lobby well head of them. I had zero appetite for roaming Bethany for another motel, hands shaking, no headlight. I hoped they had reservations, or were lost and drove back out of the parking lot, or were picking someone up, and that I was doing them no harm.

There was no clerk at the desk, so I called the number indicated on the hotel phone. Then an older couple walked in and stood in line behind me, probably from the brown Caravan. We both waited, awkwardly, silently, for the clerk to arrive. When he did, there were apparently plenty of rooms. My selfishness abated, my Christianity returned. I chatted up the old couple. They were heading from Des Moines to Branson for some good vacation. We talked about the weather, all the fun that could be found in Branson. They were friendly and didn’t seem to bother that, while they drove first into the parking lot, I got to the desk first. They told me it would be clear skies tomorrow, and my ride should be better. I thanked them for that.

The room like manna from heaven. I have not taken such a long hot shower in years. They had a washer-dryer down the hall. I put everything in the dryer, wearing only my plastic rain suit up and down the hall to get there and back. Children in the hallway would see me coming and turn around. I thought about mock-growling at them, but smiled and laughed instead.

On a bed t hat felt like it was made of feathers, I slept like a child, once again grateful for the simplicity of the road, the people I met and helped, the people who helped me, even the couple heading to Branson, from who I kind of took help.

Another amazingly lucky day done.

I woke to clear blue skies, not a cloud in sight. It was 50 degrees outside, but the promise of a brilliant, 70 degree ride day ahead. I was near jubilant.

The Super 8 had a breakfast nook. I decided to make waffles. But who the fuck knew I had to spray oil all over the thing before putting the batter in? I made a horrid mess that would not come out of the iron with the plastic knife at my disposal. I scraped, scraped, to no avail. No one was at the desk. I left the mess, and had a bowl of raisin bran instead.

Packing up Priscilla, the rain drying off her with the rising sun, I had a good feeling for all that would come next. Looking at the weather, with a major depression sitting over Chicago for the nest two days, and reports from Dinah that our basement had flooded with sewage, I felt the call to be home sooner than later. I decided that we’d ride to the edge of the rain, to Tennessee, IL, pick up a uHaul there, and drive the rest of the way into the city with both me and the bike dry. I reserved a 10’ truck with a trailer, which I was sure I could get Priscilla on, but figured I could switch to a 15’ truck with a ramp if conditions suggested I could get help getting her up the ramp.

The road East out of Bethany, MO is an utter motorcycle delight. Seldom-traveled country road through rolling hills, not super curvy, but past the most beautiful, quiet farms. Northern Missouri is now a favorite realm for me. “Trump 2020” painted on the side of a collapsing house, and a “Let’s Go Brandon” flag in front of another spoke to our political divide. Country and City have never misunderstood each other more. I rode along in peaceful equanimity, and was happy.

Rolling into Tennessee around 4pm, I got into a debate with Priscilla. The skies were clear, the weather lovely. What if we camped one more night, Priscilla? Then, Monday, tried to get a bit closer to the bomb cyclone over Chicago before renting a truck? Maybe even riding through a little cold rain as a last step? Three inches had already come down, how much more could there be? I flipped a quarter, heads we camp — and the coin tumbled through my fingers and landed squarely on Priscilla’s transmission tails up. She had spoken. Let’s get home.

Brent, the uHaul rental guy, was friendly. I asked if I could get a hand pushing the bike up the ramp into a 15 footer, and he said sure. So I asked him to change my rental to a 15’ truck. No problem, he had three 15’ trucks on site. While he did paperwork, I got Priscilla’s bags off her. Then Brent pulled the 15’ truck around and put her rear wheels into a drainage ditch. That made the ramp nearly horizontal. I simply rode her in, strapped her down, and set off to Chicago as the sun fell towards the horizon. I’d be home by 10pm.

The first annoyance was to discover the fuel level was 5/8, not “full” as Brent had told me it was, and as the contract said when I glanced at it. Oh well, got tricked. A few extra bucks on gas was no big deal.

The second annoyance was that Google maps sent me down thirty miles of the very worst pothole-filled roads in rural Illinois—the worst roads I had seen all trip—just to get to the highway. I had to slow down to 25-30 miles to prevent Priscilla from jostling loose from her straps. Every bang and rattle felt like an insult to her.

Then, reaching the highway, the car shenanigans started almost right away. Worse than on a bike, Fuck the Truck seems to be the attitude of many cars, especially Jeeps, BMW’s and muscle cars. Diving in front of me, speeding past and nearly cutting me off. It was relentless, and only got worse the closer I got to Chicago. Road annoyance turned to sparks of anger turned to a conscious effort to avoid rage. I was no longer on a serene motorcycle ride, but right back in the mixmaster of modern city life. How it grinds us together in horrible ways, bringing out the worst in our tiny interactions.

Though the clouds were utterly spectacular, imposing, dark and beautiful, it did not rain when the weatherman said it would. In fact, it didn’t rain once driving into Chicago. At first this pissed me off, as I likely could have ridden even with the cold temps. But the closer I got to Chicago, the happier I was to be in the truck. Twenty miles out, the idiots came out in full force. Cars would come from behind at fifty miles over my speed, cut across my nose three lanes to peel around another slower car. I thought Fuck, if one of them hit me on the bike from behind, I’d be toast. Large sections of the highway had no shoulder. I figured if I had a problem with Priscilla, there’d be nowhere to pull over, or even get out of the way of the mayhem. Were she to stumble and need work, we’d be sitting ducks in a bumper car hall.

The truck and I lumbered home, Priscilla quiet in the back. Arriving, after a huge hug with Dinah, we put the end of the ramp up on bricks and I rode Priscilla down and into the alley without a problem. You're home, girl.

Then the real shenanigans started. I looked at my contract to find Brent had changed the dropoff location to a store way out of town. I called UHaul to change it back to the location I had chosen, only 15 minutes away. It was 11 pm, I was exhausted from the road, and I apparently called a uHaul help line on another planet, as our conversation tended towards the unreal.

“You want to change the dropoff location for your 10’ ruck rental?”

“I don’t have a 10’ truck. I changed it to a 15’ truck.”

“You mean the one from Kansas City?”

“No, I canceled that rental. I’m trying to return the 15’ truck I rented in Tennessee, IL.”

“Oh, no. You have a 10’ truck out from Tennessee, as well as one from Kansas City.”

“No, I don’t have a truck out from Kansas City. I don’t have two trucks. How could I rent two trucks? I never picked that one up. I canceled it. I did pick up a truck in Tennessee, IL. I made the reservation there for a 10’ truck but changed it to a 15’ truck. I have a 15’ truck I am trying to return. Please help me return this 15’ truck….”

“You don’t have a 15’ truck, sir. Let’s forget about the one in Kansas City. You have a 10 truck from Tennessee, they can be hard to tell apart.”

“No I don’t have a 10’ truck.”

“Fine. Read me the number on the side, then sir.” The clerk sounded more tired than I was.

“DC 1899.” I spoke carefully into the phone. I hear a pause.

“Oh. Oh. Shit. You do have a 15’ truck. That’s a 15’ truck number. How the….” I hear the clerk say, with some awe in her voice. “That’s not right. No. No. That’s not good.”

“Are we on the same page now?” I ask.

“Oh no, sir, we’re way off page on this one.”

I look at my paperwork. It says 10’ truck. Fuck. The first time I don’t read the paperwork carefully, I get the wrong truck, with the wrong gas, going to the wrong drop off location.

I begin to panic. They’re going to charge me with theft… taking the wrong truck from the lot without Brent’s permission…. They’re going to melt my credit card.

“Can I just return the 15’ truck I rented, pretty please, and we’ll call it good?” I ask in my smallest voice.

Over another hour, after speaking two two clerks, we come to the understanding that uHaul understands nothing of what is going on, and will ask Corporate to get involved, and contact me within 3 business days. Corporate can’t be good. All I have is the truth on my side, little evidence for it, and I know how little that counts today. This is asshole puckering of a bad kind, unlike acceleration on Priscilla. The exhausted clerk gives me a new place to return the 15’ truck that I should not have, and Dinah and I make good on that.

We get home around midnight, and collapse asleep. It is good to be home, though the smell from the basement is pretty strong.

Another amazing, somewhat lucky day done.

—

The next day, I get a call from uHaul Corporate. The fellow is apologetic, kind, listens to my story, and immediately offers credits towards future rentals. He says he will look into any surcharges that might be in the system, and erase them. He says he hopes my experience isn’t reason to give up hope on Uhaul. You could have knocked me over with a feather.

I think we've all come to expect the “I gotta fuck you before you fuck me—that’s how to get ahead in life” attitude in business, if not in relationships of every kind. We recently dealt with a refrigerator repairman, an old customer, and a corporation that used that approach to business with us. To solve something that wasn't perfect and clear, they aggressively put themselves first, and left us with a large bill for nothing.I hate this approach to business and life, but accept that it’s part of human nature. I have that little voice in my head too— call it “being guarded” combined with “getting ahead” — it pushed me to jump for the Super 8 check in counter in Bethany. But the more I can recognize it, and ignore it, the better. Had that couple gotten the last room in the Super 8, I would have done something else, and it would have been fine in the end. The better me would have waited patiently behind them at the Super 8 desk, to see what fate dealt.

That Corporate uHaul didn’t take that approach is exceptional, amazing, and really speaks to hope for us all. They could have said Ha! We have a contract that you signed! We can totally screw you! And they likely could have, charging who knows what penalties and fees, and I would have been helpless to fight them and their team of lawyers. But they didn’t. I mean, I have yet to see my final credit card bill… Until then, though, even the very end of this trip looks blessed in ways I could hardly have imagined starting out, knock on wood.