Category Archives: On the road

Good places, fond memories

Writing on the road

I started writing back in the ’90s. I didn’t know shit from Shinola about writing back then*, but I was willing to try anything. This is the desk at which I spent many months over the years refining my lack of expertise.

I wrote my first fiction short in that room in the mid-90s. It took three days of 8-to-5 a day. I ended up with 7,500 words – all hand-written, I might add. Some years later, a laptop was added into the mix.

The astute observer will note the abundance of cheap wine in the foreground. Being the non-drinker that I am, I hasten to add that I was the procurer** for the Inn’s Cheap Wine Party. After closing, some of us would shuffle off to the pool area, where we would light a hellish hot fire in the Franklin and huddle around it in the cold of a desert night. Later, there were t-shirts, but unfortunately, I don’t have pictures, because, you know, discretion and all.

When the poolside fire burned out, survivors would hie off to my room. I’d flash up the cozy fireplace and we would continue talking into daylight in the swamp. Or something.

*  not that I claim to know any more now.

** and chief instigator.

The old place is closed

Or, lament for another time.

The place is long closed now. On the flat roof the swamp coolers lie silent and rusted. The once always-on day-and-night blue neon sign is dead, obscured and almost overgrown. The building was green every time I stopped, but I see from the images that it’s white now. Maybe someone thought fresh paint would give the place a boost.

Once it was one of my favorite places to stop and take a break. I’d back into the hitching post in front of the No Parking sign, lean the heavy bagger on the kickstand and take a minute to rest my road-weary and aching bones before walking to the end of the building and stepping down onto the diner’s cement floor. I always walked past the tables lining the windows. Instead, I headed for the counter and the short round chrome stools.

The first time there was an old-timer at one of the tables. I gave his faded shirt and jeans the once-over and figured he had a .45 tucked away somewhere on his person. I smiled and nodded and he nodded back. The old man’s eyes wandered to the girl behind the counter and she nodded. He stayed until we got to talking and laughing and then she must have given the old boy a signal and he disappeared.

She was always there, every time I passed through, a dark-haired and dark-eyed woman, sitting behind that counter.

*

I had to look. How could I not? So many years have passed, I needed to see it for myself a final time. (Images courtesy of google maps.)

* * *

The first time I rode through, it was mid-morning. Forty miles ago I was through Dalhart. (I didn’t stop there. That’s another story.) I’d been riding U.S. 54 all night, something I never do any more. Chalk it up to age and knowing better. I was so fatigued I could barely keep my eyes open.

A tired railroad line paralleled the highway. The town was obviously an old cow town, as evidenced by the loading pens on the north side of the road. That must have been a long time ago, because they looked like they’d seen better days. They were grown over and hadn’t been used in forever.

I knew by the sign over the entrance to Ira’s on the opposite side of the highway that it would never be a viable option. Hell, tired as I was, even I could figure out that the rusted and broken neon hanging from the wall was long past its best-before date. I recall thinking it must have stories to tell, and rode on by.

Just a little farther and I crossed paths with a blue and white cafe sign sticking up above the flat horizon. I pulled off the 54 onto an empty gravel parking lot and pushed back against a wooden hitching post. At the time, it seemed to me that a motorcycle or a tied-up horse would be safe at the railing in the former cow town.

The building had definitely seen better days, and not recently. The cafe’s low exterior walls were encased in fading green stucco. The flat roof supported three or four swamp coolers, probably a necessity, given the area’s hot summers.

Thankfully, I didn’t see a window sign advertising the name of the joint as “Mom’s”. One of my road rules dictates that I never eat at a place called Mom’s. At the very least, it would be a safe bet for a bit of grub and a quick coffee to fight the fatigue. I’d be back on the road in no time.

Now that I had ridden into daylight, I didn’t want to burn any on my run south.

I entered through the side door and took a step down onto a cement floor – thus the reason for the low roof-line. A couple of small tables lined the wall under the windows. I headed for the low counter and took up a short chrome stool covered in beat-up, worn-out, thick plastic. If nothing else, I could carry on a little conversation with the woman behind the counter while I drank coffee and warmed my hands.

She poured the coffee and slid one of those old-style, squat, over-sized china mugs with the thick, rounded handle only big enough for one finger in my direction and raised an eyebrow. I shook my head and poured in a little sugar. While I stirred, I investigated the surroundings, and then turned back to face the woman. She sat in front of the old cash register on the opposite side of the counter.

I took a gander at what was inside the pie tray and asked if it was fresh. She said yes, and got up to go into the back. She returned holding a hot metal tray with a dish towel.
That’s fresh, I said, and in front of me she sliced a piece and dished it out. Without a word, the woman went back to the kitchen and came out bearing a giant scoop of ice cream.

I grinned, and said thanks, and she smiled and told me I was welcome.

Her smile was friendly. Nothing more.

That broke the ice, and we kibbitzed back and forth, she from her chair behind the counter, and me from the stool in front. I took a better look and figured she was probably in her late twenties or early thirties, with that tired look around the eyes that comes from gaining too much life experience, too young.

Yes, her face was framed by dark hair. Dark brown eyes reflected the light coming in from the windows. I was so stunned that I don’t recall checking out the rest of her. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her face.

I did when she started to blush.

Sorry, I told her, I couldn’t help it. Like that was some kind of an excuse. Now I was the one embarrassed.

That’s all right, she replied. It happens sometimes.

She came up with the usual questions. Where I’m from. Where I’m headed. How long on the road this time.

This time. I noticed that.

I volunteered the usual answers, but got stuck on this time.

She noticed that.

I chose to ignore her and instead turned the talking in the direction of some of the places I’d been and the people I’d seen. She not only kept up with me, but managed to get as many laughs from me as I did from her.

I’d call us about even, but not in a Mexican standoff way.

When it came time to go, I really didn’t want to, but you know how it goes.

*

Over the years, I made a habit of stopping by on my way through many times. The stucco had been covered with siding, but everything else was the same. So was she. I liked that.

She would be there, sitting behind the counter. She served the coffee, brought me pie and ice cream, and smiled and laughed when the conversation eventually picked up the rhythm from where we left off.

Then I met a girl and settled. Not for long, though.

When I unsettled, I discovered the small cafe closed and locked. Shuttered permanently against the lonely traveler headed down life’s highways, the cafe and its owner now turned into only a fading memory.

I miss that place. Even more than that, I miss the friendly recognition and the smile and the laughter that came along with it.

Forest fires and bikers

I’ve been watching the KTLA online feed of the North fire. The fire crossed the 15 near the Cajon Pass and is traveling unhindered on its way. The wind funnels up the pass and drops down onto the flat. I don’t think it will bode well for any homes in its path.

In another life well-lived, I spent 4,000 hours of helicopter flight time on forest fires in northern Canada. A lot of it came back to me in a huge rush while watching the feed. I had to load a mapping program to follow the progress of the news helicopters as they patrolled the perimeter with eyes high in the sky. The resolution of the camera from 8,500 feet is phenomenal.

There were no DC-10 airtankers back in the old days.

But I digress.

I couldn’t resist centering the map over a former favorite watering hole.

The usual suspects were in Fontana at a biker rally. One p.m. (that’s right, one in the afternoon) came and went, and, being the irresponsible, thirsty louts we were, we saddled up and headed for the 10. At the 215 we turned south and pulled off at La Cadena. For the uninitiated, it’s the home of the Club 215, a peeler bar renowned for nothing in particular but for being two stories high, with a balcony.

It was also on the way home, if you took the slight detour I outlined.

We liked the place because we could get out in the fresh air, wander around, and watch the sights – of which there aren’t many in Coulton. The girls liked it, too. Since we were the only ones in the club at that early hour, they wandered in and out to chat. I won’t go into details, but by early evening, it was long past time to herd the lads home.

I knew that, because beer bottles began floating down from the second story balcony to explode in the parking lot. Seeing as I was the only illegal in the club (I checked – there were no Canadian girls performing), and being of sound mind, I made an informed decision.

It was time to roll.

With the able assistance of a couple of the ladies, we managed to get the boys down the stairs without anyone falling down. Out in the parking lot, it was an entirely different story.

Tommy threw a leg over his Sporty, collapsed the kickstand, put both feet on the pegs, and headed on his way, eager to be in the wind. The problem was, he hadn’t bothered to light the fire. He promptly fell over with both feet on the pegs while still gripping the bars.

Much laughter ensued.

Eventually, we managed to get Tommy untangled and out from under his Sporty. We made sure to keep him on the bike as we helped him up. Once we got him straight and level, I started the engine, put it in gear, and slapped him on the back.

Away he wobbled.

It was a simple matter to head south on the 215, hit the 60 at Box Springs, and meander on down the road on the 10 to the 62 turnoff. I got to ride sweep to clean up the debris on the way home.

It was an uneventful ride on a normal California day under sunshine and blue sky.

I miss it sometimes, but not often, now.

Saskatchewan rest areas

Picnic by the shitter
A rather nice rest stop along the TCH that runs through Saskatchewan. Do you eat your sammiches before, or after?

I have no idea who planned this well-placed little gem of a rest area. It’s on the Trans-Canada Highway running through the vast wasteland known as Saskatchewan. Does anyone but me think that stopping for a picnic beside a shitter is a tad overdoing it? Does one make use of the facilities before you partake of the sandwich, or after?

In any case, it’s certainly more welcoming than what you get while traveling through Northwestern Ontario. There you only get access to a tree–sans flag. Or paper.

Speaking of trees, it is rather nice to see trees by the side of the road with one’s facilities on the bald Prairie. As you can tell by the proudly flying flags, the wind whips across that Prairie faster than you can put it in the rear-view mirror.

No deposit, no return

Closed and forgottenAfter crossing the great expanse of nothing called Manitoba, I was looking forward to taking a much-needed break just inside the Ontario border on Highway 17 – otherwise known as the Trans-Canada. There’s a nice little rest area off the highway, tucked away in tall pines. Tables, washrooms, drinks – all available there.

Okay, there used to be a rest stop there.

The dumbasses in control of those little things that make all the difference when one is traveling the highways and byways in the once and former great Ontar-i-ari-ari-o have decreed the place to be closed. Now one must once again search out the nearest tall – or short (no prejudice here) – tree to urinate, defecate, throw out trash and generally cause and create mayhem.

Welcome to Northwestern Ontario
Isn’t this a pretty picture to behold on your first visit to the grand Province of Ontario? It’s hard to tell who does highway maintenance these days. Probably no one.

For all, it’s a return to the snowplow turnout to make deposits like wild animals roaming the deep, dark woods, huffing and puffing and snuffing out a spot to do our business. The north is given the privilege of contributing billions to the economic life of southern Ontario, while the buffoons governing the province force travelers and citizens all to piss against trees and bury waste in the moss.

The lovely and accommodating snowplow turnout in the north
The lovely and accommodating snowplow turnout complete with shitty diaper in the middle of it all. If you hold it until you get to southern Ontario, you’ll be able to avail yourself of an actual rest area designed for people, not animals.

Too bad, so sad.

But don’t despair, good traveler! If you can wait until you get to southern Ontario to urinate and defecate, you will be warmly welcomed into a rest stop such as this.

Carpenter John: 2

Part 1 is here.

I had been on the road since six a.m. in the heat, and it wasn’t getting any cooler as the day wore on into evening and darkness. Finally I was beginning to get tired. On the city’s east side about six miles out I stopped for fuel and a burger. That got me feeling a little better.

I waited for the light to green up and then I turned east and was gone one more time. I had another two hundred and change to go. And there he was, pulling up behind me again. He must have stopped somewhere for a break too.

I was making a steady 70. My next break was down the road, 90 or so ahead, just inside the Ontario border. He pulled in behind me. No big deal. I figured I might as well find out where he was headed.

He introduced himself as John. From Montana. A carpenter, of all things. When he mentioned that, I could see by his hands. They were definitely carpenter hands.

He was making about 145 to a tank, so I pulled out a map and donated it to the cause. I circled his gas stops all the way to London, his destination in southern Ontario. I told him about the short cut across Lake Huron. Bikes were first on and first off. He seemed happy to hear that, because it would knock a good 350 miles off of his voyage.

Before we pulled out, he called me old-timer and thanked me for the help.

Yeah, I guess I am an old-timer, at least in the riding department.

The road was two-lane now. Another 30 and it was a stop to get fuel, then 85 more to my destination where I’d be stopping for the night. Beside me in the twilight at my destination he wobbled off the light, running in the right of my lane. He thanked me for the help again and turned off for gas. I waved.

A little farther down I checked into my motel. It was almost dark. When I was unloading, I heard him go by. He had to be in London in a day and a half. It was certainly do-able, because I had done it. I figured he could too.

*

I’m almost tempted to wonder if there was something biblical in nature going on during this encounter, but being the sinner that I am, what the hell would I know?