More True Fiction - The Last Ride.

[Casey Jones]

The Last Ride

He turned the ignition, pressed the starter, and the Honda 270-degree twin quietly came to eager life. He fiddled with the chin strap on his Shoei helmet – the strap was wearing. It wasn’t replaceable. Time to get a new helmet, next year.

He snorted at the absurdity of that thought.

He gave the panel an eye. Already he’d struggled to check the tire pressure – this, of all trips, would not be the time to have a tire fail or even go low on the road. Lorrie had to help him on the bike; and she wouldn’t be close by if he had to stop. Would he manage? Maybe. Maybe not.

He looked at the electronic tach. Idle speed was dropping...these modern bikes were the greatest, and yet the most-convoluted, imaginable. The Honda NC (“New Concept,” the salesmen proudly called it), 700 cubic centimeters and 700 miles of wiring. Innumerable processors and sensors. A compact mini-automatic (“DCT” Honda called it) transmission, took the struggle out of riding it.

A long shot from his first motorcycle, forty years ago. He’d bought a Yamaha R5 from an old Polish immigrant in Buffalo, and had to pay the guy extra for him to ride it to his own place. That was two stroke, drum-brake, kick-start, and the only electronics on it were from the flywheel magneto to the spark plugs. A battery powered headlights, and the flywheel was supposed to charge that battery. Sometimes it even did.

Learning on that thing, he’d gotten hooked on riding. He didn’t have the money for the fancy, styled bikes of the 1980s – the Nighthawks, with their shaft drive and styled lines. The Virago, trying to compete with Harley-Davidson – which at the time was half-dead, being kept alive only with SBA loans and protective tariffs. Nope, he rode old, and bold, and then life got better.

Financially, anyway. He stole a glance at Lorrie, as he reminisced, as he looked around. Lorrie, her ponytailed boyfriend, the old farmhouse, his garage, the barn behind that held his Toyota truck

I’ll never be here again.

That was true – in more ways than one. He was going for a ride from his farm outside Hartfield – a crossroads near Mayville, the county seat – to the VA Medical Center in Buffalo.

The cancer was spreading, and faster than the VA oncologist had expected.

He was no fool. He knew what became of cancer patients once their doctors were “surprised.” We all come into the world the same way, and we all leave it in a box. Now, it was a bit early, but it was his turn.

On a deeper level, he wasn’t surprised. He did everything early. Learned to read at age four. An uncle of his mother’s, gave him beer at family dinners, age 10. He’d learned about girls early; he was on his own at age 17. Much later, he’d retired from the railroad at age 60 – completing his promise to himself never to make his work his life.

And now, true to form, he’s seeing EPILOGUE to his life story, a decade earlier than should be.

 

[Casey Jones]

“Dad.” Lorrie was in his face. He hadn’t even noticed. “Are you sure you don’t want us to just follow behind?”

“NO, dammit,” he said. “I’m going to take the long way. I may even stop a few times. Keep your phone on. I’ll have mine on – I won’t hear you call but I’ll have a record of it.” He hesitated. The maple trees were a beautiful gold, turning red. “This time of year...it’s to be savored..”

He hesitated, looked at her. He knew so much of the country, but she only really knew this part of it. And it was so beautiful, and she had no perspective to appreciate it. “I’ll be okay...for the day, anyway.”

“Dennis.” The boy turned. “You know the way there?”

“Sure. I have a TomTom, too.”

He choked down distaste. The boy was unworthy of the name. But then, the same could be said of his own pairing – with Lorrie’s mother, Tay. Which of them, he or Tay, was the dirtbag? How about, **BOTH**? Correct answer, bud.

The engine was warmed up. Time to go.

“Okay. Take the Thruway in– get off on the Kensington. East, and you’ll run right into it.”

“I guess, if you don’t see me or hear from me, have a seat in the lobby. In the car if you can park in the open. I’ll need your help parking, and getting in, probably”

“No problem, Rich,” Dennis said. With a smirk. Or was it? Just his normal happy-face. Or an eager face? Did he have plans, designs on the land?

And did it matter? Lorrie was a grownup – 23 years old. He couldn’t protect her forever. She wasn’t accomplished or sophisticated, but she wasn’t retarded. She was going to have to learn to cope, and soon.

Better than her mother did.

He gave them what he hoped was a deep smile, and a thumbs-up, and dropped the visor down. He thumbed the control into D – literally, “drive,” just like a car. He nudged the throttle, and the electronic clutch let out, smooth as butter, and he rolled down the drive.

A quick look right and left, and he was off on the Stockton Road, towards Lily Dale.

The Honda was the perfect Old-Man’s machine – absolutely neutral handling, a quiet, low-revving engine and an automatic transmission. He’d fitted it with aftermarket panniers – for the road-tripping he’d hoped was still ahead. He’d traded down from an ST 1300 – Honda’s police bike – it was a fine piece of engineering, 1200 pounds of it. That was too much, in his mid-sixties. After a near-fall, he downsized, hoping the best years were still ahead.

Today at least had been still ahead. Fall in the Northeast is a spectacle.

 

[Casey Jones]

He rolled on the throttle. The road to Stockton was beeline straight, but undulating. The countryside was orange, with red from sugar maples, to green conifers. The lawns, where cut close in farm yards, were a washed-out green. The land was not alive, nor dead. It was Autumn.

The Honda, while not overly fast, was smooth; the DCT transmission was computer-controlled and flawlessly ran up and down the gears. Amazing what they’ve done with computers. The air in his face was bracing, his legs warmed from the radiator on the frame behind the front wheel

Riding was like...as close as you can come to flying, without leaving the ground. With the added tactile experience. You felt the ground, the air, the smells of leaves and rain and dust and animals. Of city smog and sea salt-air. Always, you were part of it, yet, banking on sweeping curves, dancing the bike around obstacles, lane changes. You steered from hips and shoulders, shifting weight – just like a glider.

A motorbike is for children. Children of every age.

********

Like Lorrie, his daughter he was from the area. Footloose, he had wandered, as a young man, for work...Houston and Atlanta and Anchorage. He finally, in his twenties, realized that opportunities were not pennies to be found on the sidewalk, but came from at least, holding a job for a time. He fast-talked his way onto a job with the big railroad in the area, Conrail.

He was in his mid-twenties, had cut his connections with his home area, and hadn’t formed new ones. His new career was work-and-sleep.

Tay worked at the lunch counter in the terminal at Frontier Yard. She was dark-haired, pale-skinned, blue-eyed, and a complete fa-cop. Lacked focus; forgot things.

He later found out she had an enthusiasm that guided her beyond everything. She was a complete pothead.

He was young and needed a body to love. She was younger and needed a sugar daddy to pay for her hobby. Transactional sex, the shrinks called it.

They were together a time. Their relationship moved from her icy demeanor, to grudging, reluctant orgasms, to her refusing her “allowance.” She had become a paid concubine and didn’t like it; wanted to put other names on it. Okay, fine. I’ll pay the bills. You can move in BUT play by the rules I set.

She did. As far as he knew, she was monogamous. She did most of what he expected; she dressed well and kept clean. And then, the pregnancy.

***************

Traffic was light, midday, in the off-season. Refuse trucks, mostly. The county landfill was near Stockton, which had withered to a crossroads with red flashers. Careful to make a complete stop – the county sheriff was cracking down on traffic minutia. And off, over the hill to Lily Dale, where he’d pick up Route 60.

There is a routine on a bike – as with driving a truck or operating any kind of machine. Eyes moving, mirrors, forward, pavement, traffic ahead, any motion that catches the eye. The steep rise west of Lily Dale invited a shift from D to S on his electronic control. A marvel of computerized operation, the DCT controls were kludgy to him as a rider in operation. He’d gotten it, thinking it would simplify riding – like a scooter, it would be twist-and-go. Feed it throttle and you’re off.

And it was true, but with vastly different hardware. Instead of a centrifugal clutch and drive belt, there was two electric clutches, computer-controlled. Feed the engine throttle and the computer engaged the clutches. No throttle input, even if the automatic controls had a fast-idle set on a cold engine, no engagement.

But the drive control was next to the starter button, and with two years of ownership, he still had to think about it.

The Honda, set to S, climbed the six-percent hill in fourth gear, engine revving uncharacteristically. Downgrade, he left it set, to provide engine braking. He thought of his first motorcycle, 35 years ago...with its mickey-mouse drum brakes. Oh, how far we’ve come.

And I go no farther, he thought, wearily.

 

[Casey Jones]

He never pressured her. She would do what she would do. She surprised him by stopping the weed, and taking nutrition seriously. He tried to give emotional support – to the extent he could, being on the road five days a week.

She named the baby after herself, inexplicably. She was Taylor Kay, and she named her daughter Taylor Elle. He never learned why she did – as with most of her decisions, he just let it flow.

Taylor Junior became Lorrie, with time.

Taylor Senior followed the news with excitement. Colorado was about to legalize pot. And it was beautiful there – just look at these pictures! Yes, Tay, I know Colorado…

We need to go there.

I can’t go there. I have a Keep-Eating policy, and plans of retirement, and that keeps me right here in Buffalo.

Tay huffed. Then she turned silent...for weeks.

And then she dropped it. She wouldn’t have even said it, except that she had a ten-year-old daughter to deal with.

“I’m going to Colorado. With you or without you.”

“Do you expect I just abandon the place here? Go live in a van parked on the Platte River, with Lorrie, while you check out legal weed sales?”

“You can come later if you want to sell the farm.” It wasn’t an active farm. The crop was...hay. Literally. He let neighbors harvest it, and charged them basically what his real-estate tax was. Kept the land clean, gave them cheap hay. He had a house in the country, and he thought, a family.

“I can’t do that. And you can’t, really, either. You’re no spring chicken, anymore.”

That did it. And she took it the wrong way – she looked good for 30. But everyone, man and woman, has a biological clock. Hers was getting on in time – as his was, of course. His alarm was just set to a somewhat different time.

Tay was gone. There was no marriage to dissolve. He never met her family; and he had none of his own.

 

[Casey Jones]

Lily Dale was noteworthy as hosting a spiritualist movement, the Lily Dale Assembly. He had never been there. Never been interested. What lay on the other side of the vale...he had never worried about, and now couldn’t muster fact or curiosity. What he knew for sure was, there would be a platoon of sky pilots of various flavors, eager to count his cooling corpse among the Saved. When justfying the next year’s budget or personnel expansions.

There is no god, he thought, and Man is vile. I should know – I’m as vile as any.

State Route 60, into Dunkirk, was the kind of four-lane road he’d wanted to avoid. There was no help for it – he was going where he was going. This wasn’t as dreary or punishing as the Thruway. I’m here; I need to be there; I got all the accommodation I could in getting one final ride in. Go with it.

Dunkirk was a drab town, once industrial, now seemingly only alcoholic. Closed storefronts abounded. It was the wrong side of the tracks to Fredonia, next door, the college town. Landscaping and general care about appearance, was more in evidence.

He’d take Route 5 in. He’d pass by his old house in the Town of Evans. He’d sold it long ago; memories are gone; except they’re not. It was his first house, a rambling cottage owner-built long before, and very affordable, even for the time. New cars now cost more than what he paid for that hovel.

Unlike US 20, which paralleled 5 a few miles south, this way gave him woods and gentle curves and beautiful vistas of Lake Erie shoreline.

Then he thought of the Skyway. Route 5 was elevated over the Lackawanna industrial district, with the port, grain elevator, closed steel mill, Ford plant, all underneath. The Skyway was two-lane and built in the 1940s. It was no place for a motorcycle.

He’d shoot across to US 20 at Eden-Evans Center road, and come up through Depew. Through the East suburban neighborhoods

The tarmac rolled on past. The weak autumn sun beat down on his riding coat.

 

[Casey Jones]

Lorrie was devastated by her mother's departure; but she had friends from school. He had a conversation with a friend’s mother; told her some of what happened; asked if she could be a bit more supportive emotionally.

She survived. She still lived at home, over twelve years later. She lived a relatively quiet life, having gotten a barber’s license, and made some extra money on the side working for someone who cleaned and set up vacation rentals.

Now she’d have to go on. He just hoped that Dennis, or whoever replaced him, would be a support and not dead weight. He’d done what he could, with his estate, to protect her.

*************

Through Irving he rolled, and onto the Seneca Reservation. Nothing changed here, except what the harsh Great Lakes weather would wreak. There was no hope, no wealth, no initiative here. Outside ownership of land on the reservation was forbidden, which meant banks and investors could never hold land as collateral. Could never own stores; could never write mortgages. And poor people, Tribal or not, seldom had the ability to buy with cash. For all the legal carve-outs allowing Tribal casinos, no one had yet tried to open a Seneca Bank. Too few qualified patrons? Distrust? The sheet-steel cabins and hovels rusted deeper, and death from alcoholism was commonplace.

On to the other side, was his home. On Eisenhower Drive, he rolled down...the home he owned had been demolished, replaced by a newish double-wide. He wished the owner well, but he knew the quality of those things. But he stopped for the view...it was a gentle downgrade to Lake Erie and the local beach.

He wasn’t going to walk it. He just wanted to see it. To know it was there. To go to older routines, from when he was young.

Not far away, was Eden-Evans Center, his turnoff. Soon he was in heavier commuter traffic, through Hamburg, aiming for Depew.

********

He had to come back once more. Broadway followed the railroad main as it opened to Frontier Yard. The hump on the east end was removed – at great expense; a big waste. He didn’t think much of what he saw of present management. There was flat switching still going on – not all of it being done by remote boxes.

He had to watch. The GP-38s and occasional GP-15 were still out there, working. Mostly in CSX livery now – there was at least one still in Conrail blue, although the name lettering was painted out. Those had been his pets, his friends, his beasts of burden Together they’d faced hot summer days, wet springtime nights, horrific blizzards. You came in, and you did what you could for the machine, your friend...together you’d work, twelve hours or eight, to the limit. And you hoped that the hostler would care for it overnight as it needed. He never understood a machine operator – taxi driver or tool-and-die maker – who would beat on his machine, or who had anything less than reverence for a well-designed piece of equipment.

He quietly watched, from the roadside under the Thruway overpass, watching the yard at work on a slow day. All days were slow days now – New York’s economy was far different from what it was when the yard was opened. It was a gritty, industrial, dangerous, place, sometimes noisy.

It was Home.

There was no point in going up to the yard office buildings. He’d been gone seven years, since early retirement. Few would remember him. None wanted to see him. He’d gotten no Christmas cards, no phone calls. There were NO TRESPASSING signs all over, and he knew they were enforced.

It was time to go to whatever The Fates had waiting for him.

 

[Casey Jones]

It was a short six miles, Broadway to Bailey north, to the VA hospital. There was an open parking lot near the main entrance. He saw Dennis’s old Dodge pickup parked near the entrance. Three spaces over, there was a half-space, with a light pole taking up part of it. There were no signs and no pavement markings. He throttle-bumped the Honda in, and motioned them over.

Lorrie was on him, like a mother hen. She was slight but muscular – the farm tasks of years past, helped her there. She steadied him as he struggled to get his leg over the tail-box on the Honda.

“Okay, we need to get it on the center stand. I can line it up, but can you lift on the back?” She did, and the machine went up, and settled on more-stable maintenance stand.

“I’m feeling worn out. Can you or Dennis see if they have a wheelchair?”

“He already went to get one.”

Weakly, he reached into the side cases – his shaving kit and toothbrush, a book, a small satchel of several days worth of clean underwear. He didn’t figure he’d need much else. Maybe not even that much.

Dennis had arrived with the chair. He dropped in, and Lorrie quickly took the handles. The long, last ride, and this one into the maw.

They were at the counter now – check-in was quick, with an orderly ready to take charge.

“Here. Here’s the key. Put it on the ring with your own car keys – whatever we do with it, it’ll be harder without the key.” He’d wear his riding gear in. His helmet they could throw away. It was nearly as worn as he was.

“You have my lawyer’s card, right? The rest is on my desk, if you need it.

“Do you want us to stay awhile, Dad?”

“I don’t think so. I’ll try to take a nap, and surgery is first thing tomorrow. I can’t eat anyway, and if I’m awake I’ll just be grouchy.” And scared to death. “Go home, beat the rush hour. Call if you can, tomorrow night.”

She nodded, gripped his hand, a quick chaste kiss on his forehead, and she left quickly. No point in drawing it out.

The orderly took him deeper into the building, the last hundred feet of this, his last ride.