At Open Letter to Irene (with
a nod to Steve & Phil)
----------
From: Fred Milverstedt
Subject: Open Letter to
Irene
Date: Saturday, October
24, 1998 8:47 PM
Dear Irene:
Went out about noon today
to get in a couple of hours of Wisconsin in the
fall before Bucky Badger
and I-o-way kicked off at 2:30. Rode straight
north into Columbia County,
low rolling hills, dotted by farms and patches
of little hardwood forests.
It's not like west of here, where almost right
away you get a clear delineation
of the hills and rivers and valleys. Much
flatter to the north. But
still very pretty, especially when the leaves are
yer classic reds and golds
and countless variations of browns and you're
surrounded by red barns
and white houses and fields gray and dusty from the
harvest and the cows and
the pigs. You can smell 'em, too, although the
stench is not overwhelming,
rather, you get a nice pungent shot two or three times on a day and because
nature exists in a balance,
yer usually through it and on up the road within a quarter mile so it really
ain't all that bad.
The other great thing about
it is that in weather like this, low to
mid-60s, maybe even 67 along
about 2 or 3 in the afternoon, the bikes
really run well. Bugs could
tell you all about it, with another half-dozen
of the bro and sisters chimin
in, but basically it has to do with the cool
air rushing back in through
a hole in the carburetor, which is
there to suck in as much
air as it can in a great roaring whoosh and help
to mix with the gas and
make the engine sing and the bike go very fast. You
can get on top of yer rpm
in whatever gear you happen to be in and you can ride it there by
holding the throttle steady
and you can hear and feel the engine
running just at maximum
efficiency and it's like yer sitting on top of the
revs. And then every once
in a while you give the throttle just a little crank and
the bike leaps forward with
a deep throated snarl. And the sound of the
engine and the mufflers,
the harmonics, are close to the divine.
So here I was today, heading
north on County C and I was cruising along in
my leathers, no helmet,
as is largely the custom, prescription sunglasses,
long blond hair sticking
out on all sides and waving in the wind (or maybe
gray/blond hair, according
to my wife) like a sort of biker-type Clarabelle the Clown.
Now, one of the more interesting
elements of riding a motorcycle is the
fine line we walk between
keeping our focus on what we are doing and who is
around, and leaning back
into the pocket of the seat, sucking up big breaths of
fresh air and havin ourselves
a great look around. That's about where I was at. Except for
the fact that one of the
things that was running through my mind while I
was out there paying attention
at 55, 60 miles an hour was the thread we
had this week that started
with your close call the other day on the candy
colored streamlined gold
flaked baby that you ride. I remembered telling
you that you have to try
and stay aware all the time, because you never
know when some dumb shit
is going to come along and do something clumsy or
thoughtless or downright
stupid right there in front of yer eyes.
It was also on my mind because
of a conversation I had with two of my
closest friends last night.
A guy named Tom and another we call Den the
Zen. Tom hasn't been out
and around in a year, never more on a Friday after
work, runnin with the boys
down the honky tonk trail, reason being he flipped over in
his car on a dark lonesome
highway on the way home one night from the honky
tonk trail and the only
thing about the car that wasn't busted up and smashed was the few
square feet in which he
sat. He crawled out of it with cuts and scratches. Had to
hitch-hike up the road a
piece to find a phone booth sittin there on a corner of the
only two streets in the
next little town and phone the police, or whoever
it is that you phone. The
sheriff came and the ambulance, and by the time it was over
in Iowa County court a few
weeks later, he'd lost his license, had to go to
a public safety night course
twice a week for several weeks
and had a $700 fine. Only
thing he didn't get was community service, three
Hail Marys and an Act of
Contrition. 'Course, he ain't Catholic, though.
Well, that slowed Tom down
a good deal, him bein a few years younger than
me but still old enough
to know that life is precious but you often don't
remember that and pay it
any particular mind until every once in a while
something comes along to
bring you snap smack dab back into the middle of
remembering it so hard and
so fast that when it's all over all you can do is sit there
shakin in yer shorts and
ask yerself, did that just happen, am I really
here? So last night when
he came out for really the first time since his
accident happened and we
sat down to have a drink, we had a good talk about all that
had happened, and after
all was said and done we came away confirming what we
both know but it is still
hard to keep remembering in all the hubbub and
the daily rush, and that
is that life is very precious and it can be extinguished in the flash of
an eye, sometimes for
no apparent good reason
at all.
Well, that's a helluva thing
to have to think about on a beautiful crisp
October on a Saturday afternoon
in Wisconsin, a land blessed by providence
if yer a German, Norskie
or Ho-Chunk, but as I was getting ready for the ride
this morning I couldn't
help but think about just that. I was thinking about it when I sat down
here at the
keyboard, logged in to e-mail
and checked out the flow at the Roadhouse.
And 3/4 of an hour later,
maybe 30, 40 miles north of Madison in the low
rolling farm country, it
was still there from time to time, running through
my mind.
Which is not to say that
I wasn't paying attention. The road I was riding
was new to me, leastwise
10 or 20 miles north of where I'd ridden it
before, and one of its early
delights was a series of tight little curves
snaking their way due north
for a couple of miles, and they were angled
hard enough so when I went
into them I found myself laying back just a bit, not really
throwing the bike right
into the deal the way I sometimes otherwise might.
That wasn't the worst thing
I could do, though, turns out, which I soon concluded maybe halfway through
the
third of maybe four sets
of flat twisty turns when I came across a 45 degree righthander,
banked down toward the inside,
with a line of loose gravel running down the center
of the lane through the
mid point of the turn. I was ready for that, layin
back and tryin to find my
way, as I was, so I scootered on through without
a twitch or a twiddle and
settled back to ride that fine, fine line between
paying attention to what
I am doing and havin a good look around. There
weren't another car nor
a bike on the road, cept twice when I crossed other
county highways and I had
a stop sign in my favor each o' the times.
I came up on another t-intersection,
County CF going west, a continuation
of it to the east, no longer
a county highway but one of those Happy Valley
roads or Messerschmidt Hollow
trails that you tend to come upon in these
parts, and to my left there
is a green van slowing down for his stop sign.
I don't have one, but since
it is a t-intersection and I'm looping along in
fourth gear at about 50,
55, I drop it into third and ease down to, what,
maybe 40, 35? The van to
my left is just about level with his stop sign,
and he's doing, what, 10,
15, 20 mph?
Well, the next thing I know,
I am damn near to the center of the
intersection and much to
my dismay, he hasn't stopped and he's right there
with me just a few feet
away, comin at me broadside from the port quarter.
There was no time to even
think about stopping. Time I got hit, three years
ago downtown in heavy traffic
on the 750, I had time at least to turn the
wheel and sort of ride with
parallel with the car to the right as it turned
across my lane. This time
all I could do was crank it.
Now, at this point I 'd like
to personally thank the engineers at Honda,
some of 'em probly now dead,
who put this little bike together on the
drawing board, and to the
guys in the factory when they cast the molds of
that V-Twin and whoever
else came along and dialed in so much torque that
in damn near any gear you
can give her a good old twist and she'll lift the
front wheel when she takes
off. That's certainly true in first and second,
anyway, and in the other
three gears she ain't no slouch. A "torque
monster" is the way it was
described to me by a fella on a Ducati last
spring who was familiar
with the breed. It's true of the early Shadows,
Sabres, and probably the
Magnas, too, much as I know. When the
Japanese built 'em, they
weren't sure of what you had to do with this sort
of bike in the American
market to sell it, so I've been told by more than
one person who knows 'em
that they have the look of cruisers and sport
tourers, but they have the
souls of sport bikes.
Fact is, the torque saved
my life. I was goin through the intersection,
next thing I knew he showed
up right next to me only scant feet away, and I
goosed it in third and she
responded. Took me flat out away, through the intersection and up the
road at a very brisk clip
when only a split second before, I was fixin to
become a big and bloody
spot on the front of his bumper and grill. Best
that I recall, I had just
enough time to holler out, "God-Damn!," and then
I was a-goosin 'er.
I went on down the road a
hundred yards or so with my eyes as big as
pumpkins, and I physically
shook my head like a dumb old dog right after
you might bat him between
the eyes with a two-by-four just to try and get
his attention, and I said
out loud, "Damn! Did that really happen just
now?"
Next instant, I had 'er turned
around in the middle of the road and was
headin hell bent for leather
up Messerschmidt Hollow givin' chase. He had
me by 3/4 or a mile or so,
and I just caught a glimpse of him headin up
over a hill as I made the
turn and kicked 'er in the ass. The road ahead
was winding, not dead straight
like the one we'd just been on, and there were
a couple of crossroads so
I had to look both ways as I passed through each of 'em
to see if he had made another
turn. I caught sight of him again on another
flat stretch approaching
a three-way intersection and I backed 'er down
from about 75, 80 in fourth,
through third and into second as I caught him
at the corner and laid on
the horn.
He heard me, finished his
turn to the right, and pulled over to the side a
few yards up the road.
I came along next to him
and stopped.
It was a little old man,
wire rimmed glasses, hearing aid in the left ear,
red bow tie and in a suit,
late '70s, maybe 80 years old, and sittin next
to him there not sayin peep
was the little woman, about the same age. I
took in the picture pretty
quick, and as fate and the gods would have it, I
was completely rational
with the poor old man.
I asked him if he knew what
just happened back there, and he allowed that
he did. I asked him if he
knew he ran the stop sign, and he said he
stopped, looked both ways,
didn't see my light, and then started up again,
and all of a sudden there
I was, shootin across the road only inches in
front of him. He said it
shook him up, and that he still had the shakes.
They were on their way to
a wedding in Columbus, and he was terrible sorry
and there's no way that
he could apologize enough. Well, that may be all
well and good, I thought
to myself, but metaphorically speaking, if you'd
care to get out and take
a good close look at yer left front headlight,
Gramps, yer gonna find about
an inch of my arse spread out real bright and
pink and sticky cross the
lens.
But I didn't say that, I
didn't argue or yell. I just told him that was as
close as I've ever come
to checkin out quick on a bike, and maybe for the
rest of the day we could
both go on about our business and try to be a
little more "aware" of what
it is that's goin on around us, yes? He nodded
that would be the prudent
thing to do, and I reached in through the window
and I shook his hand.
I rode on in to Columbus
and stopped at the first bar I could find with
motorcycles parked out in
front of it--two Harleys and an old Triumph--and
I pulled in next to a green
ElectraGlide, shut down the bike, got off and
walked in. It was called
the Cardinal's Cage. I had a shot o' Jack and a
Miller chaser, a cigarette,
and then I left. Rode back into Madison, 40
miles or so on U.S. 151.
Did my usual 75, 80 on the way, makin damn sure I
was aware of all the cars
and roads and cows and pigs around me and thought
to myself, thank God, but
it's great to be alive.
I gotta little bit o' Dawg
in me. Dawgie told me last summer in Galena,
right after his rowdy pal
Mav, there, slapped me around, that he ain't
exactly courting death,
but if it all came down to a choice, he'd just as
soon go out real hard and
quick on a lonely stretch o' highway somewhere,
rather than find himself
lyin there in a hospital bed, his body full o'
tubes 'n' needles 'n' pain.
I agree with Dawg. By the same token, however,
I ain't exactly ready to
turn on down to ol' Cemetary Road all on account
o' my own urging, park the
bike next to the shovel and tombstone and start
diggin' 'em the goddamn
hole, and this here thing that happened today is
one o' those times when
it becomes cold-sweat stark nekid apparent to me
that, given my druthers,
that's the way, whatever else happens, that it's
gonna be before I go out.
It reminds me of something Tom Wolfe wrote about
in The Right Stuff. He'd
talk of Navy pilots flying along at Mach this
or that and all of a sudden
for no particular reason something in the
system goes haywire and
the next thing they know, they're spinning down and
round, out of control. You
can hear 'em on the radio when it happens, no
screams, no panic, nuthin
left to do but take the time to keep doin what
must be done, checkin through
their checklists, pushin buttons, flippin
switches, all the way down.
Trying this, no response; trying that, no
response; trying this, no
response; trying that....Click.
I ain't a superstitious man,
but I do believe in fate. And I believe
there's a whole helluva
lot goin on in this life, or what appears to us as life,
than most of us are able
to pick up on, much less stay on top of only half
the time. Like I say, as
a species, we ain't so highly evolved.
But when I ride the bike,
I have my amulets. The key is on a woven chain
that belonged to my late
sister, and hangin from that is a silver medal
once won by my father 60,
70 years ago in the shape of a Germanic cross. I
also have a talisman--a
medicine bag that I consecrated at the crack o'
dawn near the headwaters
of the Hudson River in the Adirondack Mountains
State Park one morning maybe
15, 20 years ago. Saw two swallows, high in
the sky, soarin along in
the dawn's early light. I've got the bike detailed
that way, gold on black
on tank and fenders, like a bird in full flight.
'Tween my father and my
sister and the Great Spirit, along here with my own
good reactions and sense,
I figure I've got most of my bases covered nearly
all of the time.
This morning, though, puttin
on the leathers, getting ready to head out on
the ride, I couldn't help
but think about the conversation I'd had with Tom
last night, and then Irene,
and the close call you had the other day. And
the truth of the matter
is, I was just a tad uneasy, therefore, with the
thought o' goin out today.
But then I thought, well, no wonder yer thinkin
that way, givin all that's
been said about immortaility and all for the
past couple o' days, so
maybe it's just a little reminder, like we all need
once in a while, to go on
doin what we're doin but to be a little extra
special careful out there.
But just for the hell of
it, I picked up my Steve & Phil patch and slipped
it into my left patch pocket
with my medicine bag, right over my heart, and
then I headed out.
I'm gonna chalk up today
as another one for Steve & Phil, that and for my
father and my sister and
the Great Spirit who lives in us all.
And that's enough said.
Yerz truly,
Unca Fred
