That Was FUN

Gerald laughs

Once upon a time toward the end of my Idaho days (1978) my friend Gerald bought a motorcycle similar to mine and we decided to go for a ride.

We went west from Blackfoot on Idaho Highway 39 toward Riverside, but soon decided to turn around and go back to “town.”

An inexperienced rider, Gerald made a shaky u-turn and swung a little wide. His brand-new motorcycle tipped over in soft gravel on the shoulder, and Gerald fell off and went rolling down into the borrow ditch.

I watched him rolling over and over, in the beer bottles and weeds and barbed wire.

He stood up, brushed himself off, then, smiling, climbed up the embankment. We teamed up to right the fallen machine and Gerald began laughing as only Gerald can laugh.

Then he said, “That was FUN.”

Gerald lives in California now. He has returned to his Catholic upbringing, and goes to Mass every single day. He’s a very serious man.

But something tells me he is still capable of having fun, of laughing, even laughing at himself.

Thanksgiving in California

Prunedale California to be exact, a few miles north of Salinas. Every day of the year, Prunedale gets a little pre-dawn dew, then the temperature soars to maybe 72 degrees Fahrenheit. Hardly ever is there a heavy wind, just calm, cool air. Biker heaven.

Our new friends John and Samantha had bought a beautiful five-bedroom home in Prunedale, situated on ten acres. An old-fashioned barn had been converted into a huge motorcycle garage down the lane.

There was no lawn to mow; this was California, and there, you just cut the naturally occurring groundcover back once in a while. No water necessary.

The big house had decks everywhere – one for morning, one for afternoon, one for a rainy day.

A giant turkey was in the oven, along with everything else that goes with that traditional feast. Dinner was maybe an hour away. The pie was ready. The dressing smelled delicious. I was catching a little pre-dinner beer buzz.

I went out on the deck that faced west, looking down to the bike garage. Laura was down there hanging out with the guys, as she likes to do. (The women there were talking about fingernails, she said. Harleys held more interest.)

I like watching Laura, even from a distance. I like to see Laura enjoying herself, which she was. It was my pleasure to witness the scene, to see motorcycles and bikers drinking beer – laughing and enjoying a fine California Thanksgiving day.

After a time, Samantha came out from the kitchen and leaned on the rail beside me. She took a sip of her rosé and said, “John and I are having problems.”

So I had to ask. “What’s wrong, Sam?”

“Well,” she responded, taking a long drag from her Virginia Slims cigarette, “John thinks he has me locked into some kind of marital fidelity bullshit.”

If you had been there, you could have seen Mr. Tommy do the Instant Biker Backstep. “Uh, hey, uh, Sam I gotta go down to the barn. I think Laura was calling me.” I wasn’t ready for California.

Now that was fun

Once upon a time in about 1990, my friend Jerry Carlson and I were on a motorcycle run together “way out east,” like we say.

We had ridden east from Sterling on U.S. Highway 6, to Holyoke. We turned south on one of my favorite Colorado roads, U.S. 385, toward Wray.

After a few miles, Jerry stopped at a gravel pullout and I followed him. He said, “Do you think your Harley is as fast as my Gold Wing?”

I said I didn’t know. He asked, “Do you want to find out?” We both grinned.

Back on the pavement we went, hell bent for leather. I’m constrained to tell the truth; the Gold Wing was ever so slightly quicker than my Harley dresser.

Faster and faster we went. We probably reached top speeds of just over 100 miles per hour – not fast, really, by today’s standards, but plenty fast for the two of us on a wild and wooly wilderness highway.

Highway 385 is on the “plains,” all right, but the plains aren’t flat. Between Holyoke and Wray, it’s quite hilly. Old 385 hasn’t been leveled like modern roads; it follows the terrain.

Over hills and through creek valleys we went, as fast as we could go.

About five miles later, we crested a hill and there was the inevitable, the unavoidable: A gigantic washout. The road down in the draw was entirely covered with a thick layer of mud and gravel.

There was no stopping. Sure, we slowed. But each of us was smart enough to know that if the brakes were on when the bike came onto the gravel, a crash was certain.

Side-by-side, we coasted through the washout, probably at about 70 miles per hour by that time. There was no slithering, no skidding, no sideways position. We just rode it out.

At the top of the next hill, there was a turnout. Jerry pulled off, and I followed. We shut off the bikes and put down the side stands and got off.

He came over and embraced me. I returned the gesture. We began laughing. We laughed until we cried. We stood there on the plains, between Holyoke and Wray, resting, taking deep breaths, laughing and crying like babies. Tears rolled, making little trails in our dusty beards.

After a time, we decided to get back on the highway and ride. Other riders had caught up to us; we were after all on an “organized” run.

As we left the pullout, Jerry looked at me and said, “That was FUN.” That’s what I thought.

Jerry’s wife Jill died not long after that, and Jerry grieved and Laura and I grieved. Jerry himself died a few years later. Cancer. Both of our friends.

I have been grateful ever since that day on the prairie that I’d had the opportunity to race with Jerry, and that we lived through a potentially deadly situation.

And I continue to be thankful that we thought of it as fun. I think of Jerry and his Gold Wing every time I hear someone say something about having fun. Thanks, Jerry.

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Word of the Week: Carcinoma. It’s Latin, from the Greek, karkinoma, or cancer. It means to us these days to affect with a cancer, any of several kinds of epithelial cancer. Similarly, carcinomatosis means a condition in which cancers are spread extensively throughout the body.