Then Came Larry

This past weekend was a weekend without rain, and that is something that’s become somewhat of a rarity this summer. It was a weekend for riding, so Judy and I took it to task and set out to put as many miles as we could on the bike. In between family matters and household chores.

Sunday was my day of choice, with temperatures in the range of just warm enough to keep my beloved blue jean jacket in the saddle bag, should it get a couple’a degrees cooler. We headed north and once free of traffic I was able to breath deep and lean back into the comfort of my wife and riding companion, and “clear my head.” I’ve always been a little confused by the term “clear your head.” One cannot clear their head of conscious thought because, at least in my case, other thoughts move in. Sunday was no different. During a stretch of long lonesome highway, nestled in between the wooded hills, I began to think about “stuff’.

I thought about all the people I have met because of my two-wheeled love affair. I remembered my old ridding buddy “Wizard” and how we used to love a good mud ride. I remembered the smell of hot mud cooking on the motors and exhausts of our on/off road bikes. My friend is now gone.

I remember the first few dates with my wife. Pulling into her driveway on my Kawasaki KZ1000LTD, I was a long-haired divorcée on a motorcycle. A parent’s nightmare. Having gone through parenthood myself, I would have greeted such an intruder with no less than number 4 shot, from a 12 gauge.

I remember meeting a loose rag-tag group of guys, from as diverse walks as pilot, welder/fabricator, helicopter mechanic, FedEx employee, retired Honda employee, to a civilian employed by the Navy and living in Japan and myself, a die-setter in a frangible bullet company. We all had two things in common. A short-lived TV show called “Then came Bronson” which inspired all of us to ride, and a love for two wheeled adventure.
I remember coming home from a trip to Florida and getting pulled over by another biker. Thinking I was about to be robbed or worse, I was relieved when I spent over an hour just talking to the guy about bikes and life in general, because he saw I was from “up north” and just wanted to “bullshit”.

I remember several occasions talking to old bikers who just wanted to look my ride over, as I listened to their stories about the bikes they once rode. The bikes they no longer had or couldn’t ride any longer. Their passion is still there and strong, but their old bodies just could no longer sit tall in the saddle. Their stories always choke me up. You can see the longing in their eyes, as they look my bike over and remember.

I have met many people on my two-wheeled adventures, both young and old, men and women. I once had the extreme pleasure of talking to a group of about a dozen women at a restaurant. They were riding cross-country to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the first crossing of the United States by motorcycle. It was done back in 1916, by two sisters.

But perhaps the most “unique” personality I’ve had the pleasure to meet thus far, was a man named “Larry”.

It was the weekend after the Fourth Of July of this year. Judy and I decided to take an extended weekend road trip to a place called “where ever we end up”. We started out by heading west, over two-lane secondary roads, to see the sights and avoid the rush of Interstate highways.

Taking our time without a solid destination, we ended up in Steubenville Ohio.
I pulled the bike into a reconstructed fort and village, in hopes of touring the wooden fortress and learning more of its history. But our arrival was just minutes before closing, so our tour plans were thwarted by time. However, we did get to speak to two ladies who help operate and sustain the historic Fort Steuben.

After a few minutes of chit-chat about the rich history of the old fort, we explained to our hostesses that we were looking for a hotel for the night and asked if there was anything of interest that we might enjoy during our stay.

They pointed us to a hotel just a few blocks away and said that we would enjoy Steubenville’s “First on Fourth” block party. A sort of an open-air merchants’ fair held on the first weekend every month on Fourth Street.

There was to be a carnival like atmosphere, where you could get all varieties of street food and desserts while looking over a cornucopia of bobbles and trinkets, desserts and confectioneries. This sounded like it would be an interesting way to spend the evening, so we told the ladies that perhaps we would see them there and we headed out the door, to our hotel.

Once we checked into the hotel, we asked the hostess behind the counter how to get to Fourth Street and after some confusing directions, we simply asked if a taxi or Uber was available. She said that there wasn’t, but an elderly man named “Larry”, had sort of a self-owned Uber service and that he would take us to any destination in town for ten dollars. We agreed to give “Larry” a try and were given his number.

Judy called Larry and arranged a time of fifteen minutes for our pick-up, as I imagined an elderly man of seventy or so, trying to make ends meet living on his Social Security checks.

We waited outside the hotel for Larry to arrive and it was almost fifteen minutes on the nose when we first saw Larry’s ride pull into the parking lot.

I heard Judy moan an “Oh no!” and I chuckled to myself at the sight of the mid-eighties Ford Bronco II. No two doors matched color. The hood was tied down with several loops of electrical wire. None of the four tires matched tread or even manufacture and all but one rear held just enough air to keep the wheels off the pavement. The rear tail-gate was black and still bore the part code markings of the salvage yard.

Inside the geriatric SUV was Larry at the wheel, his female companion and a small child, who was scurrying about the interior like it was a piece of playground equipment. Not a child seat to be seen. In the back seat sat a man of great girth holding, I kid you not, a birthday cake!

Larry pulled alongside of us and as one expects from that stage of transportation, the brakes gave out a faint death rattle as they squealed the car to a stop. Larry got out to open the back door for us. I was both amused and cautious as Judy and I walked behind the hospice bound Bronco. I whispered to Judy to let me get in first. I figured if there were to be any problems, she could get out quickly, while I and the other occupants fought for supremacy with an arsenal of birthday cake divided up between the combatants.

Larry was friendly and very talkative. He admired my bike and told of his own Harley that he was “working on” and that it was “in pieces” right now. (I had visions of hundreds of motorcycle pieces laying about a greasy living room carpet.) He said he liked the color of my bike and might consider painting his bike the same color, when he gets it back together. A song by Johnny Cash called “One piece at a time” suddenly popped into my head.

Larry drove us to our destination and I have to say quite safely, and in an act of what I thought to be chivalry, got out to open the door for us. We were told that the door only opens from the outside.

Larry was not to be outdone by the Bronco in respiratory distress. He himself, was about mid-forties going on ninety something. Long thin straggly hair hid under a dirty ball cap. He looked to be about ninety-five pounds and five foot eight or so in height. His voice sounded as if breakfast at Larry’s house consisted of cigarettes and a six-pack.
The female companion in the front seat holding the child was surprisingly pretty, though plain. Neither Larry nor his female companion had seen a dentist, or even a tooth brush, since the Regan administration.

As Judy and I exited the Bronco, I paid Larry the ten dollars and a couple bucks tip, just because we made it to our destination without something falling off. I shook hands with Larry and thanked him for the ride. He reminded me that we had his number and when we were ready to go, to give him a call.

Judy and I turned and walked to the street fair, and almost simultaneously said, “I think we’ll walk back.”