I sit here, in front of this electronic, demonic, “thing” tired and weary. But in a good way. Not the tiredness and weary feeling one gets from over work. But the good kind of tired and weary feeling you get from a weekend filled with the pleasure of doing whatever it is that one loves to do. Be it motorcycles, boats, vacationing or any of the million and one things the mind can think up to amuse the body and soul with.
For me, as you all know, it’s my motorcycle. And this weekend just happened to be a good one. Not the best, but a very good one with 510 miles of black ribbon behind and explored.
The weekend started out as most weekends do for Judy and I, when the weather is obedient. I have fallen into a delightful and relaxing rut on Fridays. (We no longer report to our appointed tasks on that day of the week since going to four ten-hour days.)
Friday mornings find me doing some kind of household chore/s until about ten. Then, a quick shower, grab some ridding accoutrements, my boots and helmet and I’m gone for the day, until Judy comes home.
Once Judy settles in and powers down, we usually head out on the bike in search of new, or at least lesser tried, culinary delights. After which, we get on the bike and just ride around the counties with no destination in mind. It was that kind of a “Friday” we enjoyed this past weekend. We rode to nowhere to and from no place.
When we finally made it home, and started to relax, Judy got a phone call from my Brother-in-law Mickey, wanting to know what we were doing the next day and wondering if we would like to go on a ride with him and his girlfriend to a place for some late lunch called “Cougar Bob’s”
Now Mickey is a great guy and our ridding attitudes are a match, so he is the only one I’ll ride with. Otherwise I’m the lone wolf type of biker.
But for Mickey, the words “GOOD” and “FOOD” can only be synonymies with the word “CHEAP”. So it was, with great trepidation, Judy and I agreed to ride to, and dine at, Cougar Bob’s.
To get to Cougar Bob’s Pa. Route 666 must be utilized and having rode on that ominous and foreboding route in the past, but always on the opposite end, it is a quite pleasant and comfortable road to ride. It follows a stream for some ways and winds through some of the most beautiful green hillsides Pennsylvania has to offer.
Whoever the engineer was that named that route must not have thought it through or simply did not know the meaning of the triple 6’s. At any rate, I have been told that road signs and markings bearing the route number are a prime target for theft and several examples of barren sign poles can be seen along the route.
On our way to the primitive lounge we made a stop at a bridge that now sat partially submerged and flooded. Taking some pictures of the area I had to take a wide step across a narrow ditch, murky and crowded with swamp grasses. As I stretched to make the vault my foot sunk into the mud and was suctioned in place while my left foot was desperately searching for any solid ground to land on. None was found and I stumbled and rolled sinking both feet in ankle deep smelly muck. A salty old sailor could not have cursed better.
After returning to my feet I collected my dignity and snapped a few more photos before mounting up for the final leg of our pilgrimage to Cougar Bob’s.
The day was a good day to ride. Temperatures were in the mid to upper seventies and the sky was about half filled with light wispy Cirrus clouds mixed with left over contrails from passing jet aircraft. The road itself was surprisingly good, contrary to what it’s number might suggest, and we found ourselves at Cougar Bob’s in about half an hours’ time from the sunken bridge.
“So, this is Cougar Bob’s.” I thought to myself looking at the outside of the building in the middle of a small hamlet called Kettelville. The place was not fancy in any way, but neither was it a broken-down shack. Perhaps a rustic redneck looking joint might best describe its tar paper outside covered with a sprinkling of beer posters. Several Milwaukee motorcycles were lined up around the front and side of the building along with the mandatory handful of pickup trucks in various stages of their lives.
Entering the establishment, the word rustic was being too kind, but the people were friendly as well as the waitress and owners. A much-needed trip to the men’s room revealed chalk graffiti throughout the relief station. As I washed my hands, I spotted a tin basket filled with chalk for each patron to leave their own mark. I obliged by signing with my own calling card signature of “Hang in There”.
The four of us gathered and sat at a table with two opposing corner legs that had to be two inches shorter that the other two opposing corners legs. The waitress/bartender/cook, and probably dishwasher, came to our table and handed each of us a menu that had grown yellow with age and bore the remnants of some type of spillage at some time early in this decade.
The place was known for its specialty called a “Wedge” which was nothing more than the ordered toppings between two cooked pizza crusts. They were served in small, medium, and large portions and the waitress described the largest as being able to stem the hunger of all four of us. So, our order for a large Italian Wedge was placed.
From our seat, and looking up to the ceiling, we noticed it was covered in one-dollar bills stuck there. Curiosity overcame us and when we ask about the amount of green backs on the ceiling, we were told each was stuck there by patrons by using a quarter for weight and a thumb tack to make it stick and after the ceiling was full they would be taken down and given to charity.
The idea is to place a tack through George’s face, place the quarter over the head of the tack, fold the bill over the quarter, and toss the folded currency underhand to the ceiling. Mickey’s girlfriend, Tina, was the only one of our four to try the impossible looking feat and stuck her bill on her first attempt.
About then our “Wedge” came to our table with the Italian toppings bursting out of the middle of the two large pizza crusts. The pie/wedge was cut and quartered and in quiet hesitation I took a bite of my slice.
“Hey! This ain’t bad!” I said out loud in amazement. Mickey had done good. Yes, the food was cheap, otherwise we wouldn’t be there. But it was actually, truly good!
On the front wall of the dining area was a large, and I mean large, Moose head. There was nothing special about this Moose head, other than being large, it was like any other mounted Moose head one might find in such places as this or hunting clubs or lodges.
But what was different about this particular Moose head was several of the patrons were taking turns standing on chairs and kissing him.
When we ask about this odd ritual, we were told it was for good luck. Well…. Who are we to tempt fate especially on the route that bears the mark of the beast?
After leaving Cougar Bob’s, Mickey had to break hard to avoid hitting a deer that had wondered into the town of Ludlow and was confused by the traffic. I too had to break hard to keep from rear ending Mickey.
Also, this weekend turned out to be rain free and high mileage for us. We couldn’t have asked for much better. Both turns of good fate must have been from the kiss
(Yes, there are pictures of the kiss, but do you really think I’d post them? And for the record, there was no alcohol involved in the osculation between the four of us and said moose. We *do not* drink and ride!)
Long Lonesome Highway 