The Hammer of Thor

The hammer of Thor echoes across the valley as the rains fall steady and hard. These are the days and times of summer I remember fondly and all too well.
The days of youthful freedom. The long hot days of trail rides, a twenty-two rifle, and a primitive little one-room shack that was the summer home, get-away, and sanctuary of my friend Wizard and myself.

It was days like today that Wizard and I would immerse ourselves into pure boyhood he-man activities. The daytime high in the nineties and humidity so thick you could almost smother from the smallest kind of exertion.
Spending the hottest and biggest part of the day tearing up the trails on our Honda SL70’s, it was not an unusual sight to find the two of us dusty or muddy, or both, carrying the days dirt from some hill climb or mud hole on our clothes and covering our bikes.
The smell of sweat and dirt on our clothes combined with hot mud cooking on the cylinder heads of our machines permeated the air with a fragrance only another dirt rider could appreciate, and Ralph Lauren could never copy.
The shack, or camp, I refer too was as primitive as a camp can get. No electric, no running water and a path to the comfort station. At night, lighting was provided by several kerosene lamps and a couple of candles in case the kerosene ran low. Heat was in the form of a pot-bellied stove for winter bivouac.
During those days of summer freedom, Wiz and I would return to the camp each day around early evening to prepare our supper. With no electric, our food stock was kept cold and questionably fresh by means of a large ice cooler. There were days when ridding far outweighed the need for food. So, our hunger, at the end of each day, forced us to overlook the dubious quality of our food that had been in the cooler for days sometimes. Hot dogs, because of their bountiful nitrite content and other ingredients that mortal man is not permitted to know, were the heartiest of our commodities to survive the declining conditions of the cooler. However, I remember consuming ground beef and sausage that sometimes glittered the colors of the rainbow and putting them on buns or bread that were either soggy or were speckled green. I cannot recall either Wizard or myself suffering any ill effects from such ambiguous food.
However, I do remember one morning, both Wiz and I, awakening to a ravenous hunger. Our food stores had been depleted the night before and all that was left were two large cans of “Big John’s” beans. (Those not familiar with “Big John’s” baked beans, be it known that the contents were packaged in two separate cans. A large can held the beans and a smaller can tapped to the top of the bean can held the fixn’s.)
A fire was hastily built in the outdoor stone fireplace and grill. Both cans of beans were opened and poured into a large saucepan and mixed with the fixn’s. Hunger hastened the cooking time and we consumed both large cans of the beans while they were still in a lukewarm state.
That day was the day we chose to restock our supplies. So, a 15-minute ride into town to the little “Mom ‘n Pop” grocery store Wizard’s parents owned was the top on our days agenda list.
(As had been our previous procedure, we would ride into town and each go our separate way to homes to catch up on chores, take a well needed bath or shower, and just generally let our Mothers know we were alive and ok. During this time of weekly exodus to the homeland, we would also exchange our dirty clothes for clean. I’m not really sure, but I suspect our mothers sometimes just burned the dirty ones rather than handle them.
After mowing grass and finishing the other assigned burdens, I would wash the bike and preform any needed maintenance on it also. Then, I would ride back into town and meet Wiz at his parent’s store. We would restock our provisions along with a couple of bags of ice. Wiz’s dad would drive us to the camp in the stores C30 Chevy steak bed truck, along with the afore mentioned provisions, and as we drove down the long dirt and grass road to camp, we would stop about half way down the road where it was the job of Wiz and I to burn the weeks’ worth of cardboard boxes from the store.
After waiting for all embers to cool “Bill” would drive us into camp. While Wiz and I would restock the cooler, Bill would look around to make sure the camp was secure, clean, and free of any hidden mischief. We always passed the formal inspection. But what he didn’t know didn’t hurt us and after returning to the store in the truck, we would get on our bikes and ride back to camp for another three to four days.)
So, after Wiz and I finished our beany breakfast we headed out toward home.
About halfway home we started to realize that we had consumed more fiber than a sawmill floor and all that fiber was starting to do what fiber does to one’s system. Only ours was on overload.
The trip home for me consisted of several stops after leaving Wizard’s home and after getting home myself, I spent several hours of contemplation, regret, and reflection, on the water closet. That day I’m certain mom burned my clothes.
I didn’t get back down to Wizards house until early evening that day. Wizard informed me that, he too, suffered the same afflictions as I that day and that “We ain’t gunn’a get any more beans.” I readily agreed. (I even seem to remember a NATO agreement of some kind, banning the use and/or consumption of said beans because of its possible use as a weapon of mass destruction for its apocalyptic effect on the gastric system.)
That evening after burning the store’s abundance of cardboard boxes and putting the fresh supply of food in the cooler (minus beans) we set out to store our bikes for the coming evening rains.
Know, keep in mind that Wiz and I would ride in all kinds of weather conditions and that our little bikes were no strangers to mud and dust and even snow and ice. But it was secure within our minds and reasoning that to let the bikes sit outside overnight in the evening dew or rain would cause them to develop irreputable rust and damage. I know not how that bit of questionable reasoning came about, but it was our gospel truth.
So it was that each evening Wiz and I would perform a bit of dangerous two-wheeled folly.
There were three steel steps leading up to the screen enclosed porch on the front of the camp. The doorway was a narrow thirty-two inches and, if I remember correctly, the handlebar width of the Honda SL70 was about twenty-nine inches. Thus, leaving an inch and a half clearance on each side.
A 1×8 plank was laid down *exactly* in the middle of the three, flesh eating and metal munching, steel steps. The screen door was propped open and out of the way and each rider was given a small amount of time to get up enough courage for the attempt and to get our life in order before each attempt. Too fast and one would travel the short distance of the width of the porch and into the camp itself. Not enough speed would cause either a stall out or a backwards roll without the assistance of the other since there was no room for another’s help due to the side railing.
If one was not square enough on each attempt, then either the brake leaver or clutch leaver would be slammed into the knuckles of the corresponding hand and a backwards roll would ensue. I will leave this part of my story neither admitting to crushed fingers nor laying the bike down in a backwards roll. But each summers end there were repairs to be made on the door jamb to some degree.
After securing the bikes on the porch for the evening, it was almost a nightly ritual to get the .22 rifle out and plink away at targets that only our imagination was limited to. Apples, old food and the target that we were most vengeful of… “Big John’s” bean cans.
On several occasions during those summer retreats, we would hike a short distance to a couple of small, and overgrown, ponds that were once used as watering holes for cattle.
Now thick with cattails and Lilly pads and algae, they were a frog’s paradise and a target rich environment for our .22 rifle. Many a four-legged reptile would meet its demise at the hands of the two stealthy snipers and our trusty double duce.
The camp was not deep into the woods but just deep enough to be void of any outside light source. So, many a starry night we would walk or ride to a nearby hill called “Manson Hill” and just watch the stars and wonder. “How many are there?” “We can’t be the only ones.” “Wonder if “Star Trek” will ever be real.” On a clear night with low humidity the abundance of stars was indescribable.
But, on nights like tonight, when Thor is pounding his mighty hammer off the anvil of injustice, the sparks and hammer blows were both terrifying and awe inspiring.
Spark after spark would light up the night. If we happen to not get the bikes on the porch that night, the lightening would reflect off the two little drowning Hondas like a Hollywood horror film. The woods would reflect in a black and white eeriness and even The Keepers would bow down in respect.
Wiz and I would silently watch the terrifying light show hoping it would end soon but last a little longer and each of us thinking the same thing. “We just washed our bikes.”
Now, some fifty years later, I am again taken back in awe of the light show before me. I can feel each hammer blow and see each resulting spark as it brightens up the night for just a millisecond. I think of those things I have just described to you and more. I smile as I reflect on them and remember my friend Wizard. I look toward Thor and nod in acknowledgement to a hammer blow that I’m sure was a sign of the many times he remembers scaring the living crap out of a couple kids.