1969 and Then Some

by Robert Wintner

  It felt odd to realize that I’d come on that trip against better judgment, in denial, to use the popular jargon. But it felt right, because unique perspective often carries a price. I came in order to be in that place of knowing a thing or two, because I wanted to feel again like I’d done the right thing. A day up on two wheels for a few hundred blazing miles, a crazy mountain pass and a friendly race along the river topping us out at a hundred-five seemed fair. Monks meditate for days on end to gain similar states of consciousness—or at least consciousness as elusive and hard to come by. That was the long and short of it. That was why I came.

  For all I know, which seems like so much and nothing at all, I came for an old feeling—one of those feelings that must change as the physical being changes, yet with age the appreciation is so much greater. You come to realize that knowing a thing often begins with immersion in that thing, and it’s been a life of immersion.

  Good flavor, good feeling and good company made it a rare evening to savor. Well, we survived, and every man among us knew without speaking it that the odds on surviving day six had lengthened severely over day one. We’d loosened the bindings and added sail in a freshening breeze. That’s why I imbibed with no constraint, because I could, because the day was done, the miles run with no crashes or skids, and a swerve or two or near miss in the passing lane can shake up a beginner who doesn’t understand the meaning of marginal clearance or the difference between high speed wobbles and incremental wind sheer, but we understood.

  I promise that I won’t ride like that again.

  It was Central Idaho on a morning steeped in slows with pain coming on in headers, fluky gusts and pangs, like yesterday. Oh, God. Some guys time their longest pisses to know when a world record is being set. I wondered if I should have begun timing the interval between rolling the legs over the side and standing up. Should I have begun then? I wondered if setting that measure aside indicated an improving attitude.

  What would be the point, other than recording another decline? Now where’s that?

  At.

  I knew how to untangle the Gordian knot of inertia: slowly, one strand at a time. I also knew which strands came first but I needed a minute to sort them. I moved the first strand, rising and stepping to the sink to brush the teeth, but I stopped over the sink to wonder what the hell I could be thinking with a bladder so full it had kept me uncomfortable all the way through the prime filet of the entire night’s slumber, five to seven. That was the first strand, the order of the thing, and I got it tangled.

  The lizard drained for what was surely a world record piss as I wondered where was my watch to make it official. That had to be four minutes. But I was only fooling myself. Old guys piss longer because of reduced pressure and flow, because of the swelling prostate gland that impinges on the ureter, and no matter how many times the doctor sticks his thumb up your ass and squeezes, it will swell. Tequila, beer, red meat? Fuck.

  Hey, when does a guy know he’s in trouble? When he feels both the doctor’s hands on his shoulders during the prostate exam. Joel stared, obviously wishing nobody would tell him that joke again. Joel is my doctor. He’s only thirty-eight.

  Back in Idaho I was getting a memo from the interior that seemed like a certain thumbs up on a turn and squat, and I couldn’t help but wonder if my rib eye had been knocking cotton during my prime filet. And to what, Mother Nature, do I owe this honor?

  I thought it was only a fart, and I’d be better off waiting on coffee, about a half pound of fresh fruit, a couple over easy, toast and some Tater Tots—hey, we were on the road, where you eat what’s available—to establish adequate back pressure to jettison the entire load, because you don’t really get a decent second chance, on the go with all those layers to peel off. Well, hell, things would be much easier today. But I went ahead with some tap water and a stool softener, single dose, to better manage the process and minimize collateral damage—as if the old dukey chute was a vintage unit itself, in need of meticulous care. Then again, there weren’t no as ifs about it, and the exhilarating return is often as great—vintage cars and motorcycles, old assholes. What’s the diff? Talk about a symptom of the aging process; you know you’re getting old when getting lucky means success on a major dump. Pay attention. Don’t squeeze. But don’t linger.

  I didn’t crash. I only dreamed of crashing. I couldn’t tell the difference anymore. Maybe I didn’t want to. The fuck was that? Well, I knew what it was. It wasn’t a subconscious fear of crashing. It was a subconscious fear of trading motorcycles with a crazy Canuck for a stretch and then crashing.

  Marisol. Rayanne. Rianne. Betty Boop.

  Of the whole bunch Betty’s the only one I’d be able to find. She’s way past sixty. I could call her. That would be fun—tell her I was still on two wheels in the wilderness, and I took a dump this morning to make an elderly motorcyclist proud. Wait—not proud. I didn’t feel pride in my big dumps. It was purer than that. Pride is a vanity after all. It was more like happiness, because empty bowels meant another day of riding unencumbered. Hallelujah, I thought.

  Let’s see, I had the vitamins and mineral drops, the anti-inflammatories, the ginseng and the well-being tonic. It wasn’t like rolling a wake-up before turning in, but ready to rock ‘n roll is relative to output and need. And I was ready. Except that I had to call Rachel to let her know I didn’t die yesterday. I should have called last night. I forgot.

  Acknowledgements

  SPECIAL THANKS TO the music makers, the musicians, lyricists, poets and all who captured the age and then some—who gave voice to an idea as old as the ages but long since forgotten, until the 60s. Noted herein:

  Sly and the Family Stone, The Beatles, Donovan, Joni Mitchell, Buddy Miles, Mike Bloomfield, Electric Flag, The Chambers Brothers, The Byrds, The Rascals, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Frank Zappa, Janis Joplin, Big Brother & the Holding Company, Jimi Hendrix, Captain Beefheart, Country Joe & the Fish, Joe Cocker, Mad Dogs & Englishmen, the Rolling Stones, Buffalo Springfield, America, Steely Dan, Quicksilver Messenger Service, The Moody Blues, Little Richard, Steppenwolf, Led Zeppelin, David Bowie, Bob Dylan

  And the movies: Full Metal Jacket, The Deer Hunter, Good Morning Viet Nam, Platoon, Born on the Fourth of July and many more, including the benchmark of reasoned insanity, Apocalypse Now.