Old Dog

by Roy F. Chandler

  Unlike most riders, Dog did not wear engineer or cowboy boots. In their place he chose the tight-ankled protection of old style army paratroop boots. Fitted with lug soles, they wore long when skidded against road pavement.

  Leather chaps protected Dog's legs from cold wind and displayed a number of silver conchos crudely hammered from Mexican coins. Cinched at the waist by a broad leather belt, the chaps lent their wearer a touch of cowhand and completed the almost armored appearance of a Harley-Davidson motorcycle rider.

  Dog asked, "Like her looks, men?"

  The boys were uninhibitedly enthusiastic. They threw together sounds of approval. "Really rad" and "Ultimate" were among them. Dog could feel their silent envy and admiration as he straddled his machine.

  The leather saddle was cold against his denims as he snugged his helmet and tightened the chin strap. The helmet's black plastic was scarred and battered from careless tossing around, but a decal of a Combat Infantryman's Badge across the forehead and the word ARMY in gold above it brightened and personalized.

  Dog flicked the gas to open, snapped on his ignition, and checked to be sure he was in neutral. A touch of the start button rumbled the big Harley twin into life, and he jazzed the throttle a little to keep it running. The exhaust snapped and grumbled satisfaction, which sent the admiring boys into ecstatics.

  The Harley was a 1977 FLH shovelhead, heavily customized with after-market chrome—ID number 2A11221H7. A lot of the original Harley-Davidson sheet metal had been removed from the fork and headlight area, and the stock Harley muffler baffles had been pierced to improve their sound. The rider sat low on a "Mustang" seat with a little rise to the handlebar grips.

  Bikers had names for cycles like Old Dog Carlisle's. They were called putts or scooters, sometimes machines, and often simply as rides. Unlike the pampered and nearly flawless perfection of show bikes, they were used and ridden regularly.

  There were riders who boasted that "Chrome don't get you home" and deliberately allowed their machines to resemble working pickup trucks. Even worse, to most eyes, were the rat bike owners, who gloried in straddling the worst looking two wheelers possible. Although their engines might hum like electric motors, rat bikers chose used stovepipe for exhausts, pop rivets for fasteners, and were sure to have folded blanket scraps for seats.

  Old Dog held a thumb upright to his young audience and got an approving pair in return. His gauntleted left hand squeezed the clutch, he toed-up his kickstand, and foot tapped the shift bar down into first gear. He fed in a little throttle, eased the clutch, and almost whispered away from the curb.

  He knew from a thousand other departures that the youths were studying the lines of his helmet and jacket (with the big Harley eagle stitched on) and listening to the deep thud of the customized exhaust. Hell, every biker in the world watched every other rider take off.

  Valid comparisons could be made between western horsemen and Harley riders. There was something emotion-stirring about both. A man might despise horses and hate motorcycles, but still find his eyes following. Women, young women at least, were attracted to both motorcycles and horses. To explain the appeal could be difficult, but it existed, and riders so minded could be sure of feminine interest.

  Old Dog swung onto Second Street and let the traffic start him north. Daytona Bike Week was coming up fast and accounted for the Harley-Davidson being on the road and tuned during the winter. One last time at Daytona? One final whooping and hollering, back-slapping, lie-swapping gathering with the rootless brothers he knew from all over the world? Yeah, Dog thought. He'd do it once more. A little different maybe, knowing this really would be a final time. He might just . . .

  A jam up before the square jumbled his thoughts and he guessed he would cross the river and get out of the traffic. He leaned the bike into the left lane and found room to edge along the packed tight automobiles.

  He got a look at the traffic obstruction. He should have known. Newsmen swarmed the courthouse steps and spilled into the road. An important personage was on the steps, apparently speaking into the dozen or so microphones stuck in his face. There was room on the sidewalk right in front of the speaker, and Old Dog thought he ought to swing up and roar past right under their noses. That would put him on the news, and troopers would come knocking. Beating a little traffic and annoying the honchos wasn't worth it.

  A glance or two identified familiar faces. A big time trial had dominated both newspaper and nightly TV news. Probably a decision had been reached. Likely, the villain had again beaten the rap. They seemed to win with disgusting regularity.

  Maybe it was vigilante time. Old Dog speculated more seriously than most would have. If the law couldn't or wouldn't remove society's obvious bad apples, wasn't it a citizen's duty to see that it got done anyway?

  Apparently not, Dog had to recognize, for no one ever did anything anymore. To rise up and knock hell out of someone deserving or to seek personal vengeance or satisfaction was uncivilized and vigorously condemned. Old Dog shrugged. It wasn't his to worry about much longer. He crossed the river and turned north on 11 and 15 into Marysville. It was always a little relief to be back in Perry County. With all he had done and counting all the roads he had traveled, Perry was still home and the place he liked best.

  He tried to bring Daytona Beach and Bike Week back to mind, but the irritation conjured by imagining yet another criminal beating the justice system hung on. Predators roamed and were regularly levered free of conviction by clever attorneys who sought legal loopholes and technical irregularities—never simple justice. Law and order were becoming mere catchwords.

  The wise recognized that God had not decreed life would be fair, but within a society things should get better, not worse. Within this one a disgruntled minority beat, looted, and laughed. Yet a citizen who defended his livelihood was condemned, and if he dared to shoot in defense of his possessions, he was likely to be arrested and judged more harshly than the perpetrator. The law, Old Dog concluded, was not much of a criminal deterrent these days.

  He was hungry, but eating usually stirred the dragon in his gut. The choices for now were to eat little bits at regular intervals and experience the hot breath only a touch more intensely or to devour a hearty, good tasting meal and suffer through the beast's fiery response.

  Dog often chose the latter. Good tasting food was certainly one of life's greater pleasures. It was usually worth the exasperating, groan inducing pain it engendered.

  Dog guessed he would putt up to the King's Inn, eat well, and go home to thrash through the certain discomfort. He knew how it would be. For two hours after eating he would barely sense a little heartburn. Then pain would hit. A couple of hours of abject, sweat-popping misery, followed by two more hours of gradual recovery was typical.

  He wondered if he could live on milkshakes. They seldom roused the fiery monster. Probably he could survive well on them. Three months or so wasn't that long—but he would dearly miss the tasty junk food most took for granted.

  Timmy Carlisle was just turning in when he heard motorcycle rumble from far across town. When the wind was right and he was tuned to it, the sound of big trucks or Harley-Davidsons accelerating as they cleared the turn by the transmission shop caught his ear. They powered uphill, and an instant later unwound to handle the tight right turn at the new car wash. Heading north on Carlisle Street the engine rumble got lost amid buildings, but sometimes a machine gunning out of the square could be detected.

  At fourteen, Tim was interested in such phenomenon. Little was more entrancing than his uncle's black and chrome Harley—unless it was Uncle Dog himself.

  Yep, it was the Harley all right. To a guy who listened, every exhaust was different. Uncle Dog's had a deep, powerful growl, and when the throttle was cut back the engine gurgled like an old smoker's pipe. It was him all right.

  Tim guessed he would stay up a while. To tell the truth, he was worried about his uncle. Something wasn't right, and Old Dog had been doctoring for it. He had lost w
eight, that was plain enough, and Tim had heard him groan out loud and swear at pain in his belly. They were all concerned. Even his mother, who didn't have much good to say about Dog Carlisle, mentioned how peaked he looked, and that it was time he got off that fool motorcycle forever.

  Tim had heard the motorcycle a long way off because he had his bedroom window open. Imagine that, so warm in February that an open window felt good. He wondered if it was the greenhouse effect they studied about in school.

  Uncle Dog had uncovered the Harley and rolled it onto the barn floor. Except for a little dust, it looked as sharp as when they had put it away just before Christmas. Old Dog kept his drip charger on the battery so the bike was ready to go. He did that because he might decide to take off for some strange and distant place any day. They never knew when Old Dog might say, "Guess I'll ride out and see Paul Fenske in California." An hour or two later he would be gone. Uncle Dog was exciting that way.

  Uncle Dog had listened closely to a couple of weather reports, and things sounded good. With the Harley looking as anxious as they did, Old Dog had sniffed the breeze and studied the almost cloudless sky. "If I didn't know the date, I'd swear it was April."

  He looked over at his nephew. "Let's check her out." Tim's nod was coolly enthusiastic, and Dog added, "Get your leathers. It'll be sharp riding."

  Tim had grown. His vinyl jacket barely fit. In the fall he had worn a sweatshirt under it. Now he had trouble raising his arms. His mother would not spring for a real biker's jacket, but Old Dog had bought him a Harley insignia to sew on the vinyl. It was good enough—if you didn't really know about the right gear.

  His helmet was full face, and he felt like a mummy in it, but he didn't complain. His mom was always about an inch from telling him to stay off the motorcycle. His dad wasn't likely to overrule her on Harley riding, so Timmy kept real quiet about wanting different equipment.

  Uncle Dog was all leathered out and looked like a real rider—which he was if anybody ever was. Old Dog Carlisle had been riding Harleys for forty years. Forty years! Tim could hardly imagine such a time.

  The stories Uncle Dog told about biking all across the country were spellbinders. If it had happened, Old Dog had been there. Sometimes, riders with beards, earrings, tattoos, and radical bikes, would show up to lay over with Old Dog for a few nights. Then the tales would be earthy, filled with swearing, and as exciting as a Rambo movie.

  His father let him listen, and he knew that he and Uncle Dog had talked it over.

  Dog had said, "They're salty people, Larry. Foul mouthed, blasphemous, and horrible exaggerators, but they live life to the brim. They do, see, and know things a lot of men never even hear about. Some of it's vile, but a lot more is practical knowledge a man couldn't buy or go to college for.

  "Hell, Larry. I doubt there is hardly anything boys don't get a touch of by the time they're eleven or twelve. Movies don't leave much to the imagination anymore, and Playboy, Hustler, and the rest of the magazines get passed around. . . just like stuff did when we were growing up."

  His dad had laughed a bit self-consciously, but he hadn't balked the way some fathers would have. His words came clear, rising from the porch where the two men sat and floating in Tim's open bedroom window.

  "It's embarrassing to hear dirty talk with your son sitting there listening."

  "Expect it is, but it's a hurdle you'll come up against sooner or later, Larry. It's a kind of 'You know and he knows, but everybody pretends that nobody knows' sort of thing. Tim'll handle it."

  Larry Carlisle sighed, "You should have been a father, Dog. You do it better."

  Old Dog stayed serious, "No, I don't do it better, and I'd make a poor father. Hell, Larry, being an uncle is easy. I can ride in, give presents, act wise, and ride out. A father's in there day in and day out, struggling with the good and the difficult. Solving another man's problems is always simple. We all figure we know more than the man doing the job. Given the chance, we would advise the president or tell the general the right way to run a war. Advice is easy, and everybody sees that hard-to-travel but just-right road other men ought to choose. Guys like me ride out of town before the going gets tough."

  Old Dog had finally chuckled at his own intensity before adding, "Of course, we uncles are also good at arriving late and explaining how we'd have done it better."

  A lot of the bikers that stopped by Old Dog's were hard nuts. Bearded, often ponytailed, and sometimes wearing spurs on the heels of their heavy engineer boots, they were intimidating in appearance.

  Many were big men. Some were beer fatted up, but others were just large, hard, and physically capable. Only a few had the body builder's pumped and cut look. Uncle Dog claimed that a lot of riders pumped iron to build strength, but not many gave a rat's ass (his exact words) about bulging like Arnold.

  Most of the visitors were one percenters—bikers who lived the rider's life style all the way. They, and their women, talked bikes, thought bikes, existed for bikes, and for little else. They knew each other, visited the same places, and among themselves spoke a biker's jargon incomprehensible to outsiders.

  A bearded monster might guzzle Budweiser, belch violently while one-handing the empty into a packed aluminum disk, and say, "Puttin' into Sturgis a rice burner cut off Bat Breath's knuckler, bounced off a parked panhead, bent up his springer and front triple lacing, and wiped out the Arlen Ness scratchings on the primary cover. Bad mistake . . . "The story would continue.

  Gibberish, unless the listener knew that a rice burner was a Japanese motorcycle, Bat Breath was a rider's nickname, knucklers and panheads were Harley Davidson engine types made in certain eras. Sturgis is a town in South Dakota where Harley riders swarm once a year, and Arlen Ness, a famed custom designer who, at significant expense, engraved decoration on motorcycles. Putting means riding, a springer described a front end suspension system, and triple lace denotes a custom wheel with three times the normal number of stainless or chromed spokes.

  Timmy Carlisle liked knowing. Boys learn (what they want to learn) easily, and Timmy Carlisle, sitting silently off to a side, quickly mastered the biker slanguage. It was cool, very special, and often titillating with subjects his mother would have been horrified to suspect he heard or knew about.

  A major discovery was that the hard-talking, outlaw-looking bikers were almost to a man gentle and reasonable behind the rough and intimidating facades. They, out of both desire and necessity, stood together against outsiders. Most were vigorously patriotic, and an astonishing percentage had served in the armed forces

  As with all groups, the bikers had their ritual conformities. The leather, boots, and chained-on wallets made them instantly identifiable. Nearly all were beer guzzlers, and pot smoking was seen as acceptable behavior.

  Old Dog Carlisle disapproved of the drinking and smoking. He said both were stupid and did neither himself. Tim, of course, saw it the same way.

  Swearing got small attention from Dog. He gave vile language no notice, so Timmy placed no importance on knowing bad words. Old Dog helled and damned a lot, but so did nearly every man Tim knew. The best way, Tim decided, was not to use those words until you grew up, and even then you held it down around women.

  The Carlisle farm—they still called it that—lay just outside Bloomfield Borough. The farmland had been sold away, and they still owned only those acres containing house, barn, an outbuilding or two, and Old Dog's shack.

  Pap Carlisle had been of the old school, and in passing, he left the place to his eldest son, but when Adam Carlisle came back from the Korean Conflict he was not interested in house or land. He called his younger brother onto the porch and offered a deal.

  "What I want to do, Larry, is give you the place. You and Arlis want to live here in Centre Township. You want to raise a family here. Hell, you'll want to die here. The deal will be that our old clubhouse will be mine. I'll fix it up a little and always have a place to come to."

  The offer was hugely generous and was gratefully accept
ed. Larry and his bride of some months took over the house, and when he set up his own insurance business, Larry opened a doorway into a side bedroom and created an office.

  The clubhouse was a former chicken coop the boys had cleaned out and appropriately decorated. Old Dog had made a project out of insulating, illegally attaching a bathroom to the house septic system, and adding a broad porch for sitting. Later, he nailed on a carport which sheltered motorcycles and his ratty-looking pickup that ran like a watch.

  Dog's furnishings had been upgraded to yard sale quality, but the aging boyish posters and drawings still hung about the walls. While Old Dog was away, Larry punched a hole in a wall and hung on a heat pump. Dog still had the pot bellied stove if he wanted it, but the heat pump also provided air conditioning. Dog was appreciative and said so.

  Chapter 5

  When the Harley grumbled up the drive and dropped into idle at Dog's shack, Larry Carlisle put down his paper and waited. He would give Old Dog time to get his jacket off and drain tanks before he went over.

  The motorcycle idled, barely chugging, repeating a comforting "potato, potato, potato." Tuned just right, Larry thought. He grinned to himself. An older Harley Davidson should idle higher. The engine starved for oil at slow idle. Dog knew that, of course, and damn, it did sound good.

  Arlis asked, "Why doesn't he turn that thing off? He always sits there letting it run on. That engine makes the TV jump." It didn't, of course, but Larry did not argue about it

  They sat in their personal chairs, almost turned away from each other. Larry sometimes wondered if there was symbolism there. Arlis could be shrewish a bit too often lately.