Solar Storm: Homeward Bound

by Vincent Keith

  “Okay, but your bike isn’t a Harley is it?”

  “No, it’s a custom. I buy the engines, transmissions, suspension parts, wheels and a bunch of the small stuff like throttles and brakes, sometimes mirrors. I mostly build the frames, seats, fork heads, and fenders. There are a few custom builders that make their own wheels or have them made. I don’t create show bikes. I build riders. If you want fancy wheels, I can order them, but I don’t use them often. I’ve built a few garage queens, but that’s on the owner, not me.”

  “So you’re not building engines then.”

  “No, that takes a serious factory to make it even remotely profitable. I buy engines from various places. Crazy Horse up in your neck of the woods, S and S, sometimes Harley. Some guys bring in an engine from a wreck and ask me to build around that. I even did one based on the Triumph Rocket III. Next time I’ll tell them to just buy another Triumph. That’s a big engine, and it’s tough to design a frame around. Personally, I like the Crazy Horse Bottle Cap engines. Simple, reliable, well engineered, and they look great in chrome.”

  “I noticed your bike is on the quiet side, like mine,” said Jack.

  “Ha, most folks don’t think any big twin is quiet but, yeah I usually put on a high quality, tuned muffler. I believe they sound better. I’m not a fan of the straight pipe bikes. Lots of guys subscribe to the notion that loud bikes save lives. I’m not one of them. When you’re riding, twenty feet in front of you is a lot quieter than one-hundred-feet behind. Besides, nowadays everyone is busy doing something behind the wheel that has nothing to do with driving. I know from experience they don’t notice a thing until you’re right on top of them.”

  “Huh.” Jack stared at his beer for a minute lost in thought. “So, what about leather, and helmets and what not?”

  “I’d recommend leather over any of the fabrics, but any quality leather is enough, and a good fabric is better than jeans. Jeans are only marginally better than shorts. I’m always amazed when I see kids on crotch rockets in shorts, tank tops, and sandals. You don’t need racing leathers unless you’re on the track doing a hundred plus, but shorts and a tank top? That’s asking for a world of pain.

  “I use chaps. They aren’t as hot to wear as pants, and you can take them off when you stop. Any decent boot that covers your ankles, and pretty much any leather glove will do the job. Work boots and work gloves are fine. The biggest thing for the jacket is to be well made, and lots of zipper vents.

  “I like to have some armor padding at the elbows, spine, and shoulders. I always use a helmet, even in states that don’t require it. When you lay a bike down—not if, but when—it’s just too easy to bounce your head off the asphalt. I still wear a half helmet, but I’ll tell you, a lot of guys end up with broken jaws. If you go down, try not to go over the handlebars, that sucks.

  “You don’t need Harley brand gloves or boots or pants or jackets. Some of it’s made in China, much like everything else today. Shop around and find something local, well made, and comfortable.”

  “Yeah, I got that same basic advice from a friend of a friend. He started on bikes when he was a kid and has never owned a car. Showed me his leathers and said I didn’t need ‘em unless I was planning to ride a crotch rocket like an idiot with his ass on fire, or a teenager. I guess he got them for track days. Personally, I’ve got no interest in going fast.”

  “Well, that puts you well up on the scale of smart riders then. That adrenalin rush you get from pushing the edge gets a lot of riders into trouble. After that, it would be not paying attention and then assuming anything about what a car will do. They don’t see you even when you’re right in front of them. Too busy looking for cars.”

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed that myself,” said Jack.

  “Becky, are you off tomorrow?” asked Denny.

  “Right. I got three days off.”

  “Well, bring Jack over to the shop as early as you can, then we’ll go riding.”

  “Does that mean my bike is done?” ask Rebecca.

  “No, I’m still waiting to get the fenders back from Reggie.”

  “Reggie works for you?”

  “Reggie’s my painter. The guy is an artist with an airbrush or a paint gun. He also has a bit of a crush on our Becky.”

  Denny turned back to Rebecca and continued with just a hint of mischief. “We’ll stop by so you can make sad Becky eyes at him and see if that gets him moving any faster.”

  “Great, I think I’ll let him take his time,” she said. “Anything I do, except telling him no, seems to be taken as a sign of encouragement. I mean, Reggie’s a nice guy, and talented as hell, but it’s just never going to happen.”

  “Yeah honey, he knows that. It’s just that a lot of the girls around here leave as soon as they’re out of high school. There are a few like Janice, who learn pretty quickly what city life is all about, but most of them have big dreams and no experience.”

  “I guess I should have figured you’d all be riders,” said Jack.

  “I only ride pillion,” said Judy. “Never could get the whole hand clutch and foot shift thing figured out.”

  “You just like to let me block the wind while you stay nice and warm.”

  “That too,” she said with a smile. “I hate to break this up, but it’s bed time for us old folks. Old habits die hard. We still get up at 5:00 every morning.”

  “Right. Come on Jack, let’s go get your laundry done,” said Rebecca.

  Rebecca moved the laundry from the washer to the dryer while Jack watched. He wasn’t comfortable with someone else doing his laundry, but she’d gotten to the machine first and just started moving things.

  “I’m not tired yet. If you’re okay, we can walk down to the lake and by the time we get back those should be dry.”

  “We’re a long way from the lake if I remember correctly.”

  “It’s a different lake, and it’s much smaller. It’s about ten minutes over that way.”

  Rebecca led them across the backyard to a gate that Jack didn’t notice until she opened it. Like a bubble on a Mars colony, the fence divided the vibrant green garden oasis from the dry rocky ground. The change was so abrupt that Jack was shocked. Outside the confines of the fenced-in backyard, everything was beige, dry earth, darker brown shrubs. The occasional juniper tree didn't add much color. In the moonlight, it was a black and white landscape.

  She took a path that was only obvious once she’d covered the ground. Rebecca seemed familiar with the trek to the lake. Even with only moonlight, she moved without hesitation, winding through rock formations, around the junipers, and toward a dock with a light at the end. Rebecca’s path linked up with a driveway leading to the lake. Jack considered the little body of water and decided that pond was a more accurate moniker. Once they reached the pond, she kicked off her shoes sat with her feet in the water. It was warm enough that the cool water would feel nice. Jack sat next to Rebecca and lowered his feet into the water. The water was warmer than he expected but still refreshing.

  They sat in silence, legs swinging, letting the cool water swirl around their feet. It was the most relaxing thing Jack had done in weeks. Watching the moonlight reflect off the ripples, breathing in the night air. It took a few minutes to notice her scent, but he couldn’t put a finger on it. Rebecca swatted at a moth, her hair flicking close by, and Jack got a stronger whiff. Shampoo, he thought. It smelled wonderful.

  “Jack, when do you have to start your classes?”

  Jack startled out of that empty place he drifted to at times like these—when his thoughts stilled, and the voices stopped yammering for attention.

  “Sorry?”

  “When do your classes start?”

  “Oh, I’ve got about ten weeks left, why?”

  She looked at him, emotions flickering between happiness and sadness. “Nothing, just curious.”

  “I was thinking about asking your aunt how much it would cost to stay a week, maybe two. I’ve never explored this area. I keep driv
ing through on the way to somewhere else.”

  Rebecca looked down and smiled. “She’s not going to charge you anything. You’re an official friend of the family now.”

  They sat chatting quietly for almost an hour before Rebecca yawned. “That’s it for me I think. We should head back.”

  Jack stood and gave Rebecca a hand up. As they started back, he simply forgot to let go.

  16

  OLD FRIENDS

  Jack spent four weeks at the Goose Down Inn. When Rebecca was working, Jack would be out in the field making images, helping Judy around the house, or most often, down in the shop helping Denny and the boys. Working with Denny gave him an opportunity to learn more about bikes than he ever imagined. Jack had time to ride several of the bikes and eventually found one he liked better than his Triumph. If he’d had an extra thirty-five grand lying around, he might have had Denny build him one. Maybe after he’d finished school and had the business up and running, he’d think about it again.

  When Rebecca had time off, they’d spend it together, riding, hiking, and occasionally sitting in front of the TV watching a movie. Early in Jack’s second week at the Goose Down Inn, Rebecca knocked on his door and entered. Her hair was down rather than the usual ponytail, and she was wearing only a silk robe. Jack looked up, and for a time, forgot to breathe. She crossed the room letting the robe open and slowly fall from her shoulders. Rebecca stood by the bed smiling at Jack’s rather rapid and understandable reaction. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she said as she crawled under the covers. They missed breakfast the next morning.

  Jack and Rebecca talked about the problems of a long-distance relationship and agreed they’d take advantage of the time they had and then see where things went. Rebecca thought about moving, but the relationship was too new. Besides, two years wasn’t a long time. Jack didn’t want Rebecca to give up her job and move, just to do it again in a couple of years.

  Jack felt he’d stayed as long as he could. He’d been promising Ashley and Steve that he’d visit before school started. As a parting gift, Denny gave Jack a small bell and helped him hang it under the frame.

  “As close to the road as you can,” he said. “It scares away the road gremlins, and it’s a traditional gift amongst bikers.”

  Jack did his best to keep a smile on his face, but both Rebecca and Judy were on the verge of tears by the time he got his helmet on and started the bike. He stopped at the end of the driveway to check for traffic and part of him wanted to turn around and go back. Jack knew if he didn’t complete the journey he’d started on, it would drag on him for the rest of his life. Who knew, maybe when he finished school he and Rebecca would still have that connection. Two years was a long time, and only time would tell.

  Jack continued south on US-395 to Reno where he restocked at the Cabela’s. He continued south to the Mount Rose turnoff toward Lake Tahoe. The temperature dropped as he climbed the mountain. The ride around the lake was beautiful, and the decrease in temperature was welcome. Sunlight and shadow alternated, flickering like a strobe light through the trees. The smell of the pines, the sunlight on the lake, and the feel of the bike leaning into turns was as close to nirvana as you could get. He camped out that night, and in the morning Jack headed down the west side of the Sierra Nevada range. The ride down to Sacramento on the curvy mountain road was fun. There was almost no traffic until he hit the outskirts of the city.

  Jack stopped for lunch. The temperature had climbed again as had the humidity. He was comfortable riding the big bike, but the heavy traffic had him on edge. Between the heat, humidity, and traffic the break for lunch was a welcome relief. He gave Steve a call to talk about routes. Which route would have the least traffic, which might be fastest, which the most fun. Back on the bike, he headed down CA-99 south, then cut west through Livermore. The traffic on I-680 south was bad and getting worse. It improved some when he turned west around the south end of the bay toward Mountain View.

  JACK PULLED into the driveway and honked the anemic horn. Why do motorcycles all come with useless horns? Steve was expecting him, so it only took a minute for the garage door open. Jack parked the bike inside and shut down. Then he pulled his helmet off and took out the earbuds, cutting off the music.

  “Dude, nice bike,” said Steve.

  “Thanks, although I’ll tell you, I’m pretty happy to be out of that traffic. I don’t know how you guys do that day after day.”

  Jack finished stripping off his riding gear, gripped Steve’s hand, and gave him a hug. “Ash not home yet?”

  “Nope, probably not till about 9:00, they’re under a deadline for CES.”

  “Isn’t that in like January?”

  “Yeah, but the contract she’s working on is for a new German-made on-demand book printer, and the people who wrote the original manual were clueless about printing technology, it’s a mess. The US distributor wants a proper manual before the CES roll-out, and they have a three-month lead time to get them printed — which is ironic considering the product.”

  Jack laughed, “They’re not going to use their own book printer to print the manual?”

  “Not sure, but it has to be reviewed and approved, for which she has to translate it back to German first. I’ll probably help with that just to get it done. I finished up my last contract and haven’t decided which one to take next.”

  “So she’s doing the technical writers job and her standard translation job?”

  “Pretty much. Come on in and let’s get you a beer. Then I’ll show you where to dump your stuff.”

  “Excellent. I could use a beer and something to sit on. Something other than the bike that is. It’s been a long day.”

  “Yeah, sorry about the traffic but that’s just the way it is. Even the recession didn’t fix it.”

  Jack and Steve took the beers to the living room where Jack dropped into the recliner. “Oh man, that’s good.”

  “The beer?”

  “That and the chair and no traffic and not breathing exhaust. You guys need to get the hell out of here. This place is insane.”

  “There are days it sure feels like it.”

  Ashley got home at 9:20 and the three old college friends spent the evening drinking beer and getting caught up. Jack spent most of his time explaining his change of career and lifestyle. During most of the conversation, Steve and Ashley kept exchanging looks and grinning at each other until Jack couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “What the hell are you grinning like idiots for?”

  Steve stood up. “Come take a look.”

  Jack followed his two friends out into the backyard. A rather large chunk of the space was occupied by a sixteen-foot by eight-foot shed. Steve opened the door, flipped on the light and waved Jack inside.

  Hanging from the wall were two large packs, ready to go, which didn’t seem unusual. The rest of the storage space contained shelves from floor to ceiling. Each shelf held twenty-two sealed buckets, and there were four shelves on each side of the center aisle. Jack wandered down the aisle. Each bucket was labeled: black beans, rice, wheat, flax, cut oats, rolled oats, red beans, sugar, and salt. Jack did the math in his head and came up with 160 buckets. Jack looked back at his two friends.

  “You’re preppers? — You…When…But—”

  “You seem confused dude,” Steve said grinning.

  “I… you never said anything.”

  “Neither did you. Probably for the same reasons. You don’t want your friends to think you’re nuts. More so when it’s so hard to articulate why. You’ve got a reason. A failing business and a career change. We’ve got a house that’s worth over seven hundred grand, even after the market collapsed. Between us, we pull in more than a hundred and eighty grand in a bad year. In a good year, we’ve done over three hundred.”

  “I… Yeah I guess I see your point. Although, you sort of live in earthquake central.”

  “Sure but as bad as that’s been, it’s hardly more than a blip.”

  “Okay, so why?
”

  “I can’t explain it. Aside from the housing market, things are going really well for us. I just don’t trust any of it anymore. The politicians lie, and the press lies for them. They make a big deal out of stuff that isn’t and ignore the stuff that is. Wasn’t the whole point of a Free Press to find the truth? To keep the people in the loop? What ever happened to that? There are just too many things wrong, and nobody seems to care because it hasn’t blown up in our faces. Yet.”

  “Huh.”

  “That’s it? Just—Huh?”

  “No… Sorry, I just sort of need to wrap my head around this. I thought I would need to spend weeks, months, maybe years talking you into the idea and now I find I’m behind the curve.”

  Jack spent the following days doing Photoshop work, getting his new images ready for printing, and hanging out with Steve. Some days Ashley would stay home and write, others she had to go into the office to work with the engineers. He and Steve went to the gun range a couple of times which got him wondering how long it would be before you couldn’t find a shooting range in California. They were getting harder to find.

  When both Ashley and Steve were working, Jack worked on the photographs he’d taken on the trip. Once he completed the Photoshop work, he and Steve checked in with the two galleries that carried his landscapes. The shop in Palo Alto was on the verge of closing its doors and wasn’t taking any new work. The economy had hit the art world hard.

  People who were millionaires on paper saw their net worth drop. Their multi-million dollar houses lost the most, but their retirement funds also took big hits. Even though most had no intention of selling their homes, and would therefore never realize the gains or losses in real estate values, they were still feeling poorer. Jack gave them an address to ship the prints to if they closed and agreed to lower prices on the stock they had on hand.

  Jack took a couple days to head down to Carmel to check in with the other gallery. They agreed to take seven of his new images. They’d recently sold-out two different limited edition prints and asked if there were any unsold prints available. When Jack did a limited edition print, he only made seven prints and one artist-proof. He kept the proof copies for himself and tried to sell the rest. Once the other seven were sold, there would never be another made. Jack checked his records and said he could deliver one copy of Shape of the Land #3, and one of Down the Rabbit Hole, but it would take some time.