The Making of Blackwater Jack

by Roy F. Chandler

  Life was good. Tim Carlisle, known to some of the biking fraternity as Little Dog, rode pleased and hungry for more.

  On his fifth day out, bad luck struck. Tim bit down on an overlooked pit within a maraschino cherry topping an otherwise delicious hot fudge sundae.

  He felt and heard the tooth break. He spit out the broken bit and felt around with his tongue. Sharp as a razor in there. What to do? And to do quickly before serious pain set in.

  He had just passed through Knoxville, Tennessee. His best bet might be to one-eighty on Interstate 40 and ride back into the city to find a dentist. Or he could simply head on home. A hard ten or twelve hours ride, and he would be back with his regular dentist.

  Crap, it was Friday. Doctors quit early on the last working day of a week, and none would be available if he arrived home on Saturday. Nope, he should find a dentist immediately not on a too distant Monday.

  Tim was reaching for his ignition when a possible alternative appeared. If he remembered correctly, Old Dog had a friend just north of here. The friend was a cycle riding dentist. It had been years, but the dentist had been young. He should still be in business.

  Tim studied his map. The unusual name helped his recall. The town was Oneida. The Indian name jumped out at him.

  Oneidas? That tribe’s stomping grounds had been in upper New York, but—there it was. A tiny pinprick of a place, but it had, or had had, a dentist. How far? Tim judged it as thirty or so miles, almost against the Kentucky border it looked like.

  Good enough. He used his tongue on the broken tooth. Still no pain. No pain at all. That was welcome. All broken teeth did not hurt. Perhaps he was lucky, but he would find the dentist. He had miles to travel and places to see. A bad tooth could not be part of it. What was the once-met dentist’s name?

  Tim searched his memory, but miles on a decent Route 27 ran under his bike before he dredged up the memory.

  Dennis. Doctor Dennis Baird, he thought. They had ridden with Dennis at Daytona, and the dentist might remember. He would recall Old Dog, that was certain; everybody did.

  North he would go to the mighty metropolis of Oneida, population, maybe 4000 if everybody was at home. Little Dog twisted his right wrist a bit and the rpm’s picked up.

  There was a Dennis Baird, and he still rode a motorcycle. In Oneida Doctor Baird was well known. Tim’s first question pointed out his office, and the motorcycle parked alongside raised the probability that the doctor was in.

  The bike was a Gold Wing trike. Baird would be no spring chicken popping wheelies on Main Street. He probably had a family—as well as being a medical professional. Tim’s recollection was that Doctor Baird liked fine guns. Hmmm. The trike looked right. Little Dog parked his machine alongside and went in.

  The doctor’s receptionist took her attention from paperwork and studied his denim biker clothing with a slightly raised eyebrow.

  Her questioning, “Can I help you?” sounded friendly and did not hint of expectation of a marauding biker gang lurking just outside, as sometimes occurred.

  The waiting room was empty, and that was encouraging. Tim put on his best smile and explained his difficulty.

  “I am just riding through, heading west, and I snapped off a tooth a few miles back. I met Doctor Baird at Daytona Bike Week some years back, and I’m hoping he can do something with my tooth before it gets to hurting too badly. Having a bad tooth on a motorcycle isn’t something anyone would enjoy, and I am a long way from home.”

  A voice followed by a soft cough spoke from a side room. “We met at Daytona? That had to be a long time back. I don’t make those trips anymore.”

  A head and a hand holding a dental instrument popped into view. Doctor Baird, Tim concluded, but the face was not familiar. Well, it had been a long time, and he had been only an impressionable youth, thrilled and amazed at nearly everything he was seeing and hearing, which was why the name and town had stuck all of these years later, he supposed. To the doctor, he would have been only a boy perched behind a “one-percenter” rider of more than a little interest.

  Tim explained, “I’m Tim Carlisle, Doctor Baird. I was riding behind my uncle, Old Dog Carlisle, when we met in Daytona. You rode with us and with BC, the biker with all of the lights on his cycle—and I think Stool was along part of the time as well. That was the day before I got to bungee jump in front of about a thousand bikers right there on the beach.”

  Tim cut himself off before he rattled on into complete idiocy, but those days and that trip remained large in his memory, and here was a rider who had been part of it all.

  Tim thought, Good God, I sound as if I were still fifteen years old, and it had all just happened.

  The doctor’s eyes had widened in genuine astonishment. He stepped into view, a normal-sized man with thinning hair and again a slight cough. He wore the expected white medical jacket and still flourished a dangerous looking steel instrument.

  Belatedly noticing the tool, Baird, if that was who it was, tossed the implement from view, and Tim heard it clang in an out of view sink.

  The doctor stepped forward, hand outthrust for shaking. “Daytona, maybe ten years ago? You were riding with … .” He searched his memory, but before Tim could prompt him, he had the name. “Old Dog. That’s who it was, wasn’t it?”

  Tim felt himself grinning. “Yep, that’s who it was, and I’m riding Old Dog’s Shovelhead right now.”

  Of course, he had already told Baird whom they had ridden with, but that is the way memories and once-upon-a-time stories went. It took time to catch up, but Doctor Baird remembered all right, and Tim looked forward to talking about Old Dog’s last trip and his part in it.

  Baird’s was a one-chair dentistry service. Old school all the way, Tim thought. No partner, no corporation, just a regular dentist taking care of long time patients and their progeny in a small community where everyone knew everyone else.

  Nice, Tim thought. He was already pleased that he had picked the right doctor.

  First came the tooth. The last patient had departed, and Dennis Baird had been about to close for the weekend. He waved Tim into the chair and took a look.

  Amazing, Tim thought. He had not been asked for insurance or how he would pay. He had not filled out a form or signed his name. The receptionist had bustled up, but Doctor Baird had waved her off and gotten to work.

  “Not so bad, Tim. You just lost a corner of the tooth. There is no damage near the gum line and the tooth is not cracked, so there won’t be any pain. What I’ll do is smooth off the edges so that you won’t worry your tongue raw, and you will be set to go.

  “You won’t even notice the loss, but when you get home, you should have your favorite dentist take a look at it and decide whether it is serious enough to grind down and to add a crown.

  “My guess is he will choose to let it go. It’s well back, and no one will see it, and, hey, looks are important too, aren’t they?”

  Doctor Baird ground, and Tim could smell the tooth burning away. Then he was done, and they sat together in the reception room’s comfortable chairs to talk of the time long gone when they had powered up and down Daytona’s Main Street and Highway A1A.

  The receptionist wished to depart, and Tim was quick with his wallet, but Baird said, “Forget it, Tim.

  “Go on home, Jane. I’ll see you on Monday,” and she went.

  Then they talked and remembered. Morsels of memory were again discovered and found to have superb flavor. Baird remembered bargaining for a wreck of a cycle at the fairgrounds swap meet. In retrospect he was pleased he had not gotten the beat-up machine.

  He almost immediately asked about Old Dog. Baird was not surprised that Adam Carlisle had died within months of their Daytona time. Dog had been sick, but he had not announced that he had terminal cancer. Still, many had suspected.

  That he had chosen to die by his own hand, using an elixir loaded with potent drugs provided by his personal doctor intrigued Baird. That Dog had forced his failing body to hang on until
he made it to his favored spot overlooking an Alaskan creek thrilled the doctor. Old Dog Carlisle had done it his way right to the last. Baird respected that—a lot.

  Stool, the biker who knew everything, came up. Stool had been one of the last to visit with Old Dog before Dog’s departure for Alaska. Stool had moved to California. He had assembled an old servi-car load of documents and photographs to support the book on biking he intended to write. Then, nothing. Stool had simply dropped off the earth.

  Well, not quite that fast. There had been a few letters to Timmy Carlisle telling of his book’s progress, but that had been long ago. Something had happened to Stool, and Tim intended to find the answer on this trip.

  Dennis Baird ended their conversation talking about Stool. “The man was clearly some sort of savant, Tim. He really could remember everything. Good God, the man had quit big government money to just poke around living a biker’s lifestyle. He could have made millions and been anything he chose to be, but …”

  Tim finished the thought. “I think that is exactly what he did do, Doctor Baird. Stool lived as he wished, where he chose, and with whom he liked. I think Stool picked his life and enjoyed every bit of it. Uncle Dog always thought he did, and said so many times.”

  Despite Dennis Baird’s suggestion that Tim lay over with him and his family for a night or two, Tim preferred to move on.

  Baird accepted Tim’s choice, but before they left the office to admire Old Dog’s motorcycle at length, Dennis wrote out a note on one of his prescription pads for Tim to hang onto and read often.

  Before he settled in for the night—many miles up the road and in another state, Tim unfolded the note and read it carefully. Then he refolded it, and stored it among his valuable papers.

  Dennis had written in handsome script:

  Tim, enjoy the road and learn from it. However, its lessons do not approach the truly important ones that you should keep foremost in your mind. They are: Birth makes each of us a person, but to be a man, three things are required.

  1. Be a person of HONOR.

  2. Be a person of SUBSTANCE.

  3. Be a person with PURPOSE.

  Be that man, and your friend Dennis Baird will be proud to have known you.

  Dennis

  Baird watched the powerfully built young man pull away. Riders always watched other bikers start off.

  Timmy Carlisle! Now it was hard to recall how young and small he had been when they rode together at Daytona.

  Tim had become a man, a man enthralled by tales told by his beloved uncle, who had lived on the road, and who had mastered its temptations and allures. Those well-recognized temptations had encouraged Baird to jot down his “Being a man” prescription.

  Tim liked the idea of easy riding without schedules or particular planning. He had casually mentioned that he could afford to stay out as long as he wished.

  Hmm, that was special. Perhaps he had inherited from a parent. Certainly Old Dog with his casual living had not piled up dollars to allow free roaming.

  Bumming around on a motorcycle was not an admirable lifestyle for many. Baird had enjoyed his try at it, but a man should move on and aim higher, and he should begin during his younger years.

  So, he had laid uninvited advice on Tim Carlisle. Doctor Dennis Baird believed what he had written. The simple philosophy had done well for him, and it could, perhaps it would, do the same or more for Little Dog Carlisle.

  5

  Entering Kentucky Tim enjoyed the mountain riding, and he chose back roads to get the best of it. But those roads too often looped and ended up nearly where they had started. He wasn’t getting anywhere. So he edged back toward the now familiar Route 27 and cruised along at moderate speeds, again heading north and simply appreciating the scenery.

  Local communities were only crossroad-store meeting spots, and it was obvious that the area had little wealth coming and going. Most houses were old and many appeared to date around World War II in size and construction.

  Farms were small and often positioned on seriously slanting ground. Many boasted their original log constructions, occasionally improved or disguised by aluminum or vinyl siding. Industry was clearly lacking, and its need was reflected in the weariness of vehicles and by the wooden and sometimes cinder block schoolhouses still in use.

  A gas station conversion caught Tim’s attention. A casually painted sign announced “The Shop.” There were motorcycles parked in front and more within the service bays. Tim braked and rumbled across chipped and re-patched cement to park where he would not be obstructing.

  A bike shop like this one had to be old school, and in this area, new bikes would be few and older models, the interesting ones, might be common.

  A figure appeared, a bit grimed and wiping work-worn hands on an oily rag. The Shop owner or a mechanic, Tim figured.

  The workman chose to stand off a bit where he could examine Tim’s shovelhead with ease, and a second local, looking more like a normal rider appeared to stand alongside.

  The workingman spit aside. Tobacco? The man’s accent was strongly Kentucky, but the words were not uneducated, and he sounded admiring.

  “Now that’s the way we used to make ‘em.”

  Tim stepped forward. “My uncle’s bike. I inherited it, and I’m taking it for a long ride.”

  Tim held out his hand for shaking. “I’m Tim Carlisle from Pennsylvania, and I’m just passing through. I saw your shop, and I couldn’t just drive by. You don’t see many doing this kind of work anymore.”

  The owner, or whatever he was, smiled, and his teeth were stained deep brown from tobacco chewing and darn little if any dental care. At least he had all his teeth, and that could be a touch unusual in some rural areas.

  “Well, there aren’t too many fools working on old Harleys even around here. No money in it, but some of us just can’t let the old bikes go.”

  The man smiled wider. “Not that I’m unwilling to work on spanking new machines, if anyone in these parts ever finds enough money to buy one.”

  The second man, probably a rider with his bike being worked on joined in.

  “Just show him that chromed scooter you got standing inside, Driver. I’ll bet he hain’t seen many like that no matter where he’s from.”

  Tim reintroduced himself. “I’m Tim Carlisle.”

  The suspected owner again shook his hand and added, “I’m Driver. I own this place. That hicky sounding guy is my son-in-law, Bradford, who pretends to help me around the shop.”

  Bradford took Tim’s hand, but his grip was weak, and Tim expected he would be about as useful as Driver had implied.

  He said, “Everybody calls me Brad.”

  Tim said, “Pleased to meet you, Brad.”

  Driver’s attention was back on Tim’s shovel.

  “Nothing new at all on this bike. It looks exactly like it must have thirty years back.

  “What was it, maybe a 76 FLH?”

  Tim was impressed. “Yep, my uncle was a full time biker. His handle was, “Old Dog.” There was no recognition, so Tim went on.

  “Uncle Dog died some years back, and I just got around to getting his machine back on the road. I’m following his wheel marks wherever they take me, but generally speaking, I’m heading for Sturgis, then on to the west coast.”

  “Sturgis.” Brad’s voice sounded envious. “Someday I’m going out there.”

  Driver snorted. “Yeah, but that someday is so far over the horizon that you’ll be walking on your beard. First, you’ve got to get a bike that can make a run like that. You won’t have my shop to turn into every hundred or so miles. Then there’s the money. A trip like that eats up money like a casino does.”

  Tim added his bit of new wisdom. “Yeah, times have changed. I’ve discovered that you can’t just camp in any field or woods like they used to. Motels all cost more than they are worth, but what choice is there?”

  Driver interrupted. “Well, I doubt you need any of my work, so I’ll get back into it.

>   “You’re welcome to look around, but I’ll tell you straight out, there isn’t an interesting bike in the place right now. Not a single pan or knucklehead. Sort of a dry spell, I guess.

  “Nice meeting you, Tim Carlisle. Hope your bike runs strong and luck is with you. Enjoy your ride.”

  They shook hands, and Tim chose to use the kick-starter rather than the electric start. He figured Driver would appreciate that.

  One kick with the ignition off to prime the engine worked best on this bike, but kick starting you never knew for sure. Tim flicked on the ignition switch and stood on the kicker with all his weight.

  The old shovel chugged itself into a powerful sounding rumble, and he thanked the aged 74-inch motor for it. It could have gotten embarrassing to have to kick himself half to death before catching the engine just right—and that happened more times than any rider liked to remember.

  He raised a hand to Driver and pointed a friendly pistol-finger at Bradford. Then, he dropped the transmission into low and eased away. He was careful with his shifting. It would be mortifying to miss a gear because both men were watching him go. He didn’t need to look. Riders always watched bikes take off.

  The day was staying bright and warm, and the blacktop was reasonably smooth on the back roads where potholes could sometimes be severe.

  Tim rested against his pack and settled in to simply cruise the miles away as if he had all of the time in the world—which he supposed he probably did.

  Route 27 was close, and there he would have to pick it up a little. It was not courteous and could be a bit unsafe to run too slowly on busy roads. People working for livings or traveling far naturally resented being held up by some biker bum just loafing along.

  As vehicles came up behind, Tim eased to the right and waved them past. Some waved a hand in appreciation. A couple of car drivers gave him approving thumbs up—indicating, he supposed, that they would like to swap places, at least for a few miles.