Jumpstarting A Weekend Of Motorcycles, Women, And Fireworks... With An Electric Eel

Fourth of July weekend... The height of the summer... There is nothing worse than a three-day weekend with no place to go and no woman to go there with — especially when you’re nineteen-years-old. To add insult to injury, I’d been working and had a pocketful of dough, and nothing to spend it on. My occasional partner in motorcycle crime, “Cretin,” was on the west coast, hopelessly in love with some woman he’d met in a commune in Oregon. (She would eventually bear him a son.) My other pals were scattered to the wind, each trailing some pursuit which would eventually set the course for the rest of their lives.

From the time I was a little kid, and used to watch the fireworks at the Fireman’s Fair (Denville, NJ), the Fourth of July held a mystical significance. My family held a big barbecue at a tiny bungalow my Aunt had on Indian Lake (also Denville, NJ). We’d walk down to the field on the edge of town, where a chintzy carnival had sprung up like neon and canvas weeds. Most of the rides back then where powered by diesel or gas engines, and I vividly remember the smell of exhaust fumes competing with the aroma of french fries and fried dough balls, also known as zeppoles.

The fireman held the fireworks on the night before the Fourth. I stood mesmerized by the skyrockets, which mushroomed into millions of streamers and falling sparkles; but loved the finale, an inevitable fusillade of explosions, high above the crowd. Yet the Independence Day ritual I remember most was the celebration on the lake. All of the lakefront houses set highway flares along the water’s edge, and at 9:30pm, they were simultaneously ignited. Various organizations within the community sponsored floats, with dancers or historical characters, that were pulled by motorboats around the shoreline.

My family was of Irish descent, and this party was the culmination of three days of preparation, which translated into two days of drinking, eating, and the telling of legendary stories that only got better with age. The last of these parties occurred when I was 12-years-old. For some reason, my folks couldn’t stay for the whole weekend, and left before the flares were lit. We’d walked out on a raging party and arrived home to a ringing telephone. My cousin’s young wife had choked to death on something. Never again would my Aunt put the flares on the lake.

But the mystical significance of the Fourth of July lingered in me year after year. It was almost as if having a great and riotous Fourth guaranteed the rest of the summer would be an equal success. And here I was, with cash, and a motorcycle — and no place to go. Somehow, fate was conspiring to curse the best weekend of the year, and the rest of the year to follow. And then I thought of “Stitches."

“Stitches” was one of the few people I knew who had several motorcycles. And they were never Harley’s, but exotic marques like Ducatis, Moto Guzzis, and Nortons. (Stitches owned a Ducati when most of the country thought spaghetti was something exotic.) At 19, his family gave him his own house on the far end of their country property (rural Pennsylnania, on the Delaware) and he was getting away with legendary murder. I jammed my gear into a backpack, along with a quart of Irish whiskey, lashed it to my Kawasaki H2’s sissy bar, and headed northwest.

The ride to his place on the Upper Delaware River was roughly divided into two halves. The first half was largely in New Jersey, and rivaled the Bataan Death March for sheer enjoyment. Traffic either crawled or surged like an endless steel centipede. But passing through High Point State Park, Route 23 swooped down to the corner where New Jersey met both New York and Pennsylvania. There I picked up Route 97, in New York, a terrific ride along the banks of the Delaware River. This stretch of road has the occasional twisty bits, runs through Norman Rockwell towns perpetually trapped in 1950, and has two traffic lights in a 60-mile length. (Or at least it did 30 years ago.) It gets real woodsy just beyond Port Jervis, NY.

The introduction to the ride begins with a series of "S" curves, 400 feet above the Delaware River, and the base of cliffs that shed rocks in heavy downpours.

Route 97 in Hawks Nest, NY — Note the roadway snaking along the cliffs, about 400 feet above the Upper Delaware River. Pennsylvania is to the left of the river, New York is to the right. Photo from Wikipedia.

It was motorcycle heaven. (Now it is part of a National Park Service grid of oppression, and speeding is a federal offense, punishable by 30 years in Guantanamo Bay.) The Delaware River is the border between New York and Pennsylvania at this point, and it has two speeds: flood and barely navigable by canoe. My only interest in the river was the barely-clad women paddling canoes to campsites and outrageous Fourth of July parties of their own. I pulled up for a cigar break at a place where the river ran close to the road, and watched one canoe grind ashore in a real half-assed manner. The lady in the bow was laughing and squealing, which got louder as the current continued to swing the stern downstream. The woman in the stern was blond, tanned, and wearing half of a tank top. I can still remember the crunch of my boots in the gravel, as I walked over, grabbed the bow, and pulled the canoe up on the shore.

“I’ll steady it while you get out,” I said, mouthing the words around the four-inch length of maduro cigar in my mouth.

“Thanks,” said the brunette in the bow. “She has to pee.” This announcement set the two of them to laughing again.

“Why didn’t you just jump in the river,” I asked.

“She’s afraid of eels,” said the Brunette.

“Only the electric kind are dangerous,” I replied.

“Do they have those in here,” asked the Blond.

“Only in this stretch.”

“Want a beer?” asked the Brunette.

I smiled and she tossed me a frigid can of suds.

“You camping around here?” asked the Brunette.

“Sort of. A buddy of mine’s got a farmhouse close by,” I said. “Where are you guys headed?”

She mentioned a commercial campground down by a bar — the Pine Cone — I had passed some miles back.

“Do the electric eels ever come up on shore?” asked the Blond, from the shelter of some brush, where she was squatting to piss.

“Sometimes. They’re attracted to blond squirrels. So am I,” I said, turning to see if she had a blond squirrel.


“I guess I’m pretty safe then,” said the brunette, turning my face back with her hand.

“Maybe,” I replied. “Who knows what goes through an eel’s mind?”

I drained the beer, tossed the empty can in the canoe, and kicked the Kawasaki into life. I had since learned (from “Cretin”) that it never hurts to leave with an air of mystery. Unfortunately, my exit was highlighted by hint of blue smoke and that “Ying... Ying... Yinggggggg...” of the Kawasaki’s engine.

The Roebling Bridge on Route 97. This suspension bridge, built by John Roebling around 1847, initially carried the Delaware Hudson Canal across the Delaware River. Located in Minisink Ford, NY, it was restored by the National Park Service. Photo by Wikipedia.

Route 97 turns dead north at Narrowsburg, NY, on a curve that follows the shoulder of a steep rise, about 60 feet above the water. But I went straight, crossing into Pennsylvania, and made the first right on a road that was about a lane and a half-wide. This bit was covered by hundred-year-old shade trees, whose branches co-mingled far above the pavement. The beginning of this road was a curve so blind the caution signs were in braille. This was the part of Pennsylvania that wouldn’t support a farm, and the tourist trade associated with the river took a century in developing. So at the time, it was fairly unspoiled.

I was looking for a four-room farmhouse with a porch overlooking the river.

Stitches never required much in the way of advance notice. He was usually home in the morning, and if not, you could just wait on the porch, taking a beer from a huge tub of ice and water. I found him working under the shade of a tree on a 1976 Ducati 860, that would bust his balls relentlessly.

“I could hear that rice-burning piece of shit coming up the river ten minutes ago,” said Stitches, with a laugh.

“Speaking of pieces of shit, what’s wrong with that one?” I asked, nodding at the Ducati.

“Nothin’,” he said. “They all do this.”

Stitches flipped me a cold one and I sat on a porch step while he cursed his way thorough whatever the hell he was doing on the Ducati.

“I’ve had this bike for three months and it smokes like the shit-box you’re riding,” he said. “How come you’re alone?”

I didn’t have the stomach to tell him that my steady girlfriend had disappeared with a good friend of mine... So I simply told him she’d been ripped apart by hyenas at a family reunion.

“Really,” he said. “I always thought she was screwing that other guy you ride with... What’s his name... Jiggs.”

“She’s probably doing him right now,” I said, wondering, “How the hell did he figure this one out? I was totally surprised.”

Stitches looked at me and said, “I saw them yesterday, drinking at a joint down in Port Jervis. I barely gave them a glance.” He punctuated the conversation with ratcheting of a socket wrench, tightening a bolt. “Forget ‘em. He’s a douche and she’s a douche's bag. Now you know his true colors and she's damaged goods.”

We spent the afternoon shooting the shit on the porch, then headed out to a bar across the river on the New York side. The object was to find me a woman for the weekend. Stitches was expecting some guys from the city, and at least two were coming with their squeezes. The bar was actually a bit of a poke, about 15 miles distant, toward Monticello. This gin mill was a run-down joint that aspired to being condemned, with trailers out back where “exotic dancers” lived during their on-stage tours in this shit-hole.

Stitches knew a firecracker performing here with the unlikely stage name of “Smidgeon.” She was on stage, polishing a brass pole with her ass when we walked in. The dancer lit up like a Christmas tree when she saw him. Smidgeon was wearing lederhosen (that really brought out the subtle curves of her ass) and nothing but suspenders on top, which pressed flat against her nipples. She started swinging her bodacious tah-tahs in a manner of a suggestion, while thrusting her hips in a kind of demand.

“Show us whatcha got,” said Stitches. And with that, she held the suspenders aside.

“Does she have a twin sister?” I asked.

I never understood the thrill Stitches got out of this... Watching his girlfriend dance half-naked in a room full of guys. It is one of life's experiences that I have yet to savor. And I get the distinct impression the moment has passed me.

Smidgeon came and sat with us when her set was over. There was no doubt she was hot and it took everything I had not to just sit there, staring at her suspenders. I almost asked if she wouldn't prefer a belt.

“Do you have a friend for my friend here?” asked Stitches.

“There’s Christie,” said Smidgeon. “She’s already done for the night.”

“Christie” joined us in the garb of a “French Maid,” which was her signature act. Up close, her make-up looked like she’d applied it from a spackle bucket. She had a Jersey City accent that made me sound like James Bond. Neither one of these attributes was a deal-breaker in itself, but she had an innate hardness in her eyes that implied her embrace might leave one between a rock and a razor blade. I bought her a couple of drinks, and put my arm around her waist, prompting her to kiss me. This was the final shot in the horse’s head, as her lips had the taste of old cigarettes and fresh onions. I had no idea what her life story was, but I suspected it was written by Edgar Allen Poe... And I decided not to add to it.

“You’re the first women I’ve kissed since I got out of the mental hospital,” I whispered, through a return kiss on her ear.

She left 30 seconds later.

“What did you say to her?” asked Stitches.

“I told her I used to be a better hump when I was a woman,” I said. “I’ll meet you back at the house.”

I mounted the Kawasaki and headed south on Route 97. It was the perfect summer night with a moon hanging in the sky, leaving a trail of silver in the river. The headlight beam danced in that jerky way common to bikes with primitive suspensions, as I scanned the road ahead for the reflection of certain death in the eyes of deer. During the day, you can see everything... Yet at night, the rider only gets to see what the motorcycle wants to show him. There is a kind of defiant freedom in the high-beam. It shows up as a blue-light on the cluster, but splits the darkness in a demand to claim everything as the domain of the rider. During the day, there is nothing quite like finding the pockets of cool air in the glens along the road, but the riding is all cool at night.

The light and noise of the Pine Cone seemed almost anti-climatic after the exhilarating ride along the river. The joint was jammed with people, and a band struggled to sound like Frampton, unaware that only Frampton could sound like Frampton. I bellied up to the bar and ordered a “Negroni,” which caused the bartender — who was accustomed to slamming beers, pouring shots, and mixing the usual rum and cokes — to do a double-take.

“Compari, gin, and sweet vermouth,” I said. “Shaken with ice and served straight up.” When the drink came, I tipped the guy five bucks. That was a fortune back then and young crowds are notoriously cheap. I did this because having an attentive bartender could come in handy. My grandfather used to say, “The bartender is the best ally to have in a saloon full of strangers.” (It should be noted that even shitty bars carried Compari and sweet vermouth in those days. Today, the average bartender is fourteen-years-old, has his/her head up his/her ass, and will reach for Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum when mixing a rum and Coke. This is the primary reason Congress is against an armed populace.)

I sipped my drink, and surveyed the crowd. Finding a pretty girl I’d met during the afternoon would be hard. Finding a pretty girl by herself in a mob like this would be impossible. Still, I had nothing else to do, and the Fourth of July weekend was getting away from me.

Luck was with me and the two ladies were at the very end of the bar, surrounded by wall-to-wall sperm donors.

There were three guys sniffing around the tanned blond, buying her drinks, laughing too hard at her stories, and each trying to get her attention. They reminded me of drone moths flitting around a sparkler. There was one guy hitting on the brunette, who in my opinion had much nicer eyes, and a much smaller endowment. I have always liked little tits.

I maneuvered into a spot at the bar barely a foot away from her, took the last sip from my glass, and asked the bartender (in a very loud voice), “Can you make me a drink called an Electric Eel?”

He looked at me quizzically, and I said, “Compari, gin, and vermouth.”

"Right," he said.

“Hey,” said the Brunette.

“Hey yourself,” I said. “How’s the canoe trip going.”

“We ran aground in this bar,” she said. “I can’t believe you’re here and drinking something called an “electric eel.”

“The world is full of eels... There’s no avoiding them.”

“I know,” she said, rolling her eyes at the guy over her shoulder. This poor dope had no idea what the hell had just happened, but suddenly the topic was electric eels. His name was Tony, and he was probably the world’s nicest guy. I have no doubt he’s a millionaire today working for Halliburton, but he didn’t know shit about eels, on what could have been the most important night in his life.

"Is that a fruity-sort of drink," Tony asked.

"Take a sip," I said to him, while pushing the drink toward the lady.

She grabbed it and swigged a gulp. The "Negroni" is not for amateurs. She gasped for air.

Tony started to reach for it next, but I took it from her hand.

"I don't like the idea of a guy's mouth on my stuff," I said with a smile. "Let me buy you one."

He hesitated, and I don't think he fancied the idea of having to drink a whole one, and then having to buy another back for me. Tony declined.

"But it's okay if a woman puts her mouth on your stuff?" asked the Brunette.

"I live for that moment."

After twenty minutes of beating a dead horse, Tony went to drain his lizard.

“Are you here on your motorcycle?” she asked.

I nodded.

“I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle,” she said.

“Want to go to a party on the river,” I said.

“Will you bring me back?”

“Sure...” Just in time for breakfast, I thought.

I still think its important to have a great Fourth of July weekend. There is no substitute in life for fireworks, independence, and a little romance — courtesy of a motorcycle.

To be continued on Tuesday, May 24, 2010.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2011