Jumpstarting a Weekend of Motorcycles, Women and Fireworks... Part Three

For readers just joining this Twisted Roads saga of pure moto adventure and romance like broken glass, Part One can be found here, followed by Part Two here.

Synopsis:
Crashed Independence Day plans (1976) and a smut in the eye from a squeeze turned rogue were reversed by a chance meeting with a hot brunette, who ran aground in a canoe on the Delaware River. In the last episode, I ended up with a naked brunette in my arms, yet succumbed to a full day in the saddle, the summer’s heat, and a half-bottle of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey. The question before the gentle reader is “What happened in the morning?”

“The Fuse Burns Short...”

Most of my legendary hang-overs start with a low buzzing in my head. On this day, the buzzing was palpably lifting my hair. Opening my eyes, I realized it was the whirring of the electric fan aimed at the bed. It was Saturday morning, July 3, 1976. The first full day of the July 4th weekend, and I had just spend the night in bed with a naked beauty, who knew a million snappy comebacks, who was sophisticated enough to introduce to my mom, and hot enough to make my riding buddies jealous.

And still I awakened alone in bed...

I knew she hadn’t left as her jeans, hiking boots and purse were in a pile. And I knew no one carried her off as I hadn’t been awaked by anyone cursing and swearing while trying to start one of the English or Italian bikes in the driveway. But somewhere in that house, a sultry brunette was tiptoeing around without her pants and I found the idea fascinating. The antique knob on the bedroom door (that was already at retirement age in the Lincoln administration) turned loosely, prompting me to close my eyes, lest I do anything stupid like yield my position in bed.

I heard the door swing open, and close again, as the aroma of fresh coffee filled the room, accompanied by the scent of Lifebouy soap, like someone had just stepped out of the shower, holding a cup of java.

Then the box spring gave a metallic sigh as the mattress yielded to another presence.

“I know you’re awake,” she said. “You have a hard-on.”

There are times when continued posturing is pointless in the face of overwhelming evidence.

“I always have a hard-on,” I replied, opening my eyes. “It was very embarrassing for my mother the day I was born.”

“Why? Did some other kid have a bigger one?” she asked, leaning over to kiss me.

“Not for another 18 years, and he was Black.”

“Well the important thing is that you tried,” she muttered, nuzzling my neck. “And I have one word for you...”

“Then it’s hyphenated if it is the word I have in mind,” I said. “Otherwise, it’s two.”

“That word is ‘shower...’ Go take one.”

I sat upright and noticed the two chipped, mismatched coffee cups. One was your usual summer-house mug. The other was an oversized cup that was more like a small bowl with a handle on it. It bore the faded picture of a waterfall over the legend “Souvenir of Shohola Falls, Pa.

“What made you pick that one?” I asked. It was the cup I always used whenever I spent the night here.

“Stitches had the coffee ready when I came out of the bathroom. It’s really strong. He said to give the big one to ‘Sunshine.’”

“Your cup has an ounce of Kahlua in it,” I said. “This one has about three ounces in it. It’s how coffee is made around here.”

It would be like Stitches to get up first and have the coffee ready in the kitchen... It would be really like him to pour it in my cup. If you look hard, you can find the thumbprints of your real friends everywhere.

I got up to shower, grabbing her jeans and top under my arm.

“Where are you going with those?” she asked, with a quizzical smile.

“I’m taking these with me so you don’t get too far ahead of the program.”

Stitches had a weekend tradition... No sympathy for hangovers. It was barely 8am and the music began to throb. Twin 6-foot-tall speakers on the porch thundered Steppenwolf’s “Born To Be Wild.”

She was poised on the end of the bed like an early nude photograph taken by Gordon Ball, when I returned smelling of Lifebuoy myself. She’d brushed her dark hair back, yet it fell about my face like a damp curtain as she kissed my throat and mouth, working her way south. Her kisses had the sting of hot wax, as she led with her teeth, and then her tongue.

Steppenwolf crashed into "Magic Carpet Ride,” and I surrendered an inch at a time, like a fuse that had been smoldering for 20 years — before the explosion.

Our room was in the front of the house, with one window, with one thin screen, and one set of filmy curtains separating us from the porch.

“What the hell is going on in there,” yelled Louie.

“I found the kick starter on the Kawasaki rider,” she yelled back. And in a much lower voice she said to me, “Now I have to wash my hair again.”

I swaggered off to find another cup of coffee and was in the process of pouring it when the music suddenly cut out. A sheriff’s officer was on the porch, speaking in low but earnest tones with Stitches, his patrol car running in the driveway.

It seems someone passing on the road reported a dead, naked body on the lawn. Stitches was no stranger to the cops and he wore the appropriate look of shock and surprise. He and the officer took a walking tour of the premises, where they found a stupored Weasel hosing off a topless but pantied “Peaches,” behind the house.

“You can’t see her from the road,” said Stitches, “And she certainly isn’t dead.”

The cop agreed, tipped his hat and left.

“That asshole Fast Freddie got bombed out of his mind last night and rolled off the porch stark naked. He came to a stop in the center of the lawn,” said Stitches. “Louie and I dragged him into the chicken coop. He has been bitten by every bug in this county — twice. We should play it smart and ride out to breakfast. That cop will be back in a bit to look us over again. He’ll find nuthin’ and then it will be no big deal.”

I was not in favor of the group ride. Since it looked like we were going to be together for another night, I was just as happy to get lost with my new love interest. But that decision could be announced over breakfast. Then again, it would be presumptuous on my part to make any plans without asking her. There were no cell phones in 1976... I’m sure she wanted to ride back and check in with her friends.

The brunette stepped out in hiking boots, jeans, and a tee shirt. “Stitches had a clean tee laying around here that just happened to be a woman’s small,” she said, looking over at Smidgeon’s ample hooters.”

“A friend of a friend left it here.” smiled Stitches. “Her loss.”

“How do you feel about breakfast,” I asked the brunette.

“I’m all for it unless it means sticking up a gas station, in which case we should wear masks. ”

The July heat precluded anyone wearing from wearing a coat, and that included the one guy who had a leather jacket. (It was 1976.) The other guys and their pillion riders mounted, while I just sat on the porch steps and finished my coffee.

“Aren’t we going for breakfast, too?” she asked.

“We have time.”

The Triumph Trident wouldn’t start. Stitches searched out a can of starting ether, and they got it going about 15 minutes later. By that time, we were in the saddle with the engine running.

Some say breakfast is the most important part of the day. With a morning like this, who could think anything bad would come of breakfast? The day was perfectly clear, hot, and sunny. Yet I swore I heard thunder.

Part Four of the “Jumpstarting A Weekend of Motorcycles, Women and Fireworks...” will be presented on Monday, June 27th.

Author’s Note: Two special holiday editions of Twisted Roads, commemorating the start of the summer will run this weekend. Saturday will feature pictures sent in by Twisted Roads readers, plus long -gnored correspondence.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2011
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