It was the boredom more than anything else that did it. That, and too many months working like a slave to acquire a pocketful of dosh. Be kind to the Americans, they sure know how to pay. The GTS1000, I'd soon convinced myself, was such a solid machine that it possessed a mind of its own. I'd be motoring along in laid back, relaxed mode when suddenly all hell would break loose. Throttle back to the stop, Malone frame in racing crouch and within a moment's breath, three figure speeds on the clock.
My only excuse, was the penal speed limits. They're so pathetically low, and the Yanks so crazy about enforcing them, that it makes sense to play make belief; imagine I'm on a German autobahn. 'Course, the American drivers haven't a clue about reacting to a two-wheeler hurtling between them at twice the legal limit. Goes well beyond their experience. I thought it was an amusing way of commuting to work every day; blow the tedium right away and bring some much needed joy into my life. If the sun was shining, I'd sling my helmet over my shoulder and ride bare-headed.
After a couple of months of this madness, I had a folder full of citations (not the sort you could boast about anywhere other than in the UMG) and become so bored with work that I was playing Russian Roulette with a nifty revolver I'd bought (this is America, boy, stop whimpering). For some reason the registration mark had been filed off, so god knows what was its history.
It seemed an opportune moment to leave the States. Apart from anything else, the large lout of a boss was making noises about not being able to track down my references. I was tempted to tell him that my CV was almost entirely false, just to f..k up his day. As soon as I was able to get hold of my month's money I was ready for the road.
I decided the GTS had to go. It favoured madness, was so easy to ride at crazy velocities that it was a quick way to kill someone who knew what their right wrist was made for. A last ride was called for. A 3.00am express train along the elevated highways, the sonorous exhaust ricocheting off the darkened buildings, the cops too busy being jerked off by transvestite hookers to take much note of my helmetless 130mph burn ups.
The GTS went in favour of a newish 883 Harley Davidson and a large bundle of notes to my good. These smallest of Sportsters are seen either as a pile of crap or a righteous piece of motorcycle. This one had proper twin discs out front, a great big headlamp that wouldn't have looked out of place on a vintage Cadillac and a custom seat that looked like it'd escaped from some Jap crap custom but was as comfortable as some big fat Negro mamma.
As someone used to the vibes from a tuned Norton Commando, I couldn't really complain about the buzz put out by the agricultural vee. That was part of the point of the bolide, it was so nasty, vibratory and generally ill-making after 85mph that it severely limited my speeding antics. Harleys only work as laid back, 60 to 70mph cruisers, when for strange, strange reasons, that can only be explained by riding the vintage machines, they work very well indeed. The whole American motorcycle industry is founded on that exotic fact.
I left New York in the dark. All things considered it seemed like a good idea. Luckily, the front light was so powerful I had no trouble seeing where I was going (not something that could be said about standard Harley lights). It wasn't so late that I could safely dump the helmet and I'd resisted strong urges that'd been plaguing my mind. Namely, the need to dress the Harley (and myself) out in cop clothing; proceed to have a real ball terrorising the general automobile populace. That this is a federal offence with a long, hardcore prison sentence if not a bullet in the head as a reward, might have had something to do with my stalwart resistance.....and still being free of drugs and drink.
I was heading north, if it went against my nature, was at least good for a change. First stop Montreal, over 300 miles away. The highway was straight with enough lanes to get lost in. Easy peasy. 300 miles divided by 70mph equalled just over four hours, call it five with the frequent stops for fuel caused by the cute but entirely impractical peanut petrol tank. This proved a bit optimistic.
First, there were the mad artic drivers, who'd sneak up behind me, give me a hoot on their ship sized horns and then try to run me off the road. Some beer swilling ruffian would lean out of the window and try to knock my head off with a full can of Budweiser. What a waste of beer. I soon became convinced that they'd used their CB's to gang up on me, at one stage I was completely surrounded by four of the buggers. They must've been bored out of their heads.
Who needs hallucinogenics when you can find yourself suddenly being a very tasty morsel in a meat sandwich? I had to perfectly match the speeds of the lorries behind and in front of me. This went on for about half an hour until they grew bored of the game and sped off into the night. F..king cowboys! I pulled into the first services before I had complete heart seizure. Took half a dozen cups of coffee to stop the shaking. Frequent caffeine overdoses being my one remaining vice in these days of sobriety and sanity.
I'd just about recovered when this real road rat, in premium gorilla size, came over to my table. He pulled me up by the collar of my jacket to enquire just what motorcycle I rode. This form of greeting, alas, is all too common amongst our colonial cousins. When I breathed the magic words Harley he threw me back into my seat, like a discarded bit of junk food. Which was just as well, for him, because I still had a hand free and would've happily blown away his kneecaps. The only way to meet the dissolute American Dream is with an of excess violence. Do unto others before they do to you.
That was 130 miles into the trip and my second petrol stop. It was eerie riding on, deeper into the night, watching the clearness of the sky increase as the pollution of the Big Apple was left behind. The Harley decided to be playful, 160 miles down the road, turning into an asthmatic big single, sending shudders through the chassis that tapped right into my spinal cord. I played along for a while, until I became pissed with a 50mph maximum speed. Harleys are pretty simple beasts and I'd soon sussed it was a duff spark plug. Must be a common malaise as there was a spare one in the toolroll or someone up there must like me (unlikely).
The rest of the journey lacked any wild events, except for my eyesight almost failing and the whole trip taking a good eight hours. Where all the time went I couldn't tell you. There was some kinda wine festival in Montreal but I managed to ignore it; drank orange juice or coffee in the more dubious bars for a week of self-indulgence. The plan after that was for a month running around the Great Lakes. Clean air, relaxed living and laid back motorcycling.
Some hope, what looked and felt like a massive typhoon swept across Lake Superior on the third day. Ice cold polar breezes dried my breath before it had a chance to get out of my mouth and I lost all feeling beneath my waist. By the time I arrived at the ever so aptly named Thunder Bay, I was the only idiot left out on the road; an object of wonder as I staggered into the first hotel I came to.
After about a week of being hunkered down there I was far gone on drink and drugs again. It was the only way to survive sharing the bar with huge Canadian men who growled rather than spoke and tended to amuse themselves by insisting I arm wrestle with them. They were so obnoxious it was a major feat of restraint that I didn't run amok with the gun.
After the sun came out I managed to get some riding in, but by then my mind had lost its grip on reality. I was so far gone I ended up with some fifty year old floosie on the pillion, who used to take her false teeth out before she got down to business. Try as I might, I could never get things together so far as to run out on her and after a week of abusing my body she started talking about marriage. I felt like blowing my brains away.
The Harley produced some moments of amusement that kept me from going completely insane. In an amazingly short time it'd become an old friend, that relentlessly growled through the landscape. You gotta keep ahold of some joy in life.
Johnny Malone