Peyote Dreams
by
Art Bone
"Poor Mexico; so far from God, so close to the United States." Porfirio Diaz
I’ve had a quite a year and, now that it’s about over, looking over my notes and pictures for the past twelve months, I find that the really outstanding thing is not only the trips or the motorcycles, but the people I’ve dealt with that have really made this year special. Not the usual suspects, CJ, Charlie, Ron, the MotoClasico gang, but the new folks I’ve met who’ve either become friends or really left an impression on me.
I looked at my emails one morning this spring and noticed one from Barbra Poole. Barbie operates a B&B about a half mile away and was inviting me to have breakfast with a group of bikers from Texas. The invite was for eight am and it was seven thirty and I hadn’t had my cereal yet so I walked down and joined the group. I was wearing my usual attire, Isle of Man tee shirt and, of course, Norton belt buckle and Norton cap. The group’s bikes were parked at the curb and were mostly the usual BMW GS types you see down here.
We chatted about riding in Mexico a bit and then one of the group asked if I’d been to the Isle of Man and did I have a Norton. I said “Yes” to both and he told me he had ordered a new Norton four years ago and still hadn’t received it yet. He said he wanted to go to the Isle; he has a friend over there he can stay with anytime he wants to go but hasn’t had the time yet. My next question was, “Think he would have a place for two guys for the TT?” to which he answered in the affirmative.
That’s how I met John Hubbard and his friend and riding buddy Gordon Nelson. Cards were exchanged and an email correspondence started. A month of so later Gordon came back through San Miguel and I told him about Bahia de la Luna in Oaxaca where he and his girlfriend visited and enjoyed immensely.
And that’s how Charlie and I came to stay with Terry Hill on the Isle of Man (as covered in Peyote Dreams 175) and how I came to spend the night at John’s home in Dallas the night before the drain plug came out of my motorcycle on the way to the Lake of the Pines Rally in Jefferson TX.
That’s right folks. I’m left standing on the side of I-30 with a trail of 20W-50 pointing westward behind me and a seized engine. . . and that ol’ “What tha’ F*** do I do now” feeling.
Not to worry friends. As a wise old biker once told me, “You almost never see cat skeletons up trees and you almost never see biker skeletons beside their broke motorcycles on the road.” Something always comes up. Times like this call, not for despair, but optimism. This is when you have to be at your most creative, resourceful, and open to the cosmos. I must love this kind of stuff because I keep putting myself in situations where disaster can befall me.
And, of course, something happened. A guy in a van stopped on the frontage road and asked if I needed help. We got the bike to a shop at the next exit and, after further examination, sold it to the young man running the shop, then called Phil Dansby at the rally and told him my problem. Phil arranged a ride with a truck coming through in about an hour. I had time to get my stuff off the bike and change out of my riding gear and, Shazam, I was on my way to the rally.
My benefactor, Alton, was another of the more interesting characters I met this year. About 55 and skinny as a Mexican dog, Alton chatted to me about working for Rally Chairman Richard Asprey and driving around with old motorcycles to old motorcycle rallies. He seemed to be having the time of his life. It was only later that I found out he is a very good artist, pin-striper, and sign painter. I watched him work on a tank at the rally; cigarette and Lite beer close at hand, he laid down some lovely lines.
At the rally, my eyes were drawn to the raffle bike, a pristine 74 Roadster. The more I looked, the more I lusted. Don’t remember what the tickets cost but I bought a few. When the ticket was pulled on Saturday night I had already decided to take a nap in the truck, so was bedazzled when someone woke me up to tell me I had won the bike.
Of course, already owning two Norton Commandos, and living in Mexico, makes getting it home problematic. I started searching around for alternatives. I talked to the aforementioned Richard Aspery and after almost no negotiation, we arrived at a figure and he sent me a check and the bike will be raffled again next year. Richard, although I never met him face to face, became one of the noteworthy personages of my year.
And don’t worry, I’ll be at the Lake of the Pines next year. With the odds of winning a bike after losing a bike being what they are, what would they be for winning the same bike twice?
But back to my main premise: folks I’ve met this year while riding motorcycles.
My buddy Ron Lannan and I were drinking in a bar in John Day, Oregon, after a wonderful day of touring through eastern Oregon, when, attracted by my attire, a Norton shirt and hat, we were approached by a guy who’s opening gambit was “I’ve got a Norton I think I want to get rid of.”
We’ve all been here, right? How many people within 1000 miles of John Day Oregon even know what a Norton is?
Sensing a chance to basically steal this guy's motorcycle, I casually enquired, “What ya’ got?’
“I’ve got a 75 Roadster with a Boyer ignition and sleeved Amals” was the answer.
“And what do you want for this jewel,” I asked, seeking a sucker.
“Oh, about $10,000” was the reply.
We all know this syndrome, right? He doesn’t want to sell this bike. He wouldn’t sell it if you pulled out 10K and shoved it in his face. He wants to talk about his bike. He’s in John Day, Oregon, where no one knows or cares about his priceless piece of motorcycle history. And that’s fine. . .I don’t need another Commando but I can always use another story.
Okay Otis, let’s talk.
And so we did, especially after I told him about the INOA rally in Ashland, only three hundred miles away and that I was on my way to the Lake of the Pines Norton rally in Texas.
His was a familiar story: Vietnam vet, married several times, now living off the grid on a little piece of land surrounded by a National Forest, where no one can move close to him, and building his own house. He’d bought the bike in northern California and done most of the work on it himself. It was in a storage unit about a block away. We decided to meet the next morning and have a look, not because I was interested in buying it but because I’m always interested in looking at a Norton.
He was right on time and, sure enough, the bike was just as he said; black Roadster, pretty much correct; not a 10K$ bike but nice. He also had an equally nice BSA. I gave him several Norton News and prepared to be on my way. Then I remembered the rear tire on my bike. While checking the bike over yesterday morning I’d noticed the rear tire was looking very second-hand and the days fast riding hadn’t made it any better.
“Any place around here to get a couple of tires?” I asked hopefully.
“There’s one guy over in Prairie City who might have them. He’s kinda crazy and hard to deal with but the next place that might have one is Winnemucca and that’s three hundred miles away.”
We called, he checked and said he had the tires. We said we would be right over.
That’s how I came to meet Engo. The first thing Engo told me was that he had broken 177 bones racing motorcycles. I thought, but didn’t say, that I would have given up racing at around 100 and found a hobby I was more adept at. And I wondered if maybe he had broken some bones more than once. He would have had to, right? How many bones are there in the human body?
He shared his thoughts on ABS brakes with me. He said he could modulate the brakes on a motorcycle better than any computer. Should a guy with 177 broken bones make that claim?
Over the next three or four hours we heard the story of his family coming to Oregon from Germany, living in Oregon and California, his problems with the local law, mostly speeding and being belligerent and not paying his business license, and mainly being a horse’s ass. And it took him that long to put on two tires and when he was done he had managed to ruin my speedo cable.
But that’s the way it is. If you want to have stories to tell you gotta take the fat with the skinny. No one wants to hear about your perfect day or perfect trip. The story is in the struggle. Overcoming adversity is the essence of drama. When you're in intense situations is when you meet the interesting people that make your journey memorable.
If I wasn't in desperate need of a tire I wouldn't have met Engo. If I hadn't been stuck on the side of the road I wouldn't have met Alton. If I hadn't really needed a place to stay on the Isle of Man I wouldn't have met Terry Hill.
So embrace your adversity. What comes out of angst is often the thing that makes the trip memorable.
Cuba - Cuba's in the news these days since President Obama restored full diplomatic relations with the island nation. Several years ago (probably twenty or more) I read in AutoWeek magazine that someone had found Castro's motorcycle in a storage vault in Havana. I remember writing at the time that I had always admired Castro since seeing a picture of him and a bunch of manly men in Life magazine in the fifties. Heavily bearded and even more heavily armed, they were sitting around a campfire in the mountains a few months before they marched into Havana. They looked like the kinda guys you wouldn’t want to pick a fight with. Regardless of his politics, anyone who can stand up to the United States for over fifty years, through nine presidents, has my respect.
Then, about six years ago CJ and I had a chance to go to Cuba. We were staying at the Ambos Mundos hotel, just off the Malacon and I noticed a car museum just around the corner. We went in and, low and behold, there was the very bike. There was no sign or anything but how many blue and silver Ducati SS 900s could there be in Cuba? That's right; Che rode a Norton around South America when he was a young man but El Jeffe opted for something more modern. It was looking a little tatty from sitting in an unairconditioned building so close to the ocean but it was all there and with some Simichrome, polish, and elbow grease it would look like new.
All the car guys are talking about buying up all the 55 Chevies but that Duck is the piece of history I would like to have.