My Road

My Road
by
Paul Ellars

My road lies just on the edge of civilization. It’s a dirt road off a back road off a two-lane country road off a...well, you get the idea. I found it purely by accident. It was Halloween; I took the day off from work (being self-employed has some benefits), and thought I would go for a long, leisurely ride out in the country. It was mid-morning and no one else was on any of the roads but me. It was one of those rides where I had no place to go and all day to get there; I was just following my nose, bimbling along. My nose led me down smaller and more remote roads until I came upon this one: my road. I nearly rode right past it and had I been tearing along at my usual pace I would have gone right by it, never even seen it.

But I did see it and slowed even more and turned onto it to see where it went. As soon as I got on ‘my road’ I had to stop; it felt unlike any road I had been on before. It went on in a straight line off to the horizon under a canopy of trees with the sunlight filtering between the branches as a gentle breeze gave sound and motion to the leaves, and yet there was a strange feeling of stillness to this road. I looked as far down ‘my road’ as I could and there at the other end I could see the road disappear into a light mist. It reminded me of early morning mist I had seen over a lake or pond. I put my bike in first gear and moved ahead slowly. Off to the right the trees were sparse at first and then grew thicker so that by the time I had gone about a hundred yards the trees were dense enough not to be able to see through. To the left, a thin row of trees lined the road forming part of the canopy. Looking through these trees I saw open meadows, clear untended fields and low, rounded hills. The road itself was a mixture of light brown and rust-colored hard packed dirt.

I continued on, shifting the bike into second gear, enjoying the peace and tranquility of ‘my road’. This is one of my favorite ways to travel – a new road and experience and riding slow. In time I drew nearer to the mist and tried to look through the trees to see if there was a lake or something nearby that was causing the foggy condition but could not see anything. Fortunately, I heard the other motorcycle coming up from behind in time to pull over more to the right side of this narrow dirt road to give him room to pass. I first saw his big headlight in my left rearview mirror and wondered what kind of motorcycle it was. It did not sound like anything familiar to me. I maintained my speed of about 15 miles per hour and kept near the right shoulder and watched him as he passed. The rider passed going only a few miles an hour faster than me. He was decked out in a brown leather jacket, thick tan-colored corduroy trousers with lace-up brown leather boots that came up to his knees. He was wearing an old-style leather helmet, gauntlet gloves and large goggles. His motorcycle, which popped and clacked as it went by, looked like it was from the early 1900’s. It was long and narrow with a slab-sided dull green gas tank and large wheels. I started to laugh inside my own modern helmet; this guy was into the whole antique scene, complete with period clothing to match his old motorbike. I heard his engine revs climb as he sped past and it was then that it happened. I had to pull over and stop. It is said that smells are the most powerful stimulant to conjure up memories; I believe that to be a true statement. As he passed I was enveloped in the sweet smell of Castrol motor oil. I closed my eyes and was transported back to an earlier time, as a kid of 10, once again sitting behind Dad on his Norton, my arms wrapped tightly around his middle, feeling scared and happy as we flew down the road. I loved riding with him. A few years later he taught me to ride. He rode for as long as his health lasted. Opening my eyes again, I watched the old motorcycle disappear down the road into the mist ahead, the rider’s white scarf snapping like a flag in the wind.

I was so preoccupied with watching the guy on the antique motorcycle that I did not see or hear the other two motorcycles that came roaring up quickly from behind until they were practically on top of me. They were fast and loud, as if they were running straight pipes. The first one passed at 50 or 60 miles per hour at least. I paid more attention this time to the bike than the rider. All I saw of him was a slender figure in all black one-piece leathers wearing an old pudding-bowl helmet with leather flaps and goggles. I remember his bike though, all silver and black; I could hear each deep note the hammering piston made. That exciting sound was like the pounding heart of a young man and his first love. The man in black thundered past on his Manx Norton followed immediately by another rider wearing what looked like a brown military uniform complete with Sam Browne belt riding a Brough Superior. My first reaction was that they must be nuts riding hell-bent for leather over a dirt road like this. Those antiques bikes were worth a fortune and their owners were caning them pretty good. Both bikes roared past singing their basso profundo arias and disappeared into the mist ahead. I hope they don’t plow into the first rider that went into the mist. Out here it would be a long time before medical help could arrive.

I rode into the mist and felt the temperature drop; it wasn’t uncomfortable but it was cool enough to get your attention. I continued down the road for maybe a half mile or so, the mist starting to clear, when I saw a large group of motorcycles and riders in a field to the left and also in a large clearing in the trees to the right. Three more vintage motorcycles passed me, their riders each dressed in appropriate attire for his mount. This must be some kind of antique motorcycle rally I thought. I wonder why I haven’t read about it in the magazines or why no one in the group I ride with said anything about it.

As I rode closer a few of the riders turned to watch as I turned off the road into the clearing in the trees. I wanted to have a closer look at all of the fabulous machines.
I parked my motorcycle, which seemed strangely out of place here, on the edge of the clearing. Several of the riders were walking over towards me.
“Good morning, friend.” It was the rider on the Brough Superior wearing the military uniform that was speaking; he had taken his goggles and helmet off and was now wearing an officer’s hat.
“You have come a long way. What an unusual looking machine you have there. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. What is it?” he asked, watching me intently.
“Hayabusa. It’s a Hayabusa.” I replied. “They’ve been out quite a while now. They’re very popular.” I told him. I had a strange feeling talking to this man and it was causing me to answer him in a distracted, detached way. There was something unusual about him, about all of them. Then it struck me; it was the way they were looking at me with their eyes. Their eyes did not seem to have pupils and yet there was something moving there. Looking into their eyes was like looking through an endless void. It was the deep infinite space you see when you look up at the sky; I was looking into space that had no end. I was now near enough to the man in the brown military uniform to see that the movement in his eyes appeared to be clouds the color of silver and steel.
“My name’s Lawrence and you’re welcome to stay, if you like. We’re just having our annual get-together.” he said waving his arm towards the hundreds of riders gathered on both sides of the road.
“Your timing in coming down this particular road on this particular day, that is to say, Halloween, is spot-on, my friend.” he continued.
“Yes, I would like to stay, thank you. I’ve never seen so many antique and classic motorcycles together running and actually being ridden, especially by riders in period costumes. You and your friend passed me at a pretty good clip on my way in.” I told him.
“Yes, well, I like a spirited motorcycle!” he said and started to laugh.
“I take it, judging by your outfit, that you are supposed to be Col. T.E. Lawrence, you know, “Lawrence of Arabia”, and that must be your Brough Superior over there. I have to say, you look the part, it’s very authentic, just like photos I’ve seen of him.” I said. The silver and steel clouds flashed in his eyes and the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile.
“’Supposed to be’?” he said laughing. “My friend, I am Col. Thomas Edward Lawrence. . . or, as you say, “Lawrence of Arabia!” At that the group of riders behind him joined him in laughter.
“OK,” I thought to myself, “these guys really get into their characters. Well, why not?” My eyes looked over his shoulder to the group watching us from several feet away. Some of the faces looked so familiar, like friends I haven’t seen in a long time; I know I must have met some of them before, somewhere. It’s then that I recognized several faces. Can this be true? Can it possibly be what I am starting to feel it is? That would be impossible, but it has always been a rule with me not to confuse the unusual with the impossible. This was turning into an unusual day.

I looked over to a short man in black leathers with a white belt criss-crossing his torso in the shape of an X standing at the front of the group. He is watching me, smiling.
“Stanley Woods? Are you Stanley Woods?” I asked him.
His smiles widens and he walks over to me raising his right hand to shake mine and at the same time is lifting a paper sack in his left.
“Aye, I am Stanley Woods; a pleasure, sir. Would you care for a toffee?” he said offering the paper sack to me, the silver and steel clouds dancing in his eyes. I reach in and take a couple of the candies, unwrap one, put it in my mouth and put the other one in my jacket pocket.
“Well,” he said, “if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and find Joey Dunlop and finish convincing “Yer Maun” that the fastest way around a course is by not spinning your rear tire! I nearly had him convinced last year. Enjoy your day with us, friend. Perhaps we’ll see you again next year, eh? Cheers.” He shook my hand again and strode off.
I wander around looking at all the different riders and their bikes. This is absolutely incredible. I’ve often felt that man’s spirit never dies; that life and death are two sides of the same coin and that coin is always here, somewhere. That our ‘spirit’ goes on after life has left the body. Maybe once we pass over we exist in some form on a different plane and occasionally, like on Halloween maybe, for a short while, those separate planes somehow align themselves together and, like turning a polarizing lens, you suddenly see what is always there on the other plane. I don’t know. I have more questions than answers, but, if that is the case, then today, this day, this Halloween Day, on this small, out of the way dirt road on the edge of civilization, I have chanced upon what must be the annual reunion of the spirits of motorcyclists who have passed on. They have gotten together to ride the motorcycles they will be forever linked with and to talk and visit after death has come for them. For this one-day, they and their motorcycles can meet again and share the ‘spirit’ of motorcycling, a truly unusual, yet not impossible, day.
I wander over to where I recognize several long low streamlined motorcycles and several naked ones. There next to them is Ernst Henne, Eric Furnihough, Cal Rayborn, Don Vesco, Rollie Free and Burt Munro deep in conversation, retelling their record runs complete with hand gestures of weaving at speeds and other horrifying near misses.
Over there is Mike Hailwood talking to Barry Sheene, who is wearing a Fred Gassit T-shirt. Walter Villa, Tazio Nuvolari on his 1924 Norton, and Rem Fowler; the list goes on and on and each one there smiling and laughing with his famous bike nearby.
I wander around watching the faces of riders and looking at motorcycles I’ve read about in Dad’s old magazines and books since I was eight-years old. George Wyman and “Cannonball” Baker comparing cross-country routes.
More and more motorcycles are coming down the dirt road out of the mist from both directions to join their fellow spirits. Soon there are thousands of famous motorcycles and their legendary riders. Steve McQueen, still looking like the King of Cool, and Bud Ekins arrive on a pair of Triumph desert sleds.
I spend the rest of the day and evening walking around standing on the edge near groups and listen in on their conversations. No one seems to mind my presence there. The dead are very tolerant.
I was getting thirsty and remembered the water bottle and a handful of power bars I keep in my tank bag when I go off on my daylong bimbles. I go back and get them and that becomes dinner for me that night for it has gotten dark. Campfires are being made and the spirits of long and not-so-long gone motorcyclist stand around until late in the evening talking. I probably should head home but I can’t tear myself away from them. I continue to walk from the clearing in the trees to the open field across the road looking at all sorts of famous motorcycles and their legendary riders.
It is going on midnight and I am getting tired and sleepy. I want to sit down and lean against a tree for a quick nap but I feel that if I go to sleep I will miss something. Exhaustion finally wins and I sit down under an old oak and doze off.
When I awake I can see that dawn will be here soon. I check my watch and see that it is 4AM. There are still hundreds of spirits still gathered although a lot of them are suiting up, preparing to leave. I watch as they depart in two’s and three’s down the road and disappear into the mist. All I can do is stand next to my bike and watch, still not really able to believe what I am seeing, of what I have been part of for the last 18 hours or so. As I am watching the spirits ride away I hear a familiar voice behind me.
“Hello, Larry.” Well nobody calls me Larry but my family. It’s what I was called as a kid growing up. I turn around and, sitting there on his old Norton, is my Dad, just as I remember him looking long ago.
“Dad!” I am shocked and for a moment speechless. We had grown apart towards the end due to hurt feelings and resentments. Then one day I got the call. He had just dropped dead from a heart attack. No lingering. No goodbye. Just gone. We weren’t speaking to each other very much by then so I never got to thank him for the things in my life he taught me that were, and still are, very important to me.
“It’s good to see you again.” he said.
“Dad, I don’t know exactly what all this is,” I said waving my arm around indicating all the riders and their motorcycles “or why I’m here suddenly talking to you after you’ve been gone seven years but I’m not going to lose the chance now to tell you thanks. Thanks for all the good things you did for me, something I should have told you when you were alive.”
The silver and steel clouds in his eyes remained motionless.
“I know, Larry, but you did thank me, not in words, but I saw it in the road you chose to follow. You have the same passion for motorcycles that I had, and still have.” he said, indicating the Norton he was sitting on. I looked down at the bike. After he died, I inherited the old bike. It should be sitting covered at home in my garage right now, but here it was, or at least the spirit of it was here.
“Well, Larry, it’s time to be going. Come on, I’ll ride down the road with you a ways.” he said as he went through the motions of preparing to start the beast.
“But, Dad, I want to talk more with you. There’s a lot I never got to say and now it seems like the time is over before it even got started.”
“Larry, you can talk to me anytime, anyplace. All you have to do is start talking. I’m here. I’ll hear everything you have to say to me.” he replied, the silver and steel clouds flickering.
“But how will you answer me?”
“Larry, if you don’t know how I would respond to what you say by now, then you need to go back and think about me and remember me the way I was. You know what I would say. Try it. We’ll always be connected.”
He kicked at the Norton and it fired up on the third try. I started my bike and put my jacket, gloves and helmet on as it warmed up. He put the old Norton in first and headed for the road and the mist. I followed him, my mind racing, still not sure what was happening around me. Other riders were leaving as well. There was hardly anyone left. I rode behind my Dad, following him down this road into the mist, as it got thicker. Then I saw him raise his left hand and wave goodbye as he gassed the old Norton. I heard its deep rumble and watched as its taillight disappears.
I got home about an hour later. My mind still not sure what it had experienced. A dream? Perhaps a hallucination? I had no answers. I put on the coffeepot and went out to the garage and uncovered Dad’s old Norton. There it was, in all its physical reality. I kept glancing over at it as I gathered up my riding gear and started to put it away. Must have been dreaming under that oak tree. None of this could possibly have happened. No way. I’m 59 years old, I don’t believe in ghosts. Probably an over excited imagination because it’s Halloween and I was tired. I opened up my tank bag and took out the water bottles, power bars, empty wrappers and my cell phone. Before hanging up my jacket I checked the pockets. I felt something small and hard, and pulling it out I looked at my hand and there was a piece of candy, an individually wrapped piece of Toffee.
If you should decide to go for a ride on your bike this coming Halloween and you come across a small, out-of-the way road somewhere on the edge of civilization, live a little and take it. If it is anything like ‘my road’, you may not know where it goes, but you just might find out from where you have come. I’m thankful I have chosen the road I’m on