Is there anything a man don’t stand to lose
When the devil wants to take it all away
Cherish well your thoughts, keep a tight grip on your booze
‘Cause thinking and drinking are all I have today

– chorus from the Grateful Dead’s Mexicali Blues

The road had thought differently about the bikers’ plans in the past. From time to time the byways had become a bitchy cognitive dissident. Several times it had snuck up on them and filched their status quo mojo. It nearly killed

them when hail pounded their backs like shotgun blasts. It didn’t give a shit about what lay behind them and what the riders hoped might lie ahead. It forced them again and again to confront what lies within.

They had had a full measure of motorcycle troubles during this voyage. Unlike anytime during the past ten years of riding, mechanical troubles seemed attracted to their bikes like vultures are to a zebra’s carcass. Yes, they had had

trouble so thick that you could add bell peppers and jalapenos and bottle it as salsa.

Steve, Augustus and Marlow should have known something was up when they saw large numbers of turkey vultures riding the thermal air currents as they exited the back gate of NAS Pensacola the previous afternoon. The vultures

had returned in droves to launch an all-out struggle with their road trip goals. Whose undistressed motorcycle was the target?

Soon after departing Tallahassee on I10 the following morning, they turned onto the blue highway also known as US 19 and got an immediate answer to the foregoing question. Steve’s snake-bitten scooter ground to metal-clunking,

complete full stop halt. It would go forward no more, answering hopeful clutch and shifts with fugly screeches and scrapes. It appeared to be the big one all bikers fear for their beloved.

They pushed his bike 30 yards into the divine providence-provided parking lot of a Wendy’s burger joint. After some general harrumphing and “aw shitting,” they repaired to Wendy’s air-conditioned comfort. They sampled the red-

haired burger purveyor’s breakfast offerings while Steve made cell phone calls to towing companies and a Honda dealership that would likely be of assistance.

Three hours and many cups of coffee later, the tow truck operator arrived and loaded the balky Valkyrie onto his truck’s flat bed. He and Steve took off at warp speed back to the dealership at which Steve’s bike had received an oil

and filter change earlier in the morning. Augustus and Marlow, not wanting to spend three days in the pokey for travelling 90+ MPH in chase, proceeded at a statelier and legally defensible pace.

At the dealership, they spent many hours in deep discussion. The favored topic was whether Steve should repair his 12 year old Valk or trade it in for a new or used Honda Gold Wing out of this dealer’s inventory. They used

Steve’s iPhone to search the web for Valkyrie trade-in values and recent comparable sales prices for new and used Gold Wings. Steve’s wife gave him permission over the phone to buy a replacement bike on the spot. Like nervous

next of kin, they paced the showroom floor to kill time while awaiting the bike doctor’s diagnosis of Steve’s bike.

After spending two plus hours at $130 per hour at the operating table with the Valk, the chief scooter surgeon and his greasy finger nailed interns appeared somber-faced with several parts of their patient’s internal organs in hand.

The drive shaft and final drive assembly teeth were completely stripped. Total bill with overnight parts shipping would be under $700. Given his near 9 year long, 80,000+ mile relationship with this machine, his wife’s offer

notwithstanding, Steve authorized the work.

Steve had a nonnegotiable September 2nd arrival date back home in the DC area. Since he was looking at having his bike back in operating status no earlier than August 29th, he was forced to abandon the remainder of the four

corners trek. Time had finally run out for Steve’s plucking the silver apples of the moon and the golden apples of the sun.

Since this was their last night together on the road, they did some drinking and thinking. It was all they had. As a small “we’re sorry for you, bro” gesture, they sprang for a 2002 bottle of estate-bottled Napa Cabernet for Steve’s

personal cocktail hour lubricant that night.

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