Vintage motorcycle wear

Old worn motorcyclists like me have probably seen these landscape scenes on one of their rides. This is from a long ago diary entry.

– Marlow

Dead grass burnt from rainless months of triple digit heat. An endless sea of it. Passed a small herd of cattle scratching for a meal from the fried and dried soil. One old bull and two scrawny newborn calves huddled in the meager shadow of a near dead tree. The need for food trumped by their need for cool shade. A dusty graveyard of century old tombstones fell into the rear view mirror. The sign announcing this place laid face down in the dust as I entered the city limits.

Looked over the town. Didn’t take long. Surrounding an old square were empty buildings with broken windows. A cafe. A feed and seed store — hardly anything for sale visible in the window. Not a soul on the street. Stopped in front of the cafe.

Hefted the rusty hinged door open, entered and the door closed with a thud. All I could see were silhouettes due to the strong morning sun through the glass door and windows.

Any fears I might have had of this place were calmed by the smell of rich dark coffee and breakfast sizzles and aromas.

A short coiffed, grey haired grandma appeared from nowhere and offered a seat in a red checked tableclothed booth.

Took my place, ate, talked and stayed for two hours.

After ordering, pleasantries about the day exchanged, and directions to the bathroom provided, the nametagless server began a slow but steady inquisition about my voyage that was interspersed with her sharing of what had become of this place and its people. In a nutshell:

Nature was turning the land and its people into ashes. There was no one there to put them out of their misery.

They were plodding, not racing, in front of a flameless prairie fire towards a dry river bed. It was no wonder their kids didn’t want to do this farming and ranch nonsense for a living.

The sun would not set until everything and everyone were cinders.

As I left the cafe, the grandma with no name whispered softly to me the town’s name. I am unsure but it sounded like she said “Sunkissed.” Maybe she was jiving me.

Despite indirectly asking for her name, her identity remained a mystery.

As the town disappeared over a knoll behind me, I saw that my motorcycle was the only vehicle on the road. In fact I was the only sign of life in any direction. Scorched fields were endless. The only thing missing was the smoke from the sun’s relentless blow torching. There was no pity there.

The land had been scorched for years. Folks just stayed to tend to it as it died. Those who stayed were like animals that got kicked every time they were fed. After a while they started to think the beating was part of the meal.

What demon mixed the potion that unleashed this hell? This devastation was not revenge for what these people took from the earth, since they had conserved it beyond all measure. This was not injustice. It just was.

The smell of those fields stayed with me for a long time. It just sat there inside me.

Much later that day well down the road I saw oil well drilling crews and then field upon field of pump jacks slowly bobbing up and down drawing money from the earth with every revolution. The never ending summer continued blistering the blood red dirt barrenness. I stood by the roadside and held both the sun and earth in my gaze. Neither of them showing mercy or surrender to the other. Nor anger — just acceptance that it had to be this way.

After a spell, I remounted and sped away. Tonight’s lodgings and cold beers were a fair piece off. The last hour of riding was in a steady rain.

​Steady rain coming soon

The darkness of that bright, hot, dry day was unequal parts uneasiness, sadness, anger, fear, exhaustion and distrust. The sun was killing everything — trees, grasses, crops, animals, people, towns and memories.

These scenes have haunted me to this day.

​Scorched

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