In the Army, I was a reconnaissance specialist assigned to the 1/1 Cavalry Squadron at O’Brien Barracks in Schwabach, West Germany. We spent several months of the year in the field and I needed a knife, a heavy, general purpose knife for all the cutting, prying, slicing, scraping, tasks living in the field and sleeping on the ground and in jeeps and tracks and eating out of a mess kit required. I bought one at the PX, probably in 1976.
From the PX at O’Brien Barracks
I got out of the Army in Europe and hitchhiked south; I used that knife to slice cheese and bread in small towns in France and shuck oysters on a dock in Spain (of course I cut myself, have you ever tried to shuck oysters?).
It was on my belt when I was attacked on a beach in Morocco (I used a rock from our fire pit to crush a man’s shoulder, it didn’t occur to me to reach for the knife). Later I used it to slice and crumble hashish as I wandered through the markets of Tangier, Fez, Rabat and Casablanca with stitches and a broken arm.
I used it to scrape the head gasket off my brother’s Triumph Bonneville in a campground in San Luis Obispo, cut choke cable housings to make a throttle cable for a Moto Guzzi Eldorado in Daytona Beach.
It was in my luggage when I moved to Tokyo and on my hip every day for 13 months as I rode a Honda XL250 through 21 countries across three continents; a sailors tool on a rented sailboat in Thailand, a camping tool in Australia, a backpacking tool in Nepal, a tool for cleaning chickens bought live in Zaire markets.
It was there when Eli (my son) and I rode to Prudhoe Bay and when Coco (my daughter) and I camped at the Grand Canyon and when Jane (my wife ) and I stared in amazement at the VLA (Very Large Array, a radio telescope in New Mexico). It opens freeze-dried packets and baked beans in a can with equal facility.
It’s here with me now, an odd and fitting talisman for my wondering, wandering life. And it’s sharp.
Ashley and Desiree are sisters on a road trip from Oklahoma City to St. Louis. They were packing their minivan in the parking lot of the Edelweiss this morning as I was strapping down my gear. Ashley walked over to say that she liked the color of the Revival, that her stepdad had a Harley but that it was all black and she didn’t like it. She asked if she could take a picture.
Ashley
We were chatting as fellow travelers do, knowing that we will never meet again. I asked her if she’d heard the news this morning (regarding SCOTUS reversal of Roe). And she started to cry. Ashley was raped when she was fifteen by someone she knew and that having the baby had been a choice, her god damned choice. Her daughter is now 13 and wants to be a lawyer.
Today I rode past the Riverside Gun Shop on a curvy bit of road outside of Eureka Springs. A couple of miles later I turned the Revival around and went back. Ron, the man at the counter, talked about his 21 year old daughter, she’s been promoted to front-of-house manager at Chick-fil-A and that’s a good job. I talked about Eli and Coco (my kids). He likes art and wanted to hear about Coco’s job at MIA (Minneapolis Institute of Arts). He visits Crystal Bridges museum in Bentonville and described in detail some of his favorite paintings. He doesn’t remember the artists.
Riverside Gun Shop
Blackberries grow wild around his house, they’re smaller and sweeter than farm-raised but you’ve got to watch the thorns. The dogs like them, too. Rattlesnakes are becoming a problem; they’d always had water moccasins and copperheads, but the rattlers are new. He found a young one outside the house just the other day. They’ve got armadillos now, too.
Ron’s boss, the owner of the shop is an Army vet and took our picture.
I’m in room 6 at the Edelweiss Inn in Eureka Springs, Debbie and Lee are in room 4. They’re riding new BMW boxers, R1250RSs and live in Creston, Iowa. They’re retired, no kids. He’d been a civil engineer for the Federal Government, she’d been a department manager at the Walmart store for 32 years. They’ve been riding together since the ‘80s. I suggested that the country was in bad shape, to which they enthusiastically agreed. They got quiet when I told them that I was liberal commie and we went back to motorcycle stories.
(Maybe I should have let them bring the heat. But my fear is that once they’re all fired up that I won’t be able to bring them back to motorcycle stories, that we’ll argue or stop talking. Need to think about that. Lee just walked by, waved and smiled. We’re good.)
Traveling well is the time and willingness to turn around and go back. When that unplanned thing flashes past at the corner of your eye as you’re motoring by and that thing sticks in your head, you need to go back. It seems most times worthwhile.
The Revival got me into a conversation at breakfast yesterday. It started with Sandy saying “Beautiful bike.” (She introduced herself and handed me a printed invitation to a motorcycle rally several days hence.) It ended with me saying, “Willie Nelson has Minnesota politics.”
I could use a cigarette
I sat at the next table and eavesdropped on Sandy’s conversation with the two guys she was sitting with, one wearing an Army veteran cap, as they smoked their cigarettes and ate their grits and bacon. They were planning a charity event, discussing entertainers to invite and how to keep the different bands from playing the same songs (I was surprised to learn that that’s a problem). They wanted Willie, but he’s “not Christian enough.” Taylor Swift came up, too, and Waylon Jennings, although I think he might be dead. (Do those people perform in Doniphan, Missouri?)
As I was leaving I stopped at their table, shared army cred with the guy in the hat, (he’d done the SE Asian tour back in the day), said what I said about Willie and shared fist bumps. A fellow vet on a nice bike. That’s all.
I stopped at a cemetery. Decorated with flags and flowers for Independence Day (I suppose) the grass was cut short, they’d even given the headstones a trim. Many of the stones included rank and branch of service. The cemetery was attached to a pretty white clapboard Baptist church.
Flags and the grass cut short for Independence Day
In southern Missouri the roads are curvy and hilly and well maintained and wind through verdant forest. The waterways are blue (and cold, as I discovered when I took my clothes of and waded in). There are small farms and little businesses and towns that Rand McNally deems unworthy. It really is magical.
I stayed last night at the Twin Lakes Motel in Forsyth, owned by the mother-in-law of the (HIspanic?) woman who checked me in. She waved dismissively at a faded photo of a grey-haired woman on the wall when I asked.
