Welcome to the Borderlands Chapter 1

 

 

Uninjured but unable to retrieve my still rideable bike and thinking the frontage road would eventually connect further on with the highway I decided to follow it. But the more I walked the more I realized the road was only going to lead me to the rear of an abandoned diner. Dense brush growing next to both sides of the diner prevented me from walking around to the front. Who would’ve guessed today’s trip would have ended with this accident? Until now the scariest thing to happen was having a rap radio station’s signal interfere with a Johnny Cash song I was listening to. It’s frightening that rap which rhymes with crap could overpower Cash.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By choosing to travel at night I was able to watch stars pass their light onto dawn. Dawn would then change the light into color; first into a purple red sky that would change to orange that’d turn pink yellow. Soon those colors would spill down over the land. I’d have breakfast in Bridgeport and then ride eastward on Nevada’s Hwy 182 towards Sweetwater.

 

 

 

 

“Straight to the point, I like that; name’s Charon, welcome to the Borderlands, the unincorporated part of Elysium.” 

 

 

 

“What about my Harley? I’m pretty sure it’ll run; it’s stuck in an embankment quite a few miles behind me.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[page break]

                   FRECKLES and BEER  

 

 

You would have thought I’d never go back to the Borderlands after my strange encounter with Charon which ended by having to give a gold coin to an Elvis that looked like the Elvis in the movie BUBBA HO-TEP so I could return to my world. And yet I’m finding reasons to revisit the Borderlands on a regular basis.  

Sometimes referred to as the In-betweens; Borderlands join our world to imagined worlds. Most often they’re entered through dreams. On rare occasions they can be entered through out-of-the-way diners that have waitresses named Alice; a few have entrances between old oaks and sycamores. Borderlands when they’re not visited become ingrown, feeding upon themselves like plants left in small containers or oxbow lakes cut off from the flow of fresh water. Abandoned, a Borderland will begin to fade until it’s forgotten or remembered only as part of a myth or a piece of folklore.

Daytime in the Borderlands bathes in the golden glow of a Maxfield Parrish painting. Nighttime’s like being in a film negative and begins with the gradual ebbing of color. As it grows dark light and shadow trade places; when the sun finally sets you’ll think you’re in one of Ingmar Bergman’s surreal black and white movies.  

Crossovers are complete when your outlook on life becomes like Buddha’s or Huckleberry Finn’s. ‘Cuz when you’re in da Borderlands ya knows everythin’s happenin’ da way it’s s’pose to be happenin’; n’ dat all da worryin’ n’ wantin’ ain’t gonna’ catch ya more fish than ya need.

Late one afternoon after crossing into the Borderlands by passing between two oak trees at the end of a cornfield and then riding a few miles; I recognized a familiar motorcyclist in the rear view mirrors coming up behind me on a 650 Triumph. He’d always be wearing a cutoff sweatshirt, khaki pants and chukka boots; and he’d yell, as he always had before, something about Switzerland and then turn and motocross off across the hills. Was he trying to escape? A great escape route would’ve been to follow me back to where I had crossed.

 

 

Still riding my shaken but not stirred, dented but not broken Dyna Wide Glide, I kept at a moderate pace. Not as comfortable as Harley’s touring models with their fairings and bigger engines and therefore lacking their higher top speed; my bike, even with its extended rake, seemed faster through the turns. I’ll trade higher highway speeds and comfort for quickness through the backroad corners any time.

Five minutes after the Triumph rider had ridden away my favorite Borderland town appeared surrounded by newly cut hayfields. Framed by rolling hills and Mediterranean in architecture; its narrow streets were just wide enough to let select pieces of our world slip between its buildings. Its outdoor market had become a favorite place of mine to visit. Behind the town were not too distant mountains inviting me to someday find out what was on their other side.

On past visits I’d spend the afternoon at the market; today because it was late I’d just ride through a new part of town. My plan was to follow the street beyond where I usually parked. But the street didn’t cooperate; it instead continued for about a half a mile before ending in cul-de-sac, a large courtyard surrounded by shops and paved with a mosaic of differently colored blue tiles. Decorating the balconies surrounding the courtyard were long strands of wisteria trailing dreadlocks of purple blossoms down to the ground.

At the opposite end of the courtyard’s entrance, in front of an outdoor café, was a customized ‘40 Ford sedan. Parked next to the Ford was a ridged frame chopper painted a deep violet and accented with green and orange question marks. Even with the lengthening shadow created by the chopper’s sissy bar acting like a sundial and reminding me it was getting late; I still felt I had time to relax.

“Most everyone orders a cold drink when it gets this hot.”

 

The female voice came from behind me moments after I sat down at one of the café’s tables.

“Sounds good,” I answered, thinking a cold beer really would hit the spot with the sun this hot and no breeze. 

I had replied without taking my eyes off the ‘40 Ford. Everything about its sleeping driver from his huge hands to the grotesque shape of his snoring head said he didn’t belong. Everything about him clashed with the courtyard’s harmony.

 

Turning around when a frosty pitcher of beer appeared beside me followed by the smell of tropical suntan oil, I said, “You must’ve read my mind.” 

Tall, freckled and with reddish brown hair tied in a bun, she laughed, “If I were to have read your mind, which I didn’t, I would’ve brought a glass for myself.”

The smell of her suntan oil or was it her reddish brown hair was enough to make me think of staying. And did I mention her reddish brown hair, and I’ll just have another glass of beer, close my eyes, and, and . . . I must’ve dozed off.

The warm sun, the combined perfume of flowers and freckles had mixed to make the perfect sedative; a mixture powerful enough to have drawn an end of the day curtain around my table. Ahead and across the courtyard a last line of sunlight painted itself past my bike and through the entrance. The Ford’s driver was awake and laughing, the café closed, the waitress gone. How long had I slept?

Revving his engine the driver shouted, “You’re too late, the sun’s almost set, it’s almost dark; visitors have accidents in the dark. Rules say if a visitor can’t return then someone from the Borderlands gets to go back in their place and I’m betting you’ll not be returning.”  

Suddenly a voice behind me shouted, “Hey Raggedy Man, the rules also say you can’t trade places with a visitor until the sun’s completely down.”

Twisting around I saw that the owner of the voice was the owner of the chopper and that he looked a lot like the actor that played Rorschach in the movie WATCHMEN. Tattooed and sporting a graying ponytail, he grabbed his ape-hanger handlebars, swung a leg over his bike’s seat and started the most radical V-twin I’d ever seen.

Raggedy Man shouted back, “Devil’s in the details, Larry. But then you always did have a love for knowing how everything worked. Details and gizmos aren’t gonna help your friend though; it’s but a few minutes before sunset and there ain’t no way he’s outrunnin’ me.”

Raggedy Man revved the Ford’s engine, underlining ‘ain’t no way’.

While they were talking I’d climbed aboard my Harley hoping it could somehow change itself into Charon’s Hayabusa and pointed it toward the courtyard’s entrance. Just then the chopper pulled in front of my bike and stopped.

Twisting around in his seat, Larry beamed me a big smile, “Raggedy Man’s thinking you’ll return using the route you used coming into the Borderlands; what he’s not expecting is for me to show you another way. The way we’ll be going has lots of tight turns and switchbacks, otherwise he’d run us down on the straight stretches.”

 

With that said Larry burned rubber out and across the courtyard’s blue colored tiles, through its narrow entrance and into the street. I did the same, faithfully following the chrome question mark welded to the back of his sissy bar. Past my favorite outdoor market we rode, past funny shaped buildings crowned in the last bit of sunlight. We’d become a parade of two with Larry in the lead jockey shifting through the gears and me tagging along close behind. “One Way or Another” by Blondie was coming in strong over my little ear radio.

Too many of today’s customs have become long slovenly show not go copies of copies, variations of the same design and passed off to rich entry level riders as originals. Larry’s bike was different. Built to be ridden, it twisted its way through corners, pushing me to push my bike’s limits. 

When the sun finally dropped below the horizon Larry began to slow; at last coming to a stop inside an alley lined with rows of bizarre looking houses. The house behind where we parked leaned over us as if eavesdropping. 

 

Pulling up beside him, “Why are we stopping?”

Turning off his engine, Larry motioned for me to do the same, “A while ago we fooled Raggedy Man into thinking we were leaving by the same route you’d used to enter the Borderlands; by now he knows he’s been tricked.”

Confirming Larry’s prediction, the primal scream of a powerful motor could be heard bouncing off buildings and coming closer.

My response was an anxious, “Shouldn’t we get going?”

Larry’s reply was calmer, “Where? The last thing we want is to meet him head-on. My hearing says he’s misjudged where we are by a couple of streets, so be patient; when he passes I’ll know which way to go.”

While we waited I stared at Larry’s engine, “Your engine is like nothing I’ve ever seen before; the cylinder heads look like an oversize combination of a Harley Davidson Knucklehead and Shovelhead.”

“It came from a Pratt and Whitney radial aircraft engine,” answered Larry, “salvaged from a crop duster that crashed near the mountains. After finding a machine shop with a plasma welder and what was left of a 2002 Indian motorcycle minus its motor, I proceeded to cut myself a V-twin out of the plane’s radial engine. Once I was able to beef up the transmission it didn’t take long to make myself a chopper. It’s easily the most powerful bike I’ve ever built. The irony is I actually had plans to make a chopper like this before I left Brooklyn. I had most of the parts I needed lined up; I was just waiting to borrow a similar welder.”                               

Raggedy Man cut short our conversation by roaring past a block away; his sound trail left diminishing echoes. We waited a full minute then headed in the opposite direction, weaving our way through narrow streets, sometimes even backtracking. For almost fifteen minutes we continued this cat and mouse game before leaving town by way of a covered bridge. Past the bridge was a thin line of sycamore trees outlined by a full moon; separating them from us were some ready to harvest cornfields bordered by a row of tall sunflowers.

Larry skidded to a halt at the end of the bridge then pointed across the fields at the trees, “The road forks up ahead, take the right turn; there’s a crossover just past it. Don’t stop until you’ve left the Borderlands.”

“You could’ve returned in my place, why didn’t you?”

Larry smiled, “Not my time, maybe next time, speaking of which you better get going or there won’t be a next time.”

  A quick glance back at Larry and I was on my way. Rows of corn whitewashed with moonlight lined the road for nearly a mile, and then the fork appeared causing me to focus on making a right turn.

To my left . . . to my left was Raggedy Man coming like a bat out of Hell! Do I go faster or slow down to make the corner? I voted for faster by opening the Wide Glide’s throttle and hiking my rear end so far out over the inside of the curve it could’ve passed for a sidecar.

Closing at an angle was the ‘40 Ford; from the opposite angle came me on my Wide Glide leaned over and trying to dodge the driver’s huge misshapen hand. BANG! I was still wobbling from the impact when I passed through the sycamores. 

Not until I was out of the Borderlands and “End of the Line” by The Traveling Wilburys had finished playing in my ear radio did I look back. What was left of a large hand attached to a long wrist clung to my sissy bar. Ripped from Raggedy Man, it hung as a reminder of how lucky I’d been to have Larry’s help.

 

[page break]

                           DREAMCATCHER

 

 “With the right bike, on the right day, on the right road, I feel like I’m one with the Universe.”  -Indian Larry 

It’s been three days since fleeing the Borderlands. On the third night I was awakened by a knock at my door; no one was there. On the porch was this letter.

 

Returning to the Borderlands anytime soon was not on my list of things to do considering the last time I was there I was lucky to have made it back. But the bottom line is I did make it back and only because of Larry’s help, so I owed him.

 

After tying a small bag of extra clothes along with Raggedy Man’s hand wrapped in cloth on my bike’s back seat, I rode to the El Monte Hotel. Popular for its 1950s setting, it was one of the last places you could hear Doo Wop music. Step through its doors on a Saturday night onto a dance floor sparklingly lit by a revolving overhead ball made of cut glass and you’d step back in time. But not for long; the new owners had scheduled the El Monte for a modern facelift.

An irate manager shouting, “May I help you?” followed me from parking, through the lobby, past the stage and into the storage room. Opening the locker and reaching behind a pink dinner jacket, maybe left by one of The Silhouettes, I grabbed a large can of Kiwi shoe polish then walked quickly towards the entrance. On my way out, “May I help you?” had changed to, “I’m calling the police!” Minutes later with the El Monte behind me I was heading south.

Riding alone along the Pacific Coast Highway under a full moon defines Zen. Tonight’s full moon had invited as its guest warm offshore winds; uninvited was the flashing red light a mile behind me. El Monte’s manager must’ve really meant, “May I help you?”

Just five more miles until Bixby Creek and I was staying ahead of the police. Three miles later the sound of an approaching siren proved I’d underestimated their desire to help me. They’d increased their speed and what had once been a ride at a relaxed pace down the coast had now become a race down the coast.

Thankful I wasn’t riding a bigger bike and that there were more curves than straights and that Harley had designed decent lean angles into my Dyna Wide Glide, I put its six-speed transmission to use. Lots of tight switchbacks coupled with excellent low to midrange acceleration were my trump cards against the police car’s higher top speed. One last curve followed by a straight stretch and I’d be at the sycamore grove but at the same time they’d catch up with me. With no other choice I shut off my engine and coasted without lights into the brush. Seconds later they sped past.

Ahead was the bridge, just before it the entrance into the Borderlands. If I waited too long I’d meet them returning; with no other option I accelerated back onto the road. A hundred yards ahead they braked then turned around; they must’ve seen me leaving my hiding place and heading towards the sycamores. If the Borderlands weren’t on the other side of those trees I’d have a three hundred foot fall to the ocean to think about Kiwi shoe products.

Passing between the mottled gray trunks I let out the same yodeling yell Disney’s character Goofy makes when launched from high places; landing on Borderland pavement changed that yell into a sigh of relief. Visions of policemen wearing pink colored Doo Wop dinner jackets singing “May I help you?” continued to follow me until I spotted Larry in the distance parked beside the road.

Larry still looked like an older edition of the actor that played Rorschach in the movie WATCHMEN. Wearing some Elvis era sunglasses, worn jeans with suspenders and a black long sleeve shirt pushed up to the elbows; he could be seen talking to another rider. 

Parked behind them, outlined by the beginning of dawn’s light, was the other rider’s bike. Constructed from chain, each link welded to the next, the other rider had created a one of a kind chain frame chopper. Woven inside its sissy bar was the most beautiful dreamcatcher.

Larry looked up, “You brought the can of shoe polish?”

“Didn’t even look inside,” I said handing it to him.

Larry opened its lid, “What’s in here are what’s left of the guitar strings Brian Tyler used recording the soundtrack for the movie BUBBA HO-TEP; Elisa wove half of them into the dreamcatcher you see on the back of her bike.” 

Larry pointed to the other rider who had familiar looking red hair and freckles, “Meet Elisa, she’s the nice lady that brought you your beer in the courtyard a few days ago and like you has been exploring the Borderlands. It was by accident Elisa found the dreamcatcher protects her from Raggedy Man. Whatever kind of vibe it sends out keeps him at a distance; and that’s what gives this rescue mission a chance to succeed.”

Elisa had already taken the guitar strings and started weaving a dreamcatcher onto my bike’s sissy bar when I asked, “Rescue rhymes with danger; who are we rescuing?”

“My friends Paul and Keino,” Larry answered, “somehow found a way into the Borderlands through an abandoned amusement park; they were trapped before they could return. They’re captive on the other side of these mountains. Raggedy Man sent a note saying he’d captured them and where to find them. He’ll release them only if you come with me.”

I responded with the obvious, “It’s a trap.”

Larry laughed, “Of course it’s a trap.”

Unwrapping Raggedy Man’s hand from the cloth, I held it out, “This proves he’s vulnerable.”

Larry came over to look, “So are we, so don’t go making the mistake of underestimating him.” 

 

Larry then touched the hand, “This little souvenir of yours explains a lot and why my friends are being held ransom for its return, which reminds me, we’ve a long ride ahead.”

Elisa turned, her red hair and freckles as captivating as they were in the courtyard, “I’m leaving; what’s on the Wide Glide’s sissy bar is my most powerful web. Stay close together and it should provide enough protection for the both of you.”

“I owe you,” said Larry.

Elisa smiled and laughed, “I know,” then got on her chain frame chopper and rode away.

Larry pointed to the distant peaks, “Let’s chase the morning.”

And so began our rescue ride, past cornfields, farms, on and on; past sleeping towns we raced the dawn, past sleeping forests and beyond.

Up to the summit and with Larry keeping his chopper on enough of a leash so I wouldn’t be left behind, the riding had been fun; winding our way down to the ocean proved to be the opposite. Faced with nothing but hairpin turns, it wasn’t until reaching the coast that I could relax enough to focus on more than what was just in front of me.

On a small island just offshore from where the road met the coast was an abandoned amusement park. Part Santa Cruz Boardwalk and part Coney Island and with a wooden roller coaster rising above the buildings, the island was connected to land by a long pier. Running next to the pier were lines of perfect waves. It seemed too beautiful for a trap.

“When I can,” said Larry, “I come here to surf; I can’t believe it’s where my friends crossed and were captured.” 

After parking just off a narrow road that ran next to where the pilings met the beach we began walking out on the pier. As we approached the end I noticed a curtain of thick mist dividing the island from the pier’s last barricade. Fog wasn’t that uncommon along the coast and yet if I looked closely I could see something moving behind it, and then Raggedy Man stepped out and into view. 

Raggedy Man looked at Larry, “Your friends are safe.” He then pointed to me, “You’ve something of mine. I want it.”

Larry whispered so low I could barely hear, “Get your bike, bring his hand, but cover the dreamcatcher on the sissy bar,” then turning to Raggedy Man. “He’ll get your hand.”

“Hubba hubba,” laughed Raggedy Man.

Returning to where my bike was parked, then using the same cloth the hand had been wrapped in, I covered the dreamcatcher. Riding out on the pier to where Larry and Raggedy Man were waiting took forever.

Larry took the hand from me and gave it to Raggedy Man, “My friends for your hand; that was our agreement?” 

Raggedy Man grabbed the hand and pushed it onto the stump of his arm and then tested it by moving its fingers. Larry had warned me Raggedy Man possessed recuperative powers; regenerative would’ve been more accurate.

 “I like you Larry; I liked us working together, but I’m still going to trade places with your friend for taking my hand. Oh, and Paul and Keino were never captives; I lied.”

Larry, who was standing next to my bike, pulled off the cloth covering the dreamcatcher, “I suspected your story was a lie, bait to get us here; the question is who’s caught who?”  

Raggedy Man screamed then began to come apart. His eyes were the last things sucked through the dreamcatcher and except for a blob stuck in the web’s center, the pieces, once on the other side, joined together into a large fleshy ball.

 

“You weren’t kidding when you said it was a trap. What you didn’t tell me was that it was your trap and I was brought along to lure him out; I was the cheese.”

Larry nodded then pointed at the fog bank at the end of pier, “Guilty as charged; it was a trap. There’s a crossover out of this Borderland at the end of the pier; my friends are safe. You’re free to leave anytime.”

Behind me perfect waves were breaking all the way to the beach; at the same time the soundtrack to Bruce Brown’s surfing movie THE ENDLESS SUMMER was playing in my ear. Since first entering the Borderlands the tiny radio I wear as you’d wear a hearing aid seems to play the perfect music for whatever’s happening.

“Go in my place,” I said, “visit old friends; it’s been too long since I’ve surfed waves like these.”

Larry walked to the edge of the fog, “You’re right, I do need to tie up a few loose ends with some old friends and so I’ll take you up on that offer. I’ll be back before day’s end. Oh, and if you’re serious about surfing you might want to check out what’s drifted up near the pilings.”

Near the pilings, covered with kelp, near buried by the sand; a surfboard lay amidst the foam and flotsam from the land. Reaching down I grabbed its fin and pulled the surfboard free, then let the waves wash it clean of all the tide’s debris. It couldn’t be, but there it was, my board from long ago, now floating there in front of me; it whispered, “Hey, let’s go.”