It was darker than a sparkplug hole
And cold enough to freeze your balls off,
Following that straight white line crossing the state
That night on the freeway
Got gas a hundred miles ago
Maybe thirty ‘fore we start runnin’ out
Our butts were numb, eyes peerin’ hard into the darkness
Hands stiff as granite clamped to the bars,
Still looking for a station
First curve in forty miles was a strain to maneuver
But something ahead made us sit up.
It disappeared and reappeared
The bright star flashed in and out of our sight
As the station came into view
The neon lights made the road grime stand out
Draggin’ ourselves off our bikes, we fueled
Rested and repaired for what seemed short minutes
Stiffness relieved and warmth regained
We hovered in the shelter of the station
A home on the road for patches and petrol
To take the knots out of our bones,
To wish fellow two-wheelers a safe trip.
The blues really come only between gas stops
When the cold whistles up our sleeves and our toes freeze in steel-tipped boots,
And the darkness falls like a blanket, leaving only the white line to follow.
Then the blues strike and we look for another station.
–Renegade
June ‘78 Easyriders
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