Three in the afternoon somewhere in Northern Colorado, I’m sitting in a tattoo shop, not quite three sheets to the wind, and my phone rings. It’s the photographer again. He’s been trying to get me down to Denver for three days. Lots of close calls. Usually it’s either the guy with the scoot or the model who don’t show, but this time apparently this time it’s me. Supposedly they’ve got the bike and girl now and I’d better get my ass in gear. These guys don’t know the first thing about manners. I’ve got deadlines on three other stories, but this one’s for Bandit. I move.
I’ve heard about the girl, thin, sexy, ready for action. And I know the photographer pretty well, sick and depraved, a great guy to have around. He can talk models into anything. He’ll have her dancing around with her pants around her ankles in no time, begging like a tired puppy. If he were shooting a deodorant ad, he’d have everyone undressed and involved in some kind of orgy before anyone had any idea what was going on. He’s that smooth.
I don’t know much about the bike, except that it’s a Shovel. That’s all I need to hear. Obviously this guy has good taste and we’re off to a great start.
I shake-off a hangover, the residual from three days of insanity. I can count the hours of sleep on a hand missing two fingers. Memories are like flashes from some bad acid trip, and there’s a lingering bad feeling. I’m in trouble of some sort. Best not to think.
After finally getting my bike to kick over I head down the highway on a crisp fall day, the sun fighting off the chill of the wind. About halfway down there I glance across the median and watch some guy meet his maker in between a semi and a cage. Ominous warning. My hands grip the bars a little tighter. Focus. I can’t seem to shake the image. I decide to think about the girl up ahead.
Directions are skewed. The studio is located somewhere in a long row of warehouses that all look the same. I find the door and park next to a vagrant urinating on a building, toss him five bucks and tell him to keep an eye on the bike for a couple hours. Fuck it. It’s worth a shot.
Inside the model is alone. No photographer. No bike. She mutters something about a beer run and trouble starting the Shovel and comes over to take my jacket. I ask why her top is already off and she puts her finger to my lips. I start to get an overwhelming feeling of good fortune.
About an hour later the two guys and bike arrive, all in good health, and shit gets rolling. The bike is exactly as bad-ass as I heard.
After a number of ice-cold beverages my mind is calm again. Looming ominous feelings have worn off. Hours or days later I walk out to my bike and find the vagrant passed out next to it, bottle in hand. Sober again, I head out, this time not alone. Maybe not time to go home yet I think. Maybe an adventure is in store. I point the wheel south on the interstate. She wraps her arms around me and we head south, where it’s still warm, where winter doesn’t come. I know this guy down in Tuscon, got a little operation in Mexico…
By C.W.
I asked if the owner wanted to be mentioned. “He's not a bike builder…,” said Curt, the photog. “But his name is Sean ‘aka the Tramp.’” We’re still confused, but it’s a classic scoot.–Bandit
