Editor’s note: The following story was reprinted from the book, “Borderland Biker, In Memory of Indian Larry and Doo Wop Music,” by Derrel Whitemyer.
Revised version August 6, 2013.
“Hold on to yourself Bartlett, you’re twenty feet short.” —Steve McQueen
…from the movie THE GREAT ESCAPE
“This is as far as I came. Ahead the foothills lead on to the first bridge;” Larry said, after squatting down to touch the road, “and you don’t even want to know the temperatures required to fuse all of this rock together. And while you’re at it take a look at the tire tracks; from the entrance to here they’ve not changed from the Road Warrior we saw him riding on the elevated highway and the tire tracks we saw coming up the beach to where we camped.”
Bending down beside Larry, I added, “Let’s hope, if it comes to a fight, he can conjure up more than a motorcycle.”
Larry nodded his head in agreement, “Let’s also hope we’ll be a help not a hindrance to him; moreover, I’ll be interested to see if the bridges are fused together like the road.”
Riding into the foothills left abandoned farms in our wake. With the exception of broken power poles and lines, signs of past habitation were disappearing. Without warning the first of the four bridges came into view behind the next curve.
No sooner had we stopped than Charon rode out of an isolated patch of thick river fog on the other side of the bridge. He was riding towards us with a small passenger sitting in front of him straddling the gas tank of his Hayabusa. The passenger was an imp. Webster defines imp as a small demon or a mischievous child; this one wasn’t a child. On the contrary, Charon’s passenger was staring at me with very old eyes that seemed to be telling me the Borderlands were a mistake made long ago and they’d soon be gone, and…
“Don’t look into the imp’s eyes! I should’ve warned you he’ll get you to believe most anything if he can hold your gaze,” Charon shouted at the same time he jumped from his bike holding the imp. “And we’ve a problem; it seems he’s decided to back out of our deal. He’s changed his mind about being your guide; he says he was told he doesn’t have to honor the promise he made to me.”
At the same time Charon was explaining the problem he ripped the imp’s head off, threw the body over the bridge and then stuck the head onto my bike’s headlight.
“Don’t worry, he’s alive, leastways enough to make good on our deal but he still won’t tell me who told him he could break his promise.” Charon then bent down to look directly into the imp’s eyes, “You’ll get your body at the last bridge, any tricks and our deal’s void.”
WIZARD OF OZ author Frank Baum created characters in his books that could live just as heads so why couldn’t the Borderlands? I mean, I was pretty sure I’d already ridden on a yellow brick road.
Charon stood back up and faced us, “Ma asked that I help you; she even told me what was at stake. She asked that I get you a guide and to get Hilts to wait. Well guys, you’ve a guide, at least part of one, but I’m sorry to say Hilts got past me.”
Larry walked over to stand beside Charon, “Many, myself included, thought you were a myth, something out of Borderland folklore. Sorry to hear about Hilts, Ma wanted us to ride with him. How’d he get past you?”
Charon for the first time seemed confused, “It was like he was a lamination, two people, like one over the other. One second I was talking to him on this side of the bridge; the next second part of him had projected itself and his bike to the other side and was riding away. He left this part behind. I didn’t touch it; I was waiting for you two to show up.”
Larry stooped down to look at what Charon was pointing at, “It’s a life size photo negative of Hilts. Talk about your celluloid hero, Ma said he was created from combining two movie characters. The question is will the other half of him be enough to do what has to be done at the Styx Diner?”
“I can’t really say for sure;” Charon answered, “I can say your friend looked different when he rode away, fainter, thinner, like a part of him had been drained away. He’ll need all his strength for what’s ahead.”
Larry rolled the life size negative of Hilts into a tube then tied it across his handlebars, “We’ll get this back to him. He’s tough, don’t count him out; speaking of counting, can we count on this guide to help us?”
Before Charon could reply the imp spoke, “I want my body back, so I’ll help you.” The imp then rolled one of his eyes so he could see me, “Your friend Hilts may be clever but he can’t cross the second bridge unless he knows where to look for traps. As far as the third bridge, well, let’s just say, I know of no one that’s ever crossed it.”
“Let’s get this over,” I said, starting my engine which turned on my headlight, which shown through the imp’s eyes.
“I’d go with you fellas,” Charon said apologetically, “if I could, but I gotta stay within sight of the river Styx. Ma’s probably already told you why. I’ll see you at the last bridge; oh, and if the imp gives you trouble feel free to toss him.”
Dawn was upon us, stars were winking out and the moon had given up trying to outshine the morning sun.
Charon moved to the side, letting Larry and I pass; as we rode by he gave us a small salute, “Remember, no side road adventures, no shortcuts, no matter how attractive. Ma reminded me twice that I remind you.”
Beyond the first bridge the Ridge Route quickly steepened, valley farmland was left behind. Tall oaks joined together with rundown wooden fences became the road’s only borders. Barns and houses, evidence the area had once been inhabited, became fewer and farther between each other. All were deserted. It was if the people, like pieces in some giant chess game, had been removed leaving only the board. You can’t lose if you don’t play.
We’d ridden for an hour when Larry stopped on a turnoff overlooking the foothills. Taking a small screwdriver from his bag he proceeded to adjust his bike’s carburetors.
“This V-twin,” said Larry as he reached into the engine, “I cut out of a radial engine has a rubber diaphragm that expands and contracts to atmospheric pressure. It’ll lean or richen the mixture the higher or lower we ride like it did when it was part of an airplane. I’m checking it. Speaking of which, you might want to check your bike; and while you’re at it ask the imp how far it is to the second bridge.”
[page break]
Walking around to the front of my Wide Glide I made a point of not looking directly into the imp’s eyes, “How much farther to the second bridge?”
“About four maybe five more miles,” said the imp as he tried to roll his left eye around to see me. “It’s getting colder the higher we go; you better hurry before the sun sets.”
“Rumor is an imp’s head is made of grease; it should burn long enough,” said Larry who’d walked up behind me, “for us to start a fire. A fire would feel good about now.”
Twisting his head around to look at Larry, an act I would have thought impossible, the imp responded, “I’m just stating the obvious; you should cross the second bridge as quickly as possible. The third bridge is impassable; I know of no one that’s crossed it. Luckily I know of another way.”
I had to ask even though Ma and Charon had warned us not to get off the Old Ridge Route, “Do you know of another way to get to the Styx Diner?”
For the first time the imp smiled and I wished he hadn’t. Rows of sharp teeth filled in a grin that told me he’d up until now not known where we were going.
“Styx Diner is it?” said the imp. “You didn’t tell me you were heading to the Styx Diner; Charon never told me that was part of the deal. Hell, if you’d told me that I wouldn’t have put up such a ruckus. You’re in luck, there’s a shortcut, an alternative to crossing the third bridge; I’ll show you.”
“We’ll stick to this road,” interrupted Larry, “and besides, if you haven’t noticed, we don’t trust you.”
“Just trying to be of help,” grumbled the imp.
Larry was right; neither of us trusted the imp. Ma n’ Pa had been firm about following the Ridge Route, catching up with Hilts and meeting Charon at both the first and last bridges. Our guide’s motives were, I’ve no doubt, to either escape or lead us into a trap.
“Let’s chuck the imp, catch up to Hilts; we can take our chances without him.”
“Not yet, he may still be of use,” replied Larry.
The imp was right about one thing; as cold as it was at our present elevation, riding higher made it more so. Parts of the road, many sheltered by overhangs, didn’t make it warmer. Larry and I would speed through those shadowy sections where temperatures dropped as much as ten degrees then slow down for the sunlit ones.
On sunlit stretches we’d take our time savoring the heat from above and what radiated up from the road below. This little dance of riding between shadows, between being cold or colder came to an end just beyond the last turn. Fifty yards ahead was the second bridge.
[page break]
What Tangled Webs We Weave
Larger than any we’d seen, the bridge reached across a dark canyon. Tall columns rose up from below holding arches that in turn supported a series of smaller columns that in turn supported the road above.
Relieved to see no obstacles, I turned towards Larry, “Maybe Ma was mistaken; it looks clear to the other side? Maybe Hilts already crossed?”
“Look closer, across the bridge. Strung from guardrail to guardrail, beginning near the middle, there are three gigantic webs; you can see the strands.”
“Can’t see anything, I can’t compete with your eyes…I say we just…my God!
“See them now?” said Larry.
What he was pointing at and what I’d nearly missed seeing were three huge irregular looking webs with strands so close to being invisible most people wouldn’t have seen them.
“Black Widows weave unsymmetrical webs like these;” continued Larry, “they’re woven to catch things and we came close to being caught.”
“At the far end of the bridge,” I added, “on the other side, near the guardrail, there looks to be a sleeping bag hanging about five feet from the ground?”
“It’s a cocoon and it’s gotta have Hilts inside,” replied Larry. “He must’ve been captured, cocooned and then left to ripen like a sack of fruit. His nearness to the end of the bridge says he almost made it across.”
“Our sleeping bag just moved.”
“He’s alive,” replied Larry.
“If that’s your friend,” interrupted the imp, “you’ll need to save him before whatever cocooned him returns.
“You’d better hurry; he’s about to become lunch if you two don’t cut him free. Go now or you’ll be too late. There’s a chance you can still rescue him but you’ll have to hurry. If the web weavers come back before you two are able to free him, well then, all bets are off. I can show you where the webs are the weakest.”
Still talking, the imp’s head had twisted completely around my headlight allowing me to see for the first time the base of its neck had grown long fingers that looked more like spider legs. In seconds it would have the strength to free itself. Had the Raggedy Man parasite which infected Andy and then hid in the wrecked cars looked like this?
Before I could think of an answer Larry grabbed the imp’s head, ripped it free from the front of my bike and stuffed it into a burlap bag.
“This isn’t,” shouted the imp, “part of the deal. Charon’s going to hear about it!”
“Not from you,” said Larry as he lit the bag on fire.
“I’ve an agreement!” screamed the imp.
“That you broke by not telling us about the webs,” Larry yelled back at the burlap bag while starting his bike, spinning his rear tire and looking over at me.
Picture a chopper built around a V-twin cut from a radial aircraft motor, revved to its max, its rear tire sending clouds of smoke into the air and held in place by an Old School chopper builder holding a burning burlap bag with an imp’s shrieking head inside. Picture my Wide Glide joining in, spinning its rear tire. Our rebel yells along with the imp’s screams were being drowned out by the roar of our revving engines.
Had my ancestors felt the same before they’d charged down a hill in Scotland at an English army, probably, and did they likely have an English tax collector’s head in a bag and did they know they’d lose the battle, probably, and did we know when we released our front brakes and roared out over the bridge into the awaiting webs we’d most likely never rescue Hilts let alone make it to the other side, probably.
Larry hit the first web, wobbled, and then broke free, the flaming bag having burnt a path. I followed, feeling the strands grab at my bike’s wheels. What momentum Larry had brought with him wasn’t enough to break through the second web; he’d been stopped, his chopper held upright, stuck in a standing position. I skidded up beside him.
Something black and the diameter of a basketball hoop and with lots of hairy legs moved from the left part of the bridge towards Larry. Larry waited until it was next to him before he swung the bag around setting it on fire. The imp’s screams had finally stopped; replacing their sound was the crackle of burning burlap.
Handing me the bag, Larry shouted, “Burn the rest of the web off; hurry. These little critters,” pointing at the scorched spider, “you can bet have friends.”
Before I could move I felt a tap on my neck followed by a more determined tap. It was as if someone rude was trying to cut in on a dance; but it wasn’t the prom and so I swung the bag over my shoulder hoping I wouldn’t catch my hair on fire.
Spinning around found me looking down at a spider twice the size of the first writhing in flames on the ground.
“Two down one to go,” said Larry as I burnt the rest of the web free of him, “and you can bet it’ll be even bigger.”
Big didn’t do the third spider justice; as large as a coffee table, it scuttled over the side of the bridge and headed straight for us. At the same time the spider came over the side of the bridge the burlap bag burnt through and dropped the imp’s medium rare head at our feet; our fire was out.
Now free, Larry started his bike, “Keep it away with your guitar; try working it around behind me. It’s trailing web; see if you can get the strands to cross over my back wheel.”
With my guitar in front of me pointed at multiple eyes that never stopped staring, I kept the monster at bay. More of a bluff than a threat, the guitar must’ve appeared to the spider as a weapon. Back to back with Larry I made three circles before the web dragged across the chopper’s rear tire.
Yelling, “Get clear,” Larry released the clutch catching and winding the web around his rear wheel.
Seconds later Larry’s engine began to slow down. Was it the accumulation of wound up web around the rear wheel or the spider’s determination not to be pulled? Larry’s engine was slowing, soon it would stall.
But it didn’t stall because Larry pulled in the clutch, revved his engine to near redline and I jumped in front of the spider. At the same time the spider reared on its hind legs to strike Larry popped the clutch pulling it backwards into his chopper’s spinning rear wheel. Like a gopher rising up out of its hole to get a better look at the bottom of a rotary lawn mower, the results of what happened next were the same.
[page break]
“Get Hilts,” said Larry looking back at what was left of the spider. “Take one of these rags, soak it in your gas tank then burn his cocoon free from where it’s hanging. Drag it into those trees away from the bridge; there’s an open space off to the side. I’m going to clear the rest of the webs off the bridge.”
“What if there are more spiders?”
“I’m pretty sure this was the last of them; three webs equal three spiders. If there are others then setting fire to the webs should discourage them.”
Burning the cocoon free was easy; dragging it into what was the beginning of a bamboo forest was harder. Behind me the bridge glowed in crisscrossed lines of orange. Larry must have set every strand ablaze making me think I’d be wise to start a fire in case there were spiders in the forest.
“Good idea,” said Larry, coming up a few minutes later to look at my newly started fire. “That cocoon’s tough; I’ve an idea how to get it off without cooking Hilts?”
Larry held his knife over the fire until it glowed; he then began to carefully touch it to the cocoon, melting through each strand…except it wasn’t Hilts we freed.
“My name’s Aaron;” said the tall hairless man with skin the color and texture of tarpaper and that had just crawled out of the cocoon; “and I can’t tell you how grateful I am to be out of there. I don’t think I could’ve lasted much longer.”
“We were expecting to see our friend when we opened the cocoon, but we’re glad we could help,” said Larry. “You didn’t see a guy ride through here on a motorcycle?”
“Yes; I found him in the webs. The spiders would’ve eaten him or worse had I not freed him before they returned.
“Spiders bite you and cocoon you. When you’re tired of struggling they’ll come back. If you’re lucky they’ll eat you; if you’re unlucky they’ll lay their eggs in you.
“Your friend, once I’d freed him and with not so much as a thank you, jumped on his bike then rode away. I got bit from behind; I’d turned my back on the bridge.”
“So you were coming down the Ridge Route?” I asked.
“I couldn’t stop what was happening at the Styx Diner, so I came to warn others, maybe get some help,” Aaron answered, already starting to walk across the bridge.
“We are the help,” said Larry looking at me awkwardly, “or at least we’re here to help the help. The fellow you set free is heading to the Styx diner to deal with whatever has happened there; we’ve been trying to catch up with him ever since we left Ma n’ Pa’s.”
Aaron stopped abruptly, “Ma n’ Pa, they’re the folks I’m going down the mountain to warn.”
“Then we won’t detain you, oh, and when you get to the next bridge you’ll meet someone called Charon. Tell him for us,” continued Larry, after kicking what could’ve passed for a cooked coconut over the side of the bridge, “the guide he gave us won’t need his security deposit back.”
Aaron watched the coconut Larry and I knew really wasn’t a coconut disappear into the canyon below, “Was that what I think it was?”
“It was our guide, or what’s left of him;” answered Larry, “he was supposed to lead us across. He instead led us into a trap. We’ll now have to make it on our own.”
Aaron pointed into the bamboo forest, “Just so you’ll know, you don’t have to cross the third bridge to get to the Styx Diner; there’s another way, an alternate road and it begins just inside this grove of bamboo.”
Looking closely at Aaron for the first time I could not help but notice his opaque eyes were nothing more than huge pupils and that they never blinked; and but for what best could be described as fangs the rest of his teeth were missing.
“Have you,” I asked, “ever taken this alternate road to the Ridge Route?”
“I travel it only during daylight hours,” replied Aaron as if recalling a bad memory. “It’s been my experience the forest does not take kindly to travelers at night. However the two of you on your motorcycles shouldn’t have any trouble; you’ll be through it before dark. The bamboo grows right to the edge hanging over it most of the way. The road’s surface is perfect, no potholes; nothing grows on it.
“Oh, and one more thing, there’s a fork when you get to where the bamboo forest ends; be sure to go right, it leads to an old house. Knock at the gate; the owner’s a friend of mine and will let you cross his land. From there you’ll be able to catch a road that bypasses the third bridge.”
Larry had quietly taken out his knife and was hiding it behind his back when he walked over to where Aaron was standing, “We’re in a bind; we’ve no other choice if we’re going to catch our friend before dark, so we’re going to take your shortcut. Is there anything you haven’t told us; are there any other dangers we may encounter?”
Aaron looked over the edge of the bridge where the cooked coconut he now knew was the imp’s burnt head had fallen, “Everything I’ve told you is the truth, especially the part about taking the right fork to my friend’s house and avoiding the forest at night. If you want I’ll ride,” pointing at my bike, “on the back with you. I’d be able to point out where the fork to my friend’s house comes out of the forest. There are lots of crossroads; you could get lost.”
“No need,” Larry said with a smile that said he wasn’t completely satisfied with Aaron’s answer. “You better get going; neither of us wants to be caught on the road at night. Oh, and be sure to stop at the first bridge; our friend Charon will heal any injuries you might have in the river Styx.”
Larry waited until Aaron was out of sight before turning to me, “He’s lying. Hilts wasn’t caught; he avoided the webs by riding his motorcycle across the top of the bridge’s guardrail.
“I should’ve seen the tire tracks on the guardrail. It’s my fault I was too focused on the webs and not looking in the right places. This whole rescue was a charade with our imp guide and Aaron having the starring roles. Aaron’s role was to wait inside the cocoon masquerading as Hilts; he’d act as the bait to lure us into attempting a rescue. Our guide’s role was to get us to blindly ride into the webs”
“That’s why,” I interjected, “the imp insisted we go to Hilts’, I mean Aaron’s rescue.”
“It’s late and we’ve no other choice,” Larry continued. “If we’re to catch up with Hilts before nightfall we’ve got to take Aaron’s shortcut.”
Larry’s acute senses came in use again by finding a path wide enough for us to ride down to the alternate road. Ten minutes later we were both parked on its shoulder.
Aaron had been telling the truth about one thing. Giant stalks of bamboo arched over us providing a cathedral of interlacing limbs. Ground level shadows silhouetted those arches showcasing what we suspected; nothing was able to grow on this surface either. Neither this road or the first two bridges or the Ridge Route starting from the Crossroads had the slightest blemish. It was if they’d been poured into a gigantic mold and then placed upon the land.
“This road’s fused like the Ridge Route; and why’d you let Aaron go if you knew he was lying to us?” I said reaching down and running my hand across seamless pavement.
“This only would’ve been a shortcut if we didn’t waste time and we would’ve had we stopped to fight Aaron. He would’ve been a match for the both of us together,” Larry answered, riding his chopper onto the road. “Charon will get the truth from him.”
Flickering sunlight shining through the upper branches quilted our way with black outlines of what was above by giving us off and on glimpses of what was below. Trusting there were no surprises we were soon riding beyond what would’ve been a safe speed for these conditions.
Blind leading the blind might have best characterized our ride except for the fact that Larry’s acute senses, which thankfully must’ve included intuition, seemed to know what was behind each turn.
Built to be ridden, his chopper set a fast pace. Fall too far behind and you’d lose sight of it. Lose sight of the chrome question mark on the back of his sissy bar and you’d lose the confidence to go fast enough to catch up. And so I’d hang my Wide Glide’s front tire thirty feet from Larry’s back tire knowing if I fell behind I’d be left behind.
Stalk to stalk and growing to the edge of the road, the bamboo always surrounded us. At times I would glance to the side and see roads leading to small towns and villages; all seemed abandoned and in a state of ruin. On more than one occasion I thought them to be replicas or mock-ups of towns and villages I’d seen in paintings and pictures. We continued to ride that way for nearly an hour until we came to the fork in the road. Where Aaron’s friend lived a row of tall sunflowers took over where the bamboo forest ended.
“Life is like a precious short gift…not that I didn’t enjoy it and everything, but I’ve got things to do and places to go.” —-Indian Larry
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