Pit Stop

Subscribe to the Motorcycle Misadventures newsletter:

© 1995-2007 Carla King | All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

Kneeling down beside the engine, I tapped on the left-side fuel filter. There was liquid in there. I opened the trunk to get the toolbox. The trunk seemed especially heavy. My backpack was lashed on top of it, and my full face helmet stuffed with the rain suit I'd had only one occasion to use. Between these things and the spare tire were folded a large sheet of plastic, a Mexican rug, and my tent. It had required an extra length of sash-chain to prevent the trunk cover from pulling itself off its welded metal hinges. It was never meant to be loaded with so much weight.

With the heaviness of a task performed too many times, I took out the plug puller, pulled the plugs, reattached the wires, set them next to the heads, and pushed over the kick start with my hand.

In the bright sunlight it was difficult to see if the little flame that normally jumped between the end of the plug to the metal of the cylinder head had done so. Maybe it had no spark. I checked it again, shading the area with an oil rag while I pushed the kick-start over again. There was spark on the left cylinder but not on the right. I checked it again. There was spark on the right but not on the left. I checked it again. There was no spark. I checked it again. There was spark on both sides. I kicked it over. It didn't start.

It was evil and malicious.

I was on a long, hot road 60 miles between towns, and 100 miles from a town of any consequence.

I had a feeling that this was going to be one of those impossible electrical problems -- a short somewhere that never happens when you're looking for it. It's almost as if the bike consciously cuts out at the worst possible moment. I mean, why not at the last gas station? In the town with a motel and a Yamaha shop? In front of a farmhouse, or a telephone, or on a road that has a few cars on it? Or even during working hours?

But it is worth the risk to travel along the lonely little country roads between little nowhere towns. The scenery is farmland at harvest time, wheat and sunflowers, the rise of grain elevators, and it satisfies the traveler's soul -- as long as the traveler continues to proceed with the traveling process, hurtling through this lovely scenery, remarking on that farmer in an air-conditioned combine, noting the great rolls of straw spaced evenly in a razed field, enjoying the sight of sunflower faces lifted to the sky.

I LEARNED LONG AGO that it was the unscheduled stops that could be most interesting -- and it is exactly when I have needed their help the most that people have been the most giving of their time and their concern. I had expected that this would not be true in America. But I was underestimating the people of my country, who have so little opportunity to help one another. I thought of Susan and of all the farmers who had helped me get to Portal.

I wished I'd been nearer to that farmer I'd passed. He'd been, amazingly, watching a portable television and speaking to someone on a cellular phone. I hadn't realized that these were options that came with farm machinery. But then, I've been a city girl too long.

In the distance I heard a car. It was a white car. Highway patrol. I stood facing it, gratefully, the plug puller in one hand, an oil rag in the other. Thank goodness, I thought. At least I wouldn't have to hitchhike.

But the car didn't slow. The man driving didn't even look at me. After he passed, I took two steps to the middle of the road and halfheartedly lifted the hand that held the dirty oil rag. It was a futile little effort, and in the middle of the empty road I felt the ridiculousness of it all -- of needing to be saved, standing in the posture of a dime-novel heroine waving a delicate monogrammed handkerchief to her departing lover.

I don't think he even looked in his rearview mirror.

Evil.

And then I remembered that I had a cellular phone. It was Michael who had fought the hardest for it. I didn't want one. "It can't hurt," he said. "Isn't it silly?" I told one friend after another. "No," they said, agreeing with him, betraying me, betraying my trust in humankind. "If you're not going to take a gun, or mace, or pepper spray, or anything, please, at least take the phone."

It was so clean in my grease-streaked hand. So smooth, so sleek. A wonderful piece of modern technology, so completely unlike this stupid temperamental beast that had failed on me once again.

I pulled up the antennae and pushed the ON button. A light lit up. I dialed the emergency tow number and put it to my ear. Nothing. I looked at the light again, trying to figure it out.

It was the "out of range" light.

I was almost glad. I knew the phone would be useless.

Another car passed without stopping. There was no wind without the motion of the motorcycle cutting through warm air. My jeans stuck to my skin.

This was supposed to be the friendly zone. The previous day I'd met a couple on a Harley who invited me to their cabin near Bottineau. There had been a party and a bonfire -- bikers and farmers, a history teacher, a lawyer, a bartender, and a trust fund baby who liked hunting in North Dakota and hanging out in Baja California. I felt it was a proper cross-section of society. That I was really seeing North Dakota, seeing America, all at once around that fire.

We sat in front of a bonfire and talked about "the friendly zone." It starts in Montana and ends in Michigan, we decided. It cuts off each end of the United States. "The coasts are mean," it was said. "They're too crowded, and people are scared, and there are too many of them," it was said.

But not there. Shooting stars swept through the sky, unadulterated by the lights of any city. In the complete darkness there was no one but us around this fire, a startled deer in the woods, a cooler of beer and a spray can of mosquito repellent.

Here, in the daytime on this road surrounded by wheat fields, there wasn't anyone in sight who could potentially be friendly.

HALF AN HOUR LATER I must have looked really desperate. A woman picked me up in her air-conditioned minivan and took me to Langdon. "You just looked so upset," she said.

I told her about the highway patrol.

"I can't believe he didn't pick you up," she said. "And I know who it is. There's only one. And believe me, I'm going to say something about it."

The guy at the local body shop didn't even charge me for trailering the bike to the motel. "I can't believe he didn't pick you up," he told me. "I'm going to say something about it, next time I see him."

The guys at the gas station couldn't believe it either. "He passed you up? A girl? Alone? With mechanical troubles? All by herself? On the side of the road?" they asked in disbelief. "We'll give him hell for it, next time he comes by," they promised.

KEN, THE MECHANIC at the Amoco station, stopped by after work to look at the problem. For the moment, the plugs were sparking.

The desk clerk and another woman at the Main Street Motel stared out at me from within the glass-enclosed reception room across the parking lot. They were a bitter, slovenly pair, with frizzled gray permanent waves and brown tent dresses. A faded gray poodle yapped. I looked up. One of them fed it a barbecued potato chip. They went back to staring. I waved. They quickly turned away.

Ken looked up. His eyes were the same navy blue as his Amoco uniform. "Real friendly, aren't they?"

I was beginning to wonder about that "friendly zone" theory.

"Well, I'll be out of here tomorrow. I guess I'll just continue with my trip, and hope it doesn't happen again."

"I wouldn't," he said, shaking his head. "I wouldn't go anywhere until I figured it out."

I could stay at his place, he said. His wife had taken the kids and gone home to mother, months ago. "I'm doing nothing these days," he said. I could stay in his daughters' room.

I tried to start the Ural. Sure enough, it had once again decided not to spark. Ken towed me through town to his trailer.

The yard was littered with cars in various states of repair, plus the race car he'd built. In another garage were his dirt bikes, four-wheelers, and snowmobiles.

"I guess I spent too much time in the garage," he said.

We put the Ural in the garage by the house and called Randy.

"I want you to replace every part of that electrical system," he said. "But in the meantime, when it's running, try to figure out what's making this happen."

I handed the phone over to Ken and let them talk about it. Then we went to work, testing everything we could. It was 10 p.m. when we gave it up, and I fell exhausted into the top bunk of his girls' room.

NOW IT'S NOT OFTEN that it's so easy to plug into someone else's life. With Ken, it happened easily -- much too easily. I didn't realize until the third day how malleable I could be, how simple it was to just step in and live it, as if I'd been living it all along.

It was Saturday night, and we went to the steak place by the border. We drove into a dirt parking lot full of trucks like his, big American trucks, and walked into the restaurant, a large room with a cement floor scattered with metal tables and fold-out chairs. People lined up at the grill in the corner to order their steaks. I ordered mine rare, and when we sat down a waitress with a beehive hairdo got us drinks.

When I popped my beer open I couldn't help feeling that this was a routine, as if I'd done it every Saturday night for the past ten years, and more than that, that I was happy doing it. I looked at Ken. He was nice. And handsome, too, with his brown hair curling around his ears and his deep blue eyes. We talked as if we'd known each other forever, as if we knew what came next every day. There was a routine, and I just plugged into it.

The next part of the routine was going to Hamilton Speedway. We rode for half an hour on a smooth black road to Cavalier. The ram emblem on the hood of his truck led the way, the shotgun was in the rack behind our heads, and the sun glared on a field of wheat past the window on my side.

I followed him to the top of the bleachers and he told me about the race on the dirt track below. The categories were Stock, Modified Stock, Wissota, Super Stock, and Pure Stock. Each race had its heroes. They came from Langdon and Hamilton and the surrounding towns, including towns in Canada, only a few miles away. They went round and round in circles to see who would be the fastest at the end, and who wouldn't break down. The audience watched them intently, or went to get beers, or stood in the area beneath the bleachers and smoked, letting their kids run along the fence or sit on the go-cart that would be given away in a drawing at intermission.

As we sat in the fading sunshine, Ken smoked and drank Dr. Peppers and told me about each race, each mechanic, and each driver. I only half-listened, enjoying the sound of his voice and the cars and the kids stomping up the aluminum bleacher steps and the announcer in his deep voice keeping close track of who was in what place with what car worked on by what mechanic.

When we were kids, my dad used to take me and my sister to the races. I liked the noise and the cars and the excitement of the not-so-serious accidents, and the sound of dad's voice going on and on about the cars as if we understood what he was talking about. In time I grew to recognize the words, and understood many of them.

A lot of time had passed since I'd gone to the races with dad, and now Ken was going on about the same sort of things, and the noise, and a little accident during the warm-up that caused some laughs. And then it was over and there was the drive back in the dark, a stop at the Dairy Queen, and then home, which strangely felt like home.

It had been a full day. I climbed into my bunk in the girl's room and slept soundly.

THE NEXT DAY we loaded up trail bikes and rode to the hills. Trails wind from the Pembina River to the border, where a wide ditch prevents vehicles from getting over.

"There is also air surveillance," Ken told me.

I didn't see any air surveillance. I was enjoying the sun and the clean air and the wide-open spaces. I realized that I had been grinning from ear to ear for half an hour. My smile hurt, but I couldn't stop because it felt so good to be doing donuts on a four-wheeler, jumping ditches, bouncing over logs and skidding along the sides of wheat fields. Ken led on the trail bike, zipping up and down hills and around trees where sometimes I couldn't follow.

Ken told me hunters hide out there early in the mornings, spotting deer and elk. When we got there I realized I was gasping for breath and wet with sweat. But I was still grinning.

We took off our helmets and walked to a deck by the school bus. Ken's eyes sparkled.

"I haven't had this much fun in months," he said happily, and then he darkened. He started to say something and changed his mind. He lit a cigarette and looked across the hills. It was beautiful there. It was a North Dakota I hadn't known existed. There was a little ski resort, and some scattered houses, and patches of fields flowing along the hills and valleys. It was a hidden idyll. When we drove home the sun was setting orange over the fields of wheat.

THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS he worked. I stayed at the trailer, did some writing, exchanged email, and caught up on what was going on at home. Then I did laundry and made dinner. I drove his truck into town for groceries.

It was a big truck. I wasn't used to driving such a vehicle, and even in the tiny town I got a little lost on the way to the store. Especially when I realized that people were waving at me, and then staring, realizing that it wasn't Ken in the truck, but some strange blond woman. They stood on the sidewalk gawking, or drove by, swerving, almost wrecking. At the grocery store I imagined everyone was looking at me.

"Al's wife saw you at the grocery store today," Ken said when he got home. He was picking the zucchini out of the lasagna I'd made.

"I was meaning to ask you about that," I said. "People seem to be shocked when they see me in your truck."

Ken just laughed. "Yeah, well, you know -- it'll give them something to talk about."

I was worried. I didn't want to get him in trouble.

"There's no trouble you can get me into," he insisted. "Besides, I'm having fun, and they're bored and silly. Let them talk."

But it still nagged at me. Nobody knew what was going on, or wasn't going on. And did I believe him about his wife? I mean, what if she was just on vacation or something, and he was lying about their separation?

I looked at Ken, and decided that he just wasn't the type.

LATE THAT NIGHT I listened to the TV go on in his room and felt a curious tension. There was a certain awkwardness between us which I wanted to ignore, so I concentrated on the other thing that was bothering me. It was the ease with which I had become a part of this life. There are so many lives to choose from, I thought. How pleasant, for a while, to be a North Dakota housewife. A simpler life. A good life. But it shouldn't be so easy to adapt.

On Monday it rained, and the new electrical system came. I replaced the ignition box and the voltage regulator, took off the timing assembly cover and waited for Ken to come home.

In the garage, we worked on the coil and the timing assembly. "Wow," he said, "there's your problem."

There was a tiny oil leak behind the timing plate caused by a seal that was folded under itself.

"When oil leaks onto the rotor here," Ken pointed at the timing assembly, "the spark can't get through and the bike cuts out. When it dries up, you can run again."

He straightened out the seal and put silicon around it. "I'm amazed we found that. There's no reason you'd ever take off the timing plate."

So it was a simple problem, after all. We talked to Randy.

"Yeah, well that would do it," he said, relieved. "That's a really weird thing to happen, though."

THE NEXT DAY I went on to International Falls and crossed the border into Canada. The road conditions worsened. Signs were in French and English, and kilometers and miles. There were lakes and cattails, and Canadian geese stretched out in the sky for miles and miles as I headed east among small navy blue lakes the color of Ken's eyes.

Why was I thinking about Ken's eyes? I scolded myself as I compared them in my mind to the lakes, to his navy blue work shirts. I daydreamed, thinking of him as I last saw him at the garage, listening carefully to a customer who was attempting to relate symptoms of an ailing engine. Ken listened quietly, interrupting only to ask a pointed question.

He hadn't shaved, and there was a sparse light stubble along the edges of his square jaw. His dark hair curled around his ears, and his elbow, propped on the glass counter by the cash register, bumped up against a box of silver-wrapped peppermints. The cashier watched him too, uncomprehendingly and a little bored on his stool in front of the shelves of cigarettes, lighters, pine tree car fresheners, and AA batteries. Ken said to the customer that he would look at the problem. He took the keys in his hand and went outside.

He fixed the problem easily, and we went to lunch. Then he took me to his house so I could pack up to go.

"Well," I said, "we'd better say goodbye now, because after this last gasket goes on, I'm on my way."

He got up to hug me, and there was a short formal kiss that became a series of longer, softer kisses that made me go weak in the knees. My hands, which I had carefully placed on his shoulders with the full intention of only the briefest of contact, slid down to grasp his arms where they bent to hold me by the waist.

APPARENTLY WE HAD BEEN saving this for this last moment -- the moment when it was too late. He looked at me with his wide navy blue eyes, and then he went back to work.

After he left I sat down for a moment to replenish the strength I had given up during those 30 seconds. Was it even 30 seconds? I wondered why I wanted him to fix everything -- my motorcycle, my longing, my loneliness, my restlessness.

In Cavalier I passed the Hamilton Speedway, and then I was in Minnesota. I called Ken, as I promised I would, from a Motel 8 in a place called Rosea.

"I heard an engine outside," he told me. "I thought it was you, but it wasn't." There was a silence. "I would have been really happy to see you."

I am riding on now, through Canada, past the little lakes, headed to the north bank of Lake Superior. The lakes are navy blue, like Ken's eyes. I race by them and feel sorry that I can't stop and jump in. Actually, I could, but I don't. I don't even put in my toe.

Index | Dispatch 14-