After reading countless eulogies from those in his
inner circle, as well as the colleagues that personally knew him, there’s not
much I can add. His contributions to the art and influence will echo for
eternity.
On the surface, I drum, I write, and I now ride motorcycles. None of
this is attributable to Mr. Peart (more on the BIO) and many would find
difficulty believing that, but I do feel that there was a kindred connection
because of it. Rush was indeed a huge influence on my music career, always in
background, always accessible. As well, Neil Peart’s work was and remains available
for reference and entertainment — the benchmark for what’s possible if you put your head down and properly toil.
Tuesday, August 13th began before daybreak. Having learnt my lesson
from last year, the RT rode task-specific trailer up from Florida the day
before — although I’m not sure if its ride was a pleasant one. (Hey #Uhaul,
bounce much?)
I grabbed a quick shower and light breakfast as Mr. Copperface crested Big Oak’s eastern tree
line. Time! Prep for the shaken-n-stirred motor (that’s what my retired policeman
father calls it) would soon follow. Fueled and preflighted—tires, brakes,
clutch and lighting checks, plus setting my phones mapping for the
pre-programmed “DRAGON RUN” route — meant she was ready to roll. I climbed on,
bid my farewells to the folks, and quietly chicaned my way out of their
subdivision. The air was damp but cool, even for August. In any case, at least for me, it was electrified.
Bifurcating Murrayville from Bark
Camp to Old Dahlonega at that time of the morning is always a treat. People are
barely awake, allowing their automatic headlights (and consciousness!) to remain off in the morning
mist. School buses and chicken trucks aplenty. Good Morning and Good Riddance.
Within moments my route jumped onto a sleepy Claude Parks Road, which, after a
nice, curvy/hilly warmup would take me to GA52 and an area known as Garland.
No highways for me just yet. Within a mile, I
crossed a newly-minted roundabout—which reportedly confounds commuters for
several months in these parts — and dashed northward via Copper Mines Road. I’ve taken this route through Georgia’s relatively new wine country several
times over the past couple years and innumerable times in my youth. It’s rapidly becoming a favorite. Love
the vineyard vibe, and even though I don’t consider myself a wine snob, I’ve quaffed multiple tomes
on the subject. Fiddled with some home-fermentation many moons ago, too. Chateauneuf
de pape, anyone? Anyway, It’s awesome to see this industry take off near my old
stomping grounds, and I’m onboard with nearly everything it represents.
Excellent use of the land, great times for visitors and tourism, joyous memories for
event goers, and spectacular venues for music and photography or other arts! Yeah, I dig it.
Copper Mines soon terminated at Cavender Creek—which Google’s voice assistant
pronounced as Kah-VAN-der for some reason. I promptly switched the American Google girl
out for a nice Aussie lass without street name pronunciations. Much better in
the helmet. KahVANder Creek brought me to Town Creek Church Road, then Frogtown
Road, and finally Damascus Church Road—all quiet and bucolic byways traversing
farmlands and wineries. The roads before THE roads are just as nice, you see. To the
folks that experience this on a daily basis? Lucky. This is pretty much the same route taken last
year towards Cherohala. I was anticipating
US129 through Neel’s Gap again, and it did not disappoint.
Photo Credit: Google (Apparently in winter. You can't see around it fully in the summer!)
Since taking this route twice to and fro
Cherohala, I came to appreciate its twisties. The three-lane width made for
greater sight-distance and speed. Best of all, one’s ability to pass slower
vehicles without much ado. The crisscrossing of undulations lane-to-lane (in
same direction) when no traffic is around can’t possibly be overrated. So much
gravity at work and play. What a bonus… and I get to do this TWICE today?
At Neel’s Gap — near Blood Mountain and intersecting
the Appalachian Trail — US129 heels to the northern shade with a cooler, crisper
feel. The bends soon settled down into dale farmland leading into
Blairsville, Georgia. Sublime highway cruising until civilization reared its
ugly head by way of road resurfacing, and this meant lane closures and waiting
in a long traffic queue until a pilot truck lead us through the work zone. The
cool and crisp suddenly gave way to helter swelter. Thank God I arrived only
a couple minutes before the flagman flipped his sign from “STOP” to “SLOW”. But
that thanks became curses (Murphy’s Law, of course!) when the pilot truck
decided something less than parade speed was appropriate. Bloody gravity… This meant
my feet dangled for constant corrections to save the clutch. I know little of
other bikes; this beemer is my first. First gear is tall — meant to rocket
take-offs from 0-40 — and it does not idle well at such a slow speed. I’d lean
into the rear brake too if it weren’t for the prehistoric ABS (anti-lock
braking system) that’s “grabby” at best to describe. These are all little
nitpicks with my beloved. I have a few. She’s not perfect, but which bike is?
North, Miss Teschmacher, NORTH!
Cruising up US19/129 several miles past Nottely Dam
and my paternal grandmother’s birthplace of Ivy Log, I unceremoniously crossed
the state line into North Carolina. Gentle highway curves and hills for a few
miles eventually brought me to the intersection with US74, several clicks
southwest of Murphy. It’s a ramshackle flea market zone, as though unconsidered additions haved been steadily amassing since the middle of the last century. Smoke lingered
from craftsmen kilns and oil fryers, and I caught glimpses of gravel alleyways dotted with cigarette butts and bits of foam cups. The market had its newer,
cleaner parts too, in fairness. Clearly the area catered to tourism. Mountain schtuff!
As enticing as it all might be, it was early and I had another mission. The first bit of it involved stopping by the Old First Baptist
Cemetery in Murphy.
Photo Credit: TNT - Old First Baptist Cemetery, Murphy, NC
I’ve been on a genealogy quest for several years now. Our particular Taylor line has a nice little mystery involving
President Zachary Taylor’s grandfather (Zachary, Sr 1707-1768) and his enigmatic second
wife, Esther Blackburn Jones, from whom our path ends without some additional proof. Rumors of
document obfuscation, or blatant destruction have circulated online — conspiracy
theories involving the cleansing of familial taint so a certain presidential
candidate possessed the preferred vetting characteristics. Appearances and heredity were just as important
then as they are now. A second wife with as many as 10 additional children, and
perhaps a couple more adopted? All claiming heritage to the country’s brand new
seat of power? Indeed, the Taylor estate in Orange, Virginia was (and still
is) vast, and ole Zach probably didn’t want a dozen kids fighting over it. His
property and other court records aren’t easy to research, either. The fine folks in Orange have
apparently circled their wagons around the county court house, too. Maybe redacted;
maybe MIA, who knows but maybe several unknown descendants who possibly barked up
the same tree as myself. Have to place a “To Be Continued…” here, but the cemetery
did reveal some bone-fruit in that I confirmed the location of a GGGG uncle who
married into the Cherokee tribe. This factoid ultimately killed the remaining rumors of native blood in our own Taylor line. Oh well. Kind wondered why I didn’t innately run out to the woods naked and
track bear sign. Now I know! (Still wonder about my father ;) Wait a minute... come to think, I do enjoy a good casino. Hmm...
The next batch of miles heading northwest up
US19/74/129 is an open four-lane highway flooding traffic its way through the Cherokee
River Valley, which is a sedate and rolling mixture of corn or tobacco fields
with light industrial warehouses, backdropped by those lovely Blue Ridge
mountains of the Nantahala National Forest.
Photo Credit: Google
Hate to insert another Google Earth shot, but I
haven’t yet graduated to a 360° helmet cam. (Keen on the Rylo...Christmas hint!)
This is pretty much what my view looked like. Maybe less road snakes, more clouds, and a tad
more greenery. Frequent rain had been reported just before my run.
It was still morning,
barely, and the breeze still fresh. Up ahead in Topton, the clouds appeared
heavy and clinging around 2,700ft elev. That’s
not in the Mostly Sunny forecast, I thought. Riding in the rain no longer bothers me, though. In fact, I would
have welcomed a brief shower. The RT handles weather with amazing
ease — something I learned after being trapped by a massive thunderhead
a month or so earlier. 18-mile solid downpour, and lightning exploding less
than a mile away just on either side other road. It was right out of Lt. Dan’s hurricane
scene. Idiot me climbed the mast and cursed God that day. Take me if it's my time, but I'm riding through here! Yet, with the road completely
flooded and winds pouring sheets of water from the side, the bike never once
quivered, not even a little. Damn, this is a FINE machine! (and kudos to
Michelin for those Pilot Road GT 4s). So, yeah, some minor droplets in the
hills would be no problem.
It never happened.
The next valley gave way to additional heat and stagnation. Robbinsville appeared
on the GPS and it was close enough to lunchtime to justify a light meal. Hmmm…
burger joints or the local question mark? Just before The Dragon? Probably shouldn't
experiment, right? Well then… Wendy’s or McCardboard’s? You can guess where I
ended up. 10:30. Perfect timing. Had the dining room to myself, save for Curious John working the front counter. My guess is he’s seen a few
motorcyclists in his town, but since I was the only person in his dining
room, he felt the need to strike up a conversation. Turns out he was central
Florida escapee as well. Found his next life in the hills and won’t be going
back, not even for the winter sun. Has it
really gotten that bad? I wonder…
The small burger was just okay (whaddaya expect?) but it was enough to negate sloshing around by what was to come. Across the street was a
preferred fuel vendor. Perfect. I topped off the tank and leaned on the
throttle northward on US129. Next stop, that piece of Tail I’ve been dreaming
about.
Now, I had to come back and add this bit at the last minute because I clean forgot about this trio of Harleys I had to follow all the way up to Deal's Gap from Robbinsville. Too many curves and traffic; no realistic passing opportunities. To make it worse, they apparently weren't accustomed to sharp switchbacks either. The group would compress around tight turns and on one sharp switchback, nearly came to a full stop right in front of me. Awkward. I finally had enough and pulled off Tapoco Road just beyond Cheoah Dam. I let the clock tick for a few minutes and resumed as a solo climber. Much better.
Photo Credit: Left Hand Productions
I made it!
Okay, decision time. Stop at the tourist meccas, or ride the beast first.
Decisions, decisions…
Since the parking lots were already burgeoning with riders — mostly Harley folk
from up north — I thought it best to peruse the souvenir shelves before I killed
myself. I hadn’t really studied the Dragon; didn’t know any of the curves,
either. I only recalled all those anxious anecdotes, the dread of psychotic,
knee-dragging wack-jobs, hawg straddlers in over their depth, cars crossing lanes,
and law law lawmen! Why would I even consider this place with oh so many
alternative routes. I was warned (Thanks John Rider, you were still right about this place!)
Let’s face it, pretty much ANY stretch of pavement in
Appalachia is going to be a fine ride. But no, we all have to do Deal’s Gap at
least once. God, WHY is this road so popular?
I found out in short order, but back to the trap.
The T-shirts, I thought, would be faded and gone within a couple years, so I
settled on a small patch for my jacket. It's the first participation trophy that
will eventually adorn a sleeve. I tucked it in a pocket and fired up the RT in
front of the babbling chromers, who were quite pleased since they didn’t have
raise their voices over my exhaust. Nothing like a Southie accent echoing
through southern slopes.
First riding impressions?
“Hey, this is narrow!”
“Wow, the asphalt is not so good. Cracks and settlement depressions.”
Indeed, several spots were marked with spray paint as
hazards. Most of those were towards the beginning — or the southern end, I should
say. I soon realized that I hit the road at the perfect moment. Zero traffic…
all clear ahead, and no rocketeers on my tail. The curves were relentless,
demanding precision throttle and braking technique. So many apexes, I started to actually visualize tangent lines for all of them. Many I made, some I missed. None were
totally blown. This was a math exam, after all.
Photo Credit: Killboy.com
Speed Limit 30
Are they kidding? I thought NOBODY was going 30mph
out here, not even the Month-2 HD newbs. It was merely a theory. The truth is
that all those twisty constrictions only felt fast; in actuality, my speedo hovered
right around the 30 mark for most of the run. Now, I won’t incriminate myself
by implying any lawlessness. Truth is, if you’re running The Dragon safely, you
aren’t ogling the dash for even a split second. You’ll know if you’re riding at
an outrageous pace by catching up to a ricer, flying off a curve, or autographing
a piece of Blount County stationary.
As the uninterrupted Archimedean Screw-ish procession begat some semblance of a
rhythm, my face shield filled with the first tent of the Grand Archivists. That
would be one of those famous (infamous?) curve-side Dragon’s Tail photography tents,
and I saw the first of several lens barrels raised in my direction. Great — I’ll have some cool pics for my blog! And
then I started becoming far too conscious of the next photogs. Suck it in. Don’t miss that apex! You weren’t
perfect, damn it! I was being distracted in vanity for those perfect shots,
all well-heeled towards the pavement and sped up for increased bokeh. After a few of those YouTube Dragon crash
videos replayed in my skull, reality provided the necessary slap to consciousness.
Forget them and ride!
As Forest Gump puts it, “And just like that…” I
had reached my targeted turnaround spot — the Deal’s Gap Overlook. Sure, I didn’t
ride every last one of the 318 curves—Klaatu, Barada, Ni…— but I rode the best ones. The overlook is the most obvious spot to
relax for a moment, take another piece of vanity, and ride the Tail back towards
whence I came. Great more photo ops!
Don’t even think about it.
Photo Credit: TNT - Deal's Gap Overlook
Some HD riders took off ahead of me, so I waited several minutes. Nobody
materialized on my side of the road… again. This must be rare. Yet another
shot at this place, uninterrupted. No LEOs, no cars, no fluggety full-dressers,
just me, the road and the pho… no, not them either. Just me and the road.
Now, I get it.
Some say it's not really a workout if you enjoy it. Gain, no pain. I never felt the bike’s 650 pounds; not
even later. Two sets of 300 reps, plus all the reps to and fro. Nothing. It’s a
test. It’s a supreme workout. It’s all it’s supposed to be under those
circumstances: One hell of a curvy-ass mofo. I carved in my sleep for several
days before writing this. I guess it has fully infected me now. I wasn’t in the
slightest bit sure how this mid-life pursuit would go; thought it might fizzle
after a couple good rides in the hills. Not even close.
Photo Credit: Killboy.com
It was time to head home. My tank had enough to
make the beeline so I wasn’t worried about stopping again. 140 miles of
southern Blue Ridge riding as the icing. I’d get to pound Neel’s Gap and enjoy
yet more cool crisp mountain air. A serene vision.
Umm… no.
What I experienced instead was some sort of dog days convection effect.
The valleys were absolutely scorching and stagnant. No amount of airflow into
my modular Shoei Neotec could overcome the heat, and I found myself cracking it open
with no traffic in proximity. The heat mandated that I’d open it completely at stops. This is worse than Florida! The
Olympia air suit was also struggling with the flashes of heat and cool on the
open road, too. Heading south just after noon, it would only get worse. That’s when
I hit Blairsville and that same road resurfacing queue. Who is that moronic navigator of mine, anyway?!
I was so entirely focused on Neel’s Gap that I completely forgot about the
construction. Stifling heat, wearing my clutch, asphalt and tar trucks. 20
minutes of hell before clearing the zone. I kept recalling my preplanning session
where I contemplated a return through Hiawassee or Young Harris, then down to
Suches via another renowned moto byway, GA180. No, I said. Neel’s is Da
Bomb, and besides, you’ll be a wreck by that time anyway. Hindsight…
Indeed the return was torturous, and I had apparently overstayed my welcome at
the gym. Traffic was heavier on this leg, and I was stuck at a 4th
gear pace. Less speed = more heat. My lower back started complaining about
those sudden dips, too. Hmm…age. Had I goofed to eschew the long way? Maybe. All I
knew was that I was burning up, exhausted (but chipper!), and ready for an ice
cold adult beverage.
Neel’s Gap. Finally! I blew past a
trundling gravel hauler at the first passing opportunity, and from there it was
literally all downhill. Downhill skiing at its finest, as I described last
year—shooting over the moguls, and lasering apexes without interruption until
Turner’s Corner and the southward leg descending (not ass-ending!) into Dahlonega
AVA wine country. As the countryside insists, I dropped a gear and made an easy
cruise of it, assessing the current grape crops as I passed. Fruit glistening of
moisture in the summer sun, just a couple months away from harvest. I already
wanted to return before I ever left. I knew I would — just didn’t know when.
The last 15 miles or so was honestly a blur. Familiar roads and biding time. Automatic pilot. Not exactly taken for granted, but I was focused on the end itself. The Tail is done.
Where to next? No idea.
Definitely will be a next, I know that!
GA 180? Blue Ridge Parkway? Ashville's Diamondback
Devil’s Whip sounds dangerously delicious. I've been staring at the map lately. So many options. So many places out west I'd love to tour by bike as well. Time and funds though. For now, I'm content with Dixie.
After
so many years, I am still asked this question, and usually from a
highly-skeptical person using a highly-skeptical tone. I am always obliged to
say yes, as a matter of fact, it did, and to add, there’s probably quite a bit that
I’ve forgotten. It was, after all, over thirty years ago. Specifics are fading,
as are some other finite details, but the main events remain. I decided I
probably ought to sketch it down before more memories lapse, or God forbid, one
of us moves on. To comment, we were all so very young, and with that comes silliness
and stupidity, but also triumph and indelible glory. Well, maybe in our eyes.
You see, it all revolves around this beast pictured above,
or one just like it. Sadly, this isn’t a photo of the actual object at the
center of attention, but for the purposes of this exercise, it’s pretty much
identical. That, my friends, is a 1970 Volkswagen Type 2, also known as a kombi
(as on the manual), but here in the United States, we just call it a bus. I was
fresh out of college, and by that I mean that I had dropped out for work and
music. And because I dropped out, my contingent parental college gift -- a
completely dangerous Datsun 280Z in two-tone blue/silver -- had been reclaimed and
later sold <sniffle>. I loved that car. It was fast, fun to drive, and
the gals liked it, but it was out to murder me. 145mph top speed logged on the
only lengthy straightaway of Price Road in Hall County, GA. At night. Insanity.
Youthful invincibility.
Now for its replacement, and here’s the first
casualty of memory. I can’t remember where I bought it, or the circumstances. I
only recall it being sort of hippie-cool, utilitarian, and that it only cost
$800. The previous owner removed all but the front seats and installed a carpeted
bench over the engine compartment at the rear. I’d have no trouble hauling my
huge 12-piece double-bassed Tama drum kit to rehearsals and gigs. A relief
actually, since I had to completely dismantle them -- small drums placed inside larger
drums -- to fit them in the Z. In fact, there was so much new cargo space inside
that bus that I could set them up and actually play them while sitting on that
back bench. And that’s when someone got a bright idea, but let me rewind a bit.
Something akin this
one, except this one’s much nicer.
The kombi soon gained a reputation amongst my closest
friends as the default party wagon. I was a (usually) safe driver and we always
made it home somehow after a late night of rehearsing or partying. Someone
always had the run of their parent’s house back then -- any given weekend. We ran
in musical circles, so often times those parties involved a band, or a few of
them, jamming until the wee hours in front of folks dancing between the
wreckage of bottles and Solo cups. After all the music and consuming, and
consummation!, the bus doors opened and we escaped into the night at a
blistering 60mph. That was all the VW could manage on a flat road after 17
years of duty with an oil-gobbing 60hp engine, where it could be certain that
some of its horses had escaped, and many of its torques had petered. We were in
constant danger of a traffic citation too, for uphill on the local Interstate 985,
our speed would occasionally dip below the 40mph minimum. That later became one
of our challenges on the long rides home to Gainesville Georgia from our Atlanta
rehearsals. We all took turns at the wheel, trying desperately to outdo each
other. What’s the fastest a VW bus can go, anyway? More about that later.
The bandmate that accompanied me most was Monty.
While he owned a slick silver Mazda RX-7 that wasn’t good for band transport,
even for just himself. He is a bassist (yay to rhythm section pals!) of dashing
demeanor who possesses a keen wit for sarcasm, and loved goofing around on the
bus. His forever guitarist buddy is Jimmy -- another hilarious fellow -- and the
three of us would sometimes get bored late at night when Gainesville slept.
Small town blues, but Monty and Jimmy were devilishly inventive where
adolescent clandestine entertainment was concerned. Especially when they
brought along yet another psycho named Chad, who didn’t play any instrument,
but Jesus he could DRIVE. The bus soon became employed in our hooligan
shenanigans. Nothing by the roadside was safe, but the specialty became -- well,
I’ve no pet name for it, but the activity involved towing a slightly-weighted
plastic milk or Clorox jug with fishing line through various neighborhoods.
Whose could last the longest? Who could make the farthest distance from the
bus? Who would lose a finger if the line wrapped around a mailbox and they
forget to let go? This went on for days until one of the guys saw my drum kit
set up and thought it would be fun for them to drive me around while I
performed a solo.
Click…
Okay, you can guess
where this was going.
A short time afterward, Monty and Jimmy showed up
with their instruments, their amplifiers, and small Honda gasoline-powered
generator outputting just enough juice to power them. Chad was there too. Band
in a van. Chauffeured, no less. One problem though; the generator exhaust. That
could suffocate us quite easily if we weren’t careful, so we placed it on the
rear bench with the muffler pipe aimed towards the rear vent window. That sort
of worked while underway, but not 100%. Not even 80% actually, and over several
minutes, that residual 20% escalated to intolerable levels. A short jam, then
off for venting. No worries; Jimmy wasn’t in the same band as Monty and I at
that time, so we only knew one song between us. “Balls to the Wall” by Accept.
Metalheads us…
Off we went! First, through the suburbia of Oakwood,
GA then towards the east. We snapped onto the interstate headed north towards
Gainesville. Chad was ambitious and we were game, so a speed record attempt was
in order. Now folks (and you can read this in that announcer for the Dukes of
Hazzard announcer’s voice), this is there the boys seemed like they were in a
heap of trouble. ‘Cept we weren’t. Just absolutely nuts, but if you ask any of
us, yes, this actually happened too. Chad gave that bus every last inch of the
rod managing to land us somewhere above 70mph at the top of a long northbound downhill
before I-985’s (then) Exit 6 in Gainesville (now Exit 22). The speed grew
quickly, and the kombi’s 4th gear wound the engine likely well past
red-line (there was no tachometer) 80mph..90..
The above is a
photo-embellished reenactment, but I can personally attest seeing it from over
the kit. Our best guess was that Chad had somehow hit 108mph at the bottom of
that hill. Four lunatics in a rickety old van. Balls to the Wall.
Chad
took us around the city, through downtown and the Lakeshore Mall area just to
the south. All the turned heads when we passed…priceless. But it was one song,
over and over and over. You’d think we had ample time to work up another, but
NOPE -- it was Accept or death! We came close to that, as a matter of fact. Not
because of Chad’s piloting, but because we were not exactly mindful to take ventilation
breaks. Too late, we were gassed and choking. This *is* nuts! And, like the resourceful idiots we were, someone
always came up with a crazy solution. I don’t recall if it was Chad himself or
one of us who put Chad up to it, but what came next was grand theft auto. Well,
sort of. It was actually Chad theft daddy’s BBQ catering bus. It had plenty of
jam space and a built-in generator. Perfect, except we did not, in any way,
have permission to take it from his lot in Oakwood.
You
might observe that I’m playing fast and loose in using “perfect” to describe
our endeavor. Four kids were about to embark on Round Two of mayhem using a
converted school bus for barbeque catering. I believe it even had a shingled
roof. No memory of pig artwork, though. Maybe “perfect” would then be accurate.
We loaded up, tuned the instruments, made a quick sound check (with what else!)
and set off for Gainesville.
Along
the way we recognized a car that had been following us around the mall area.
Don’t know why they tailed us. Same song over and over? Maybe it was a morbid
curiosity thing. We were bound to get arrested somehow. It was now after 11pm
and we were surely breaking a local noise ordinance. Besides, why was a BBQ bus
out so late? Nonetheless, this late-70s/early-80s electric blue Pontiac
Firebird had been tailing us, and he was on our bumper yet again. Odd, but he
finally peeled off when we ventured down historic Green Street. That was sure
to gain the wrong sort of attention. For those who don’t know, it’s lined with
gorgeous Antebellum mansions used now mostly for offices, but back then, a handful
remained private residences. How dare
we? Then another brilliant idea happened.
Monty
and either Chad or Jimmy (I can’t remember) were dating a couple sorority gals
who lived at the all-female Brenau College (now University) campus nearby. What
could go wrong if we stopped for a visit? Everything, of course. We found a
suitable lot off Prior Street across from Crudup Hall and parked. While the
guys were dancing in the dark, Dunkin’s Finest surrounded the catering bus,
flashlights a blazin’, radios a crackin’ with a third hand on their sidearms.
Brenau’s ace security force had been watching us and called in the heavies.
Three cruisers pinned the bus (and us) while they completed a search. Monty and
(let’s just say it was Jimmy) was still in the dorm. Now, as far as I was
concerned, I was merely a passenger. I hadn’t invaded a sorority house after
curfew, and the bus was Chad’s albatross. I just sat and kept silent while
everything unfolded. Chad did the talking and finally the other guys
materialized down a sidewalk that wouldn’t implicate any particular dorm. All I
remember after several minutes was that morbid cackle from one of the
patrolmen’s radios, “Uh, <crack> Mister Vaughn’s gettin’ his pants on,
said he’d be there in twenty minutes.”
Shit.
Well,
this would be awkward. Although Monty and Jimmy were familiar, I’d never met
Chad’s father and this certainly wasn’t the sort of introduction I preferred,
but, sure enough, twenty minutes later, there he was. You can imagine the
fussing that ensued, but Mr. Vaughn was quite the pragmatic and his rhetoric
was curt. With a seething glare, he told me just to ride on the bus with Chad
until we got back to the lot in Oakwood. Unload and go. Nothing else. He didn’t
need to say anything else; his expression said everything. Don’t let me see you face again.
No problem.
I
believe that was the fastest break-down and reloading job I ever did. In just a
few minutes (if more than two!) we were back in the kombi headed home. Except
poor Chad, that is. He had to pay for his crime. I can’t recall if we saw him
anytime soon after that night, either. As for us, we were now marked men, and
it behooved us to call it a night. We escaped jail -- heck, we even escaped a
lecture! -- and it was best not to tempt lurking demons. One by one, I dropped
off the guys and their equipment, then headed home. My bet was we all laughed a
little going to sleep that night. I mean, who does this? Four numbnuts from Hall County, that’s who, and just ask any
one of us if it’s real. You can ask one more guy too. That blue Firebird? We
later discovered that it belonged to one of Gainesville’s most notoriously
lovable loons, Med Lindorme, who indeed admitted he just wanted to see the
looks on everyone’s faces as we blasted past them, and how we would eventually
meet our doom. Complete bastard, this guy. <ducks>
Now, this story could end right there. Any glory for
my old VW was certainly sealed that night, but it has quite an epilogue to
tell.
The bus
would go on a few more months. We partied more, and it was a reliable shuttle
for those Atlanta rehearsals. Yet, I kept noticing it was consuming more and
more oil. Well, as the dreaded foreshadowing mandates, Monty and I were
departing an Atlanta musical shindig on the west side of Tucker when another
drummer needed a lift. Not too far, he said, just down to the Morningside-Lenox
area. I had no idea where this was, but hey, he was a drummer, so
drummer-brothers unite! Bad call as it turned out. About two miles before the
Cheshire Bridge Road, Lenox exit on I-85 southbound, the engine suddenly grew
loud with the pinging racket of a diesel. The oil!I knew what the problem was but I had to find
an exit near a gas station and pronto. Druid Hills Rd exit had what we needed
and was coming up fast, but a line of traffic cut me off completely from the off
ramp. Missed! The noise grew louder as I reduced speed, but it was too late.
The engine ceased with a loud bang, locking the rear tires before I nailed the
clutch and found neutral. We were coasting towards the Cheshire Bridge/Lenox
exit now, all downhill, but I saw no gas stations. There was no time for dour
reflection. I managed the exit and made a quick right to coast away from a busy
intersection, coming to a stop in front of an apartment complex just beyond a
short bridge crossing Peachtree Creek. All was quiet.
“You smell something?” came from our passenger, and
both Monty and I looked back at him. We immediately weren’t looking at our
drummer friend though, as thick black smoke and flames were billowing from the
kombi’s rear air intakes.
“We’re on fire!”
We
jumped out in a panic, but there wasn’t much to do. You could see the flames
broiling inside the engine compartment through the cracks in the rear hatch.
Not good. The gas tank was located right below the engine, and it was going to explode
at some point, Hollywood-style. I thought about any valuables. None. Wait a
minute… My high school class ring was in the glove box! I never wore it when performing
or practicing, and I grew out of wearing rings completely. Messed with my sticking
and well, skin rashes. Anyway, I still wanted it and went back to get it. Monty
yelled for me to get back, kind of laughing at the whole thing. We were stuck
an hour from home with no ride. Guys like us tend to laugh during stressful
moments anyway. I was too, just not nearly as much as Monty. The other guy -- the
drummer -- was just speechless. We meant to give him a lift, now we needed one
ourselves. But… back to the bus.
I chased down some poor old country mechanic who had
the grand misfortune to make the bottom of the exit ramp about the time my bus’
rear was visibly engulfed. “YO! Any chance you have a fire extinguisher?” He
hopped out and opened the tailgate to his camper-topped pickup. “Well, I think
I might.” He said lazily with a heavy drawl. He dug around the piles of tools
and construction waste he had amassed for several glacial moments. I didn’t
think about it when I just jumped in and started tossing stuff around. I found
the extinguisher within seconds, thanked him profusely and ran back to the bus.
Some onlookers from the apartment complex had come to witness its demise by
that point, but I was armed with Mighty Red Can now. It was one of those
powder-filled varieties meant to fight kitchen fires. Couldn’t hurt, I thought.
First was to douse the flaming intake vents. I
sprayed into the right side and found success, so I took the left down a couple
seconds later. Now I was faced with the engine compartment. How to get it open
though? Monty was bowled over by the bridge, laughing too hard to think
straight, and the other drummer was AWOL as far as I could tell. That’s when one
of the guys from the apartment complex sashayed over. Tight T-shirt, short running
shorts (it was summer), and flip-flops. I had no idea what was to come next. In
a flaming (pun intended), effeminate voice, he asked, “You want us to start a
bucket train?”
Monty
had an out-of-body experience. Had to. He was laughing so hard, I thought he
was about to jump off the bridge. Funny, yes, but hey, what do I care? These
guys were here and offering help.
“Yes, that’d be great.”
I said, and man did they hop to it. Not a minute passed -- and
thankfully the flames grew no worse -- before several of those apartment guys were
lined up with pots and pans full of water, awaiting instructions. I told one of
them that our goal was to access the engine compartment to get at the main fire
with the extinguisher, but the problem was the pushbutton latch. The fire had
it red hot, so probably best to hit it with a couple pans of water before
attempting to open it. We staged ourselves, Monty bawling in the background,
and counted down. 3…2…1! Two pans of water splashed on the rear hatch and
clasp, steaming off as it hit. The lead apartment guy reached for the latch as
I stood ready to blast the compartment with powder. Now folks, once or twice in
a lifetime will you hear such as sound that will haunt you forever. This was
one of those times for me.
There
simply is no good way to describe the screech of an overtly homosexual man when
he painfully burns himself, but it went something French-like—“EEEEEEAAAAUUUOOOOWWWWW”—somewhere
between the death of a kitten and Jackie Gleason’s “And awaaay we go!”
Unforgettable, but he did get the latch open, probably leaving a few dermis
layers attached.
There it was, a boiling picture of hell itself. The
entire compartment was being doused with gasoline from a (now) loose fuel line
with pressure building from the tank. Fuel spewing and igniting in random
patterns, the cauldron growing brighter now that it had access to more oxygen.
Now was my moment to be the hero. I stepped up and squeezed the trigger.
Nothing but a spit. I shook the container furiously and tried again. Nothing.
The bottle was empty.
While gripping his hand in pain, the Champion of the
Latch called his buddies over and they made quick work of the fire with their
bucket train. In a moment, it was out and smoldering—a charred, black lump of
wires and melted hoses -- probably a total loss. We took a breath or two to
congratulate ourselves, and I wondered, where was the fire department in all
this time?
A
couple minutes after the apartment guys made contact, they automatically called
the Atlanta FD. I heard sirens for several minutes but they always seem to just
pass on by. Around ten minutes after the fire was out, Fat Albert and his gang pulled up in
his pumper truck, had me sign a bunch of paperwork, and made his inspection.
“Man, that looks bad. It’s looks out but we gonna put it out more.” Out came
the hoses and they blasted the entire bus with water until no smoke or steam
was evident. If the bus wasn’t a loss before, it surely was now. Monty finally
stopped laughing….for the moment. How were we to get home?
We
were squatting on the curb with a dripping heap in front of us. The smell of
rank burnt plastic and leaded paint permeated everything. Somehow the buses
tires were intact, as was most of the van, actually. Although thoroughly soaked
inside and out, the fire had somehow been contained to the engine compartment.
The tires were fine, as were the chassis mechanicals -- steering and brakes still
worked, as did the clutch and transmission shifter. I asked the apartment guys
if I could park the van in their lot overnight. I’d have it picked up the next
day with a rented tow bar for my father’s old Chevy truck. “Sure” they said.
“You guys need a ride somewhere?”
Monty gave a curt
“Nope!” from the curb. No way was he taking a ride from those guys. Oh well. So
how were we to get home anyway? That’s when our passenger finally chimed in,
offering to give is a ride all the way back to Monty’s parents’ home in Oakwood.
We would be hoofing it to the drummer’s house though, still a few miles away.
After parking the van and thanking the apartment guys -- noble and brave sacrifices
all -- we set off southward down Cheshire Bridge Road.
Oops! I overlooked one item; we’d been at a party,
and at this time in our lives, we were doing the big-hair heavy metal thing.
Ahh, the ‘80s! But there we were, the three of us with teased and hairsprayed
tresses draped over those spiffy Don Johnson linen jackets, leather ties,
bleach-blotted dungarees and colored leather Oxfords…in the gayest part of
town…on foot. Now, Monty would say that we were better off not taking advantage
of the apartment guys’ offer, and I’d probably agree, but it was equally and
hilariously just as bad being whistled at by carloads of locals for that several
mile trot. If an inanimate object could project karma, my poor Volkswagen was
having its revenge. Finally, we made it to (Duff’s?) mother’s house,
requisitioned her Mustang, and made it back to Oakwood in the middle of the
night. From there, Monty and I hopped in his RX-7 and blazed for North Hall and
home.
The next day went as planned. We rented a tow bar for
the bus and drove the old ’63 Chevy pickup down to Atlanta. It had no trouble
hauling the charred hulk back to Gainesville. Maybe it was still worth
something after all? The tires were still good as new! That’s what my uncle
Chesley ultimately saw in it, buying it off me, mercifully, for $200 a few days
later. That happened to be the exact cost of the tires I installed just a few
weeks earlier, so I was okay with it. Who else would take a burnt wreck? But
then it was gone, and that was that.
---
To comment, I catch
myself noticing today’s kids glued to their little screens, and I wonder what their best-imagined
form of civil disobedience might be. Hacking the school library? COS-pranking the local mall? Protesting a presidential tweet? I'm glad that's not everybody.
