August 10th, 2001

Getting to Indianapolis was uneventful. I left Kalamazoo round about 8:30 pm. Took I-states all the way. And mostly it was in the dark, so I didn’t see too much. Isn’t very much to see though, as I remember. Really should have brought a sweat shirt, and my chaps. The ninety-plus weather we’d been having was over with. And it actually got a bit chill. Then again, all the better to stay awake when riding until after midnight.

I’d been to Indi some years before, knew my way, and felt no need to consult with a map. Sure enough I got to the same Motel 6 as before without a hitch, except that it was full up. So I try another hotel; but all they have to offer is a $107-per-night deluxe suite with a jacuzzi. No thanks. Bingo on the third, though...the Motor 8 lodge. I might could do better, since this Motor 8 place seems to fall somewhat short of the higher standards I expect from Motel 6. But it is late. So at $38 I take room 117 on the ground floor where I can park the Royal in direct view right outside my window. It’s now about 1:30 am by Michigan time. I call in for a 7:00 am wake up and hit the sack. The night before I’d only gotten about five hours. So as a result, I’m fast asleep in barely an instant.

Next thing I know I’m awakened by three loud pounds on my door. My wakeup call? That’s pretty low-tech, even for the Motor 8. I throw on pants and answer it. No, not my wakeup call, it’s still quite dark. Before me stands a somewhat taller black guy, who launches into a narrative with a major speech impediment. Some hard luck story he’s telling me...obviously an appeal for money. Bleary eyed, I allow that he drone on like that for a bit (the same trick I always employ on telephone solicitors -- permit them to expend their time and energy at maximum length to no profit whatsoever). My first thought, that he’s drunk, is off the mark, despite thickly lisping speech (honestly acquired, so it seems).

Between his affected speech and my just-as-affected hearing, communication verges on the impossible. But at length I gather his story to be that he is in need of a room for himself, his wife and child (these latter being nowhere within my view). There has been some difficulty with his car resulting in a shortfall of exactly $12.20 for the room. He’d been at a loss for what to do until spying my license plate. Presuming upon the mutuality of us both hailing from Michigan, he dares to hope that I will salvage his situation...to the tune of exactly $12.20, and no more, so he assures me.

I’m not buying it, of course. But it would be both impolite and impolitic to confer the full degree of my disbelief, which is total. Should things turn nasty, I needn’t fear, I don’t guess, since although I’ve not formally trained in years, neither my Moo Duk Kwan (Korean Karate) nor Hakko Ryu (Jujitsu) are yet quite forgotten (or so I hope). More to the practical side, neither are my three years experience as an attendant nurse in the psychiatric ward. So it never occurs to me that anything here needs to be proven (especially since all it may prove is just how rusty I have gotten). More to the point is that I don’t really care to give up any more sleep by having to stay up and guard the bike, or answering questions to the bored and uncaring local police. The $12.20 is rather less than an hour’s pay, even after the government has looted it. Still, there is a bit of principle to be considered. What to do?

I suggest that he wait a moment. Returning I hold out a fractional contribution toward his $12.20 goal, saying that beyond this five all that remain to me are a pair of twenties. Twenty dollars, I explain, surpasses the limits of my generosity even toward some of my family. I go on to complain that my job is insecure, etc. All true, at least in part. This, hopefully, leaves no room for further appeal.

Disappointed, but not the least angry (or vengeful) my dear fellow Michiganian departs. I close the door and strain my ears to detect a further pounding on other doors. But I hear none. Next I assume a post of observation through the strategic 4-inch crack in the curtains I’d arranged for checking up on the Royal. Ten minutes of sentry duty reveals no activity. A poke of my head out the door shows all to be quiet and secure, with no persons skulking about on nefarious deeds, nor any one on any kind of deed whatever. So back to bed, and sleep again, thinking that maybe one of those radio alarms for the Royal wouldn’t be a waste of money after all, nor perhaps the extra sixty for a jacuzzi. Dispite such stressful meditations I once more fall quickly asleep without adverse effect on my dreams.

My internal clock has me up five minutes before the phone is due to ring. I wait for it, and then go out to pay my respects to the Royal. All is well. Nothing defaces Her sleek contours save for the unsightly remains of sadly mis-adventurous bugs. These I can easily remove with Pledge spray polish, a damp wash cloth, and gentle rubbing...but not until after my own shower, loyalty even to royalty, has reasonable limits.

Then, whilst performing my janitorial ministrations to Her Highness, who should arrive but my co-Michiganian friend of last night. He comes in search of no further contributions however. Seems he got a room after all, and now only wants to be chatty. I reciprocate minimally. And he catches on that I am paying him slight attention. Not rudely though, as I assure him, hoping to put conversation to a short end, and explaining that a tour in the U.S. Navy followed by a career in loud factories have robbed me of a 3kHz-wide swath through my original range of hearing, partly in the region where human voices speak. My ploy, though true, fails of its purpose, as he perseveres all the harder. So in due course I manage to learn that indeed, he truly is from Michigan. And not only that, but from Kalamazoo no less: can even name streets, shopping malls, apartment complexes and such. So I was perhaps half wrong about his motives, even though his wife and kid still fail to make themselves apparent. I do not ask after them, lest they prove real so that I must postpone my departure so as to politely make their acquaintance. My friend next inquires when I expect to be checking out. Truthfully, I tell him, “Just as soon as I finish cleaning up my bike. There is someplace where I must arrive by nine.” With this he takes his leave of me.

Others might handle such encounters differently; but I congratulate myself on yet another social minefield navigated without need for any unwanted, third-party involvement: desk clerk, security, police, or whomever. How I prefer that such things should go, even if it did cost a whole five bucks. Nothing which a few minutes overtime won’t earn back in workmanlike fashion.

Worse is that I’ve only gotten six hours sleep, after only five hours the night before, and partly on this fellow’s account. So I spare no further good will, nor even curiosity on his behalf. I just toss my stuff back into the saddle bags and hit the road, cruising up Shadeland Avenue back toward I-465. On the Star Touring web page, very clear instructions were given on how to find Dreyer Yamaha where the group was due to assemble. I found it without difficulty.

Approaching Dreyer’s on Washington Street what should pull up on my right but a most strikingly painted Road Star. Over the noise from our two machines, its rider indicates that Dreyer’s is just a bit ahead on the left. We pull in together and make our mutual introductions, he turns out to be my host, one Jack Johnson, President of the local chapter #144, Indianapolis. The Dreyer folks allow me the use of their in-house phone for the collect call home to my wife, so that she’ll know I got here okay (telephone audio at Motor 8 had been so scratchy I could barely hear to order my wakeup call...and not at all my hearing’s fault, on this occasion.) From here on things go pretty well. And I am glad to have made the trip.

Tank Art Jack Wolf Tank Art Fork-tail Devil Tiger

Tank Art Before Drag Bikes Pits Pits

USAF Drifter Tank Art Army Dragster

August 11th, 2001

Dreyer has also provided a hearty biker’s breakfast of (no, not raw meat...) donuts and caffinated soda. Still being a pig (though never any more a hog!) I scarf a double portion of each. By ones and by groups the Star folk arrive. I snap my pics. One guy pulls in from I don’t know where, and I don’t allow that he may get up and stretch before he must endure a pose for the greater glory of Star and the illumination of my personal website. Doubtless somewhat rude of me, but hey, he looked so natural and all. Alas I have forgotten his name. (Somebody out there tell me, would ya?)

Everyone oggles each other’s bikes, doubtless plotting to steal ideas either for fashion or greater power. I take very especial note of Pablo Gonzalez’ bike, Fork-Tailed Devil, and how he chose to paint certain items a glossy black as opposed having the whole thing dipped in chrome. And looking at Jack’s bike, I decide not to put off getting that extra coat of clear come next winter. So on and so forth.

At one point a hoglodite (former brethren of mine) rolls in on big piece of American iron. He’d come in search, not of a trade-in, alas...but for some small accessory or else an item of apparel. After turning his engine off, a glance to the right reveals our row of mostly Road Stars, a few V-Stars, two Royals, one Venture and a lonely olive drab Ural way down towards the end. He asks, “You guys aren’t going to attack me, are ya?”

And someone answers in the negative, going on to invite him along on the ride. While private opinions may vary among the Star folk (mine, perhaps loudest among them) about the Milwaukee myth, among the Star crowd, inter-brand-name courtesy will always prevail. All bikes are always welcome, Stars just more especially so. (Shades of George Orwell?) The fellow declines our invite, however, citing obligations elsewhere. A mutual loss.

Jack now demonstrates both the knack and the temperament for his prestigious elected office by guiding (versus herding) us all in the proper direction, that is, onto our bikes and facing generally toward the street. At something near the appointed time he signals us into something not too very unlike proper military formation. Having spent four years in the Navy (versus say, the Marines) I’m not much into anything too very military. But this being a group endeavor, some basic coordination is clearly in order -- my own inclinations somewhat to the contrary. Further, it is a basic safety consideration, as I am to quickly observe.

Being the outsider in this group, I elect a post for myself squarely in the middle so as to blend in kind of annonomynous-like. Just a bit, this reminds me of a former experience with that semi-punk, local Japanese biker gang I used to ride with on Okinawa way back during my navy days in ’76. This is at once both better and worse: better for the safety aspect, worse for the military precision shaded somewhat toward the extreme, although perhaps necessarily so. Here is the drill: four bikes hold to fixed positions: two riding point, and two at the rear. In between, everyone else rotates forward, each taking their separate turns as an out-rider to blockade cut-through traffic at each lighted intersection. My hidden-in-the-middle position does not remain so very long, as I migrate toward the front along with everyone else.

I had opportunity to observe the process several times before moving up to row number two where I next assume the traffic blockader’s post myself. Just to make certain of my duties, Jack points it out to with clear and obvious hand signals. So I do the thing, just like when I used to work a parade at home, except for sitting atop the Royal in my leathers (versus standing in orange vest holding up a ham radio).

Sitting (versus standing) my post, once the middle bunch have passed by, the rear guard gestures that I file back into the pack just ahead of him. All too military for me, but still a bit of fun none the less. It is not all that long of a ride as our destination is none to far away. I only rotate up to the front one time further before we arrive. And along the way, to my relief, we do not ride strictly two-by-two, ranked tailgater fashion before and behind, like back when I was on Okinawa. This is very well indeed, because such tactics are most unsafe, as I know well. I have a bad experience along these lines, and refuse to ever bunch up like that again. We do accordion together together some at red lights and such, but not on the move. While on the roll we stagger it up, one-bike-per-row, alternating to left and to right so everybody can enjoy seeing twice as far, and has room to zig left or zag right as circumstances may require.

We ride past Indianapolis Motor Speedway on our way to Indianapolis Raceway Park, where the drags are to be held. The whole bunch of us snake our way into the park and que up for the ticket booth. It turns out that we need to display our blue Star Touring ID cards to enjoy the special discount. I had not thought to bring mine along since I so seldom have need of it. Usually I consider it just another width of plastic to fatten my wallet so that I can barely sit down. Alas, my error is going to cost me a few extra bucks. My preference toward cut-rate motels (only when riding solo) stems from being rather cheap, not from inability to afford better. So this is not an impediment, just a self-induced annoyance.

The ticket entry is two columns wide. Our double row of bikes occupies the left column. Next to me in the right hand column a guy in a truck sees me fishing out bills from my wallet and calls out for my attention. I look up to find him reaching out with a handful of free gate passes! He says, “Here, take these, share them out with your buddies.” Here and now the karma of generosity more than quadruples my five buck investment of early this morning. Wonder what might have befallen me had I gone and offered up the entire $12.20?

“Cool! Thanks a lot!” I exclaim, and set the Royal on her kick stand to stroll down the ranks handing out passes. Sadly, I run out of freebies before getting quite to the end of the line.

Upon returning to the Royal, that same fellow calls my attention again. He informs me, “One pass is good for two persons.”

“Really? Thanks!” I holler this info back down the line, but the most of the bikes are idleing, loud pipes and all. I see some few exchange their passes, but just then the line inches forward so that I cannot be certain if everyone got the word or not. And now it is my turn to confront the ticket booth, loud pipes, bad hearing, and all. I have only to cough up an extra five bucks for a pit pass, and I am done. Time now to move it through the gate.

We park our bikes in the shade under the stands. I see Pablo is having to carry his leather jacket, since his bike is lacking for storage in its present configuration. I offer him the extra space in one of my locking hard bags and he accepts.

The drags themselves turn out to be pretty much as I had expected. Smoky burn outs, loud roars, and quick trips down what looks an eighth-mile runway. Not my idea of total excitement, and also totally non-productive...but then again, not the main reason why I came. I came to hang out with the Star crowd, meet a few more of the folks I’d enjoyed swapping stories with on the Internet during the snow-bound winter months. Especially the ones who’s pics on the member’s bikes page sport custom paint and one-of-a-kind power modifications.

While I was there I also chose to wander the pits. Yamaha, which was supposed to have been there, could not to be found. Neither can Barron’s (which is too bad, since I might have liked to buy something...) But I do see one truly out-done Kawasaki Drifter, custom painted all over very like an old warbird, with shark’s mouth, nose art, seams, rivets, and a bullet hole or two. Of course, I snapped a pick. Then, being thirsty, I look for a place to buy a pop. And find one...only to be more thoroughly robbed than during the night: $3.50 for a mostly ice-filled medium glass of Coke.

I return to the stands with the others. We watch a few more bikes zip quickly down the track. Then comes the Go Army four-wheel AA-fuel dragster, all 6,000 HP of it. When it takes off, everybody in the stands is brought one step closer to my state of hearing, and I am brought one step closer to becoming totally deaf. No exaggeration here, I assure you. Truly it was indeed that loud. The only thing louder I have ever heard were the SR-71’s that used to take off every four hours straight over the mine shop where I was stationed on Okinawa.

Prior to that it had been funny bikes that were making the run. Now come the others, sans wheelie bars, and more interesting from my point of view. When these are done, now it is time for intermission. And, since the break will be two hours, that makes it also lunch-/dinner-time according to Jack. Many another among the Star folk have shared my experience of in-park price scheme such that few, if any, really care to eat here. During the little while certain among us dithered as destination and all of that, all were mildly entertained by the slightly insane antics of a mostly younger, rocket-bike crowd clowning it up in the parking lot. I tell you it was totally nuts. Not so much the stunts themselves, which might be elsewhere be termed rather cool -- but the fact that they did them out on the open lot with little kids wandering about and gaping in awe scant feet away.

Fortunately, there were no real mishaps. No one was actually hurt, and only one camera wielding spectator sharply startled. But at times there were as many as three or four bikes pulling slow-dance burn-outs around one another. Other bikes pulled long wheelies while sitting on the handle bars, and front-brake wheel stands, sometimes with a teenie bopper riding two-up and doing the Freddie. Anywhere else it would have been cool. But not in an open parking lot with little kids milling about and all. And where are the parents? It really bugs me.

Amusement such as this quickly tired, if only for its utter lack of variety. So Jack marshaled the troops and we headed out to forage, finding ourselves at local bar and grill. From outside it looked to be an intriguing swatch of local color, as opposed to any one of those national chains the likes of which we could all just as well enjoy at home. But alas, the regulars already encamped within were inclined to all be extremely loud. So loud that I could follow hardly more than brief snatches from among the conversations at our table of a about a dozen or so.

A hearing aid would do me no good. I do not suffer from an overall loss of sensitivity. Rather I have to put up with distortion. So to me the room was was already too loud. To make it louder would help not at all. So I had to strain to make out a conversation right next to me whenever such were politely spoken in the midst of the other din. Alas, I had little trouble making out certain voices across the room which happened to fall outside the 4-7 kHz range. These, alas, were mostly drunken ramblings of little interest, which I duly tried to ignore. Other times I wished for a freon powered air horn, so as to go and supply the fellow with a sample of his own effect upon certain others in the room. Why need he shout so to the person right next to him?

Might be that part of my problem is hereditary, since my dad had suffered it also. He’d always hated Barbara Walters; could not make out a word she said even with the best hearing aids that money could buy. But he had been a gunner’s mate on the New Jersey in WWII. Would that I could boast such a colorful excuse when asking that folks repeat themselves. Partly I just sat there quiet-like, trying not to look to antisocial...which is how folks will take it sometimes.

To preserve what remains of my hearing, I wear ear plugs while out on a ride. But not to mask the drone of my Bub exhausts. On the contrary, it is the wind. Wind is white noise. And loud or not, continued exposure to white noise will slowly deafen you. Most folks with hearing loss are deafer in the left ear than in the right. Why, from the white noise of driving cars with the window down. So you folks what always wear a half-helmet with both ears completely exposed...you might want to read up a bit on that.

Anyway, the food was fine, and right for the price. Certainly there was no shortage of it. My cheeseburger was more than adequate. And one fellow got a salad that looked like something Granny might have set before Jethro in a Beverly Hillbillies re-run. As I recall, he was unable to finish it.

After quite a long sit-down, the troops elected to head on back, except for Pablo, who’s return was awaited by his anxious wife and son at the in-law’s not too far away. And I had told my own wife and son that I too would be home by bedtime, or perhaps shortly thereafter.

Now I have been up and down I-69 in cars ever since I was a kid. I’d seen what there is of it last night again on a bike. For me that road lacked further appeal. So I asked Pablo if he wouldn’t mind my company for at least a few miles. He invited me all the way to his in-law’s place, and suggested that his son Alexander might like to see another Royal beside’s his dad’s (perhaps to prove that, yes, really, there are not a myth?) I took him up on it. We halted briefly at a gas station for me to fill up. I also was able to purchase a bottle of ibuprophen for the pounding headache I had acquired inside the bar. From there on out, Pablo and I rode side-by-side for so long as the lane width and the right hand shoulder allowed it in safety.

For a little bit, we followed a pair of Harleys (husband and wife teem, I do believe). They rode not side-by-side, but arabesque (wifey behind and to the left). So I got a view of how it must look when Karen and I go off a riding...cause we do that, except I keep the inside track nearer to any on-coming traffic. Only thing is, the right hand rider gets stuck with the sharpest turns (inside and to the right) where a novice is most likely to swing too wide. So now I’m wondering which is better?

The boy-girl team turned off at some point. The guy at least could have waved howdy. I do that, but suggest that Karen might prefer to keep both hands on the bars until she’s totally confident. After that, Pablo leads the way (by maybe a foot, since I hang back just enough to be able to catch any hand signals he might offer) down a really picturesque highway which I later find to have the scenic green dots on an atlas when I get home. Right enough, that road deserved them.

At Pablo’s final destination I get to meet his wife and son. Very nice the both of them. Pablo kindly offers a beer but I defer to an ice cold Coke. We four chat a while, and then I take off. All the while that we had stood there, no cars at all had come by. And the winding section just beyond view held no destination for pedestrians, nor had I seen any such on longish winding road in. So just for the sake of Pablo’s kid, and with a mantra of protection under my breath, I gun the Royal through all five gears and top the hill viewable from his driveway at something very close to ninety. Then once I am out of sight, and earshot, I ease it off quite a bit since the turns that will come not long after that are good for maybe thirty at best.

So Pablo, I trust that you told Alex, “No, I don’t ever ride like that. But I easily could if I wanted...” So that it won’t be wasted. I hope your wife didn’t scold you much... Are we allowed to speak again?

The longer ride home again.

From Pablo’s, I take 70 West in the direction of Terra Haute. But the sun was sort of in my eyes, so I kept a look out for any good northbound road. I saw one labeled US-231. Now there’s a US-131 not far from my house. Maybe they’re cousins? As good an excuse as any, so I take it. Turns out to be a good decision. I had mostly scenic views and not too bad traffic wise. The only bit of near trouble comes to me a couple miles south of this hamlet called Romney.

There’s been this car in front of me, dogging it at just 10 mph over. And nothing in front of him for as far as the eye can see. His lack of speed isn’t so much of an issue, but the view of his rear end is growing very tiresome indeed. I’ve been wanting to break away and find myself a nice lonely stretch somewhere ahead in the middle. Yeah, in the middle, so long is it was ahead of him, not back here where I am now. Logical? I fear not, but no matter... For miles and miles up till now I’d been trapped by hills or curves and no good line of sight for passing. Now I spy a nice long flat stretch with a big gentle hill just after. Not a single car on-coming, just that big junker pulled off onto on the left hand shoulder with his hood up. Almost perfect: the junker won’t be darting out into traffic, anytime soon, if ever again. There’s room aplenty even if its door should open. Good enough, so I gun it big time into the oncoming lane, with a nice loud roar from out of the Bubs.

About half a second later do I notice the brown SUV parked more safely yet onto the shoulder just behind. The lifted hood had totally shield it from my survey of possible hazards. As I scream by, the SUV driver jerks his head up revealing three things: a surprised expression, a marine style haircut, and the postsure of writing something on a tablet in his lap. Oops!

Next second, in the rear view, I see his tail lights flash suddenly on. Then I’m already gone over the hill and can see him no more. Now, I know he couldn’t have possibly gotten any kind of fix by radar. Being a ham, I do know a little something about radio propagation and all. My signature is very much less that the car which I’ve just passed, the angles are wrong and all of that.... And now that big hill is directly between. These optimal circumstances cannot endure for very long... Or maybe it was just my basic paranoia working overtime. The whole scene was, quite literally, a blur. And in middle of my cogitations I take not of two things. Number one: I’ve neglected to let loose from my full-open twist on the throttle. And number two: quite far back in the distance, on this two-lane, back-country highway my rear view shows two pair of head lights side-by-side at the top of the hill. Someone is passing the car I just passed. There had been no cars at all behind me prior till then. Oops, for certain...

No red-and-blue lights flashing, though. If its a cop, he’s being subtle...except for leaving his headlights on. Right then I let go of the throttle. Cops, I’m told, take a sudden flashing of brake lights as a clear guilt, and therefor intent. So I lay off the disks and rely on my air-brake instead...the windshield, which really does work quite well. And now I’m going up hill again, more to the good. By the time that brown SUV catches up to me I’m loafing it at exactly the limit. Pointedly I do not glare evilly into the mirror. I don’t cringe either. And, most importantly, I do not pull over to the side...not before he shows me the lights.

Maybe I’m being paranoid, could be just that the SUV guy suddenly remembered something he’d forgotten back in Romney. But what are the chances? Anyway, whatever his hurry to pass the car that I had passed (it too, had been speeding) he seems in no hurry at all to pass me. In all probability a cop. But if so, an honest one. He hasn’t got a radar fix and he’s also not going to fake it by holding onto the read-out from the last car he’d clocked, or by holding a tuning fork in front of radar’s wave-guide antenna (a basic calibration technique). Well now, good for me. And better for him! Just doing his job, right and proper. Officer, wherever it is that you may be now, I shouldn’t dare to have done it then for fear off maybe giving offense; but now from this safe remove...I salute you.

I play the tourist, rubber-necking kind of like I’m looking for something as we ease in toward the edge of “town” (Romney’s so small it doesn’t even merit a stop light). Ah ha! A gas station. Here is what I was “looking for”. So I pull in while the SUV cruises by, its driver casting a studied glance in my direction. Pointedly I fail to notice.

It occurs to me that the air has turned just slightly chill. So I take this opportunity to haul out the Brooks jacket from my left hand saddle bag. And since for a fact, that tank is half empty, I top it off before heading out again. Nothing further do I see of any brown SUV’s with para-military troopers at the wheel. (Para-military? Sure...they call us civilians after all, do they not? But a real military trooper can’t resign. So that what does that leave? And besides, the thin blue line seems to be marching ever more militarily as the years go by... Which should give no few historians to wonder, I should hope. Those other cops aside, I still think rather well of this one...like I said. Better luck next time fella!)

After that, I mostly try to keep it down to around ten over. Partly because the countryside is worth seeing, and at eighty-plus you can’t see much. I find that US-321 North heads nearly as far west as north, and zigs under I-65 at least three times. By the third one it’s getting late, sunset almost. At the interchange, there’s a Shell station. Good for two reasons: the tank could use topping off, and I’ve neglected to bring a map (more adventurous that way). A free consult of the back page on an Indiana atlas reveals that I have overshot my westward goal by at least an hour. Not so bad, ’cause right here is the Interstate. So I switch to the bigger road, rev on up to speed again, and join the eighy-mph-plus congestion headed north toward Gary.

The sun is just now verging upon the horizon. Excellent timing, I won’t be having to look directly into it now. Alas, the remaining scenery which awaited me on US-231 will go un-appreciated. It will do anyway, once it turns dark; so no great loss. At Gary, I switch roads again, this time to I-94, and from there, head straight back home. Pulled into my house barely minutes shy of midnight. Karen and my son are still up. I can kiss them both good-night. What could be better?

Ĝan Ŭesli Starling
Kalamazoo MI