Old Dog Read online

  Dog suspected Monty was right, but Dog tried to invest wisely, and money came hard. Bailey would sell for two hundred dollars. A new 74 came close to one thousand dollars.

  Monty said, "Bailey's flathead will do about eighty miles per hour. That will sound fast until some grandpa dusts you off with his Buick Roadmaster. A 74 will go like hell and top out over one hundred. If you ride a lot, you'll get to wanting one."

  Dog doubted he would care about the top speed. God, one hundred miles an hour on two wheels was frightening even to think about.

  The dealer went on. "The worst thing about a forty-five is that they are puny carrying two people. The engine just isn't up to hauling double the way most guys want to ride."

  Dog had already begun to feel that. The acceleration that had at first seemed so remarkable was quickly mastered, and he felt the weak response when he opened the throttle.

  Dog read all the literature. Harleys were around in 45 flatheads and 74-cubic-inch knuckle and panheads. Probably there were others. There were also 61-inch and 80-cubic-inch flatheads. Learning the strengths and weaknesses was tasty, and the photographs of pilot-capped riders in boots and britches cruising pastoral byways could be entrancing.

  Lieutenant Dog Carlisle bought Sergeant Bailey's flathead Harley. He rode it hard locally and back and forth to Pennsylvania. The military was probably a trifle uncertain about commissioned officers tooling motorcycles around the post, but Lieutenant Carlisle was about out anyway.

  Before the leaves turned, Dog Carlisle traded his forty-five to Monty's cycle shop for a new, dark blue seventy-four overhead. The new Harley had a chrome fork and handlebars. There were three chrome headlights, and the buddy seat sported a dressy chrome bar for hanging on to.

  On his day of discharge, Dog filled his leather saddle bags and strapped a half filled duffel bag across the back fender. Everything else had already been ferried to Bloomfield. He stopped for a handshake with Monty and headed north. In three hours he was home in Perry County.

  A short note, sent to all customers from Monty's cycle shop reached Dog a week later. While road testing a repaired cycle, Monty had been crushed under a truck making a sudden and un-signaled left turn.

  The motorcycle shop was closing down.

  Chapter 8

  Going to Daytona took some preparation. In years past, Old Dog had done most of it himself. This time he took the pickup down to Jim Tressler for an oil change and greasing. He oversaw Timmy's work on the Harley. Mostly it was polishing because they wished to look good, but the oil bag was down a little, and Old Dog wanted the chain taken up just a turn. Of course, they put in a new rear spark plug. That happened about every third tank of gas.

  Old Dog had a nifty bike lift for lots of jobs—including polishing and cleaning. Tim could slide the lift underneath the motorcycle and hand pump or put compressor air to it, and the big Harley rose about eighteen inches where it was handy to work on.

  Of course, adjusting chain tension was done with the bike solid on its wheels. Off the ground, tensions changed and adjustments would not be right when weight again rested on its wheels.

  Adjusting the chain was not difficult. It was a matter of loosening two big nuts before turning a pair of bolts that moved the back wheel exactly the same amount, then checking that the wheel still ran true before tightening down again.

  "The new Harley belt drives need even less adjusting, Tim. They're the way to go, but old riders stick with the stuff they're familiar with.

  "Hell, the Harley Twin V engine is something like seventy years old. The new Evolution engine is just an improved model, but damned good upgrading, I've got to admit."

  "Why don't you have an Evolution, Uncle Dog?"

  Old Dog scrubbed across his forehead, as if searching for passable reasons.

  "Well, to my eyes an 'Evo' looks like something out of Japan. There's a look missing. Can't exactly put words to it.

  "It sounds dumb, but there isn't much work a man can do on an Evolution. Belt drives and electronic ignitions work better than the old stuff. Gets to be like driving a car. You push a few buttons and away you go. Where's the old spirit of adventure? What happened to the challenge?"

  Old Dog snorted a little at his own reasonings. "Of course, even older riders claimed the same thing when electric start came along. Claimed that if you didn't kick 'em, they weren't real motorcycles.

  "Some were still claiming that about springer forks when I started in the early 1950s. If you didn't have coil springs showing behind your headlight, your ride wasn't the real thing."

  "Springers are coming back now, Uncle Dog. There are some beauties in the new Easyriders."

  "You been into my magazines again? You're just reading them to study all the naked women posing on show bikes. I think I'll tell your mother."

  "I am not." Tim was indignant. "Sometimes I even wish they weren't there, so I could see the motorcycles better."

  "I do myself . . . sometimes. You'll see lots of those biking ladies in Daytona, Tim. Most aren't all that gorgeous, but the cycles are. Beautiful machines down there."

  Old Dog backed the pickup against a bank, and Tim put across an eight-foot-long steel ramp. Dog eased the Harley up slow, getting lined up, then drove along the ramp and into the truck bed.

  When he shut down, Tim said, "Whew, I get nervous every time you do that, Uncle Dog. Falling off that ramp would be awful."

  "Surely would. Nose Nagle, a friend of mine, was loading a rice burner at Precision Cycle down in Sarasota. Stalled and went off sideways. Nose couldn't get clear. No crash bars, of course, so after the engine snapped his leg, it cooked him more than a little. Smelled terrible."

  Timmy said, "Wow!"

  "Yep. Nose never rode a Jap bike again. Sticks to American iron like he ought to."

  The Harley was tied down and covered well, so it would shine when they got to Florida. Their duffel was stuffed into sail bags, and the bags went into footlockers to stay clean and dry.

  They were ready.

  It was raining and biting cold when they drove out of Bloomfield. Good weather to leave behind, Old Dog claimed.

  Their start was late. Timmy's mother had a lot of last minute warnings, and his Dad laid on a few more about doing just what Uncle Dog told him and to be careful. Tim thought they would never get done.

  Uncle Dog was slow himself and looked as though he hadn't slept too well, but he climbed behind the wheel, pointed a pistol finger at his brother in some sort of shared meaning, and suggested Arlis quit worrying; they were going to have fun.

  They passed a loaded school bus going through Shermansdale, and Tim thought how lucky he was to be going to Florida while everybody else went to school.

  Uncle Dog had something to say on the subject. "When your Dad and I were young, you couldn't have gotten off school like this. There used to be truant officers who came for school kids that didn't show up. They could even arrest parents for letting it happen."

  "Maybe Dad'll get arrested while I'm gone."

  "Huh, not these days." Old Dog snickered, "I'd pay a dollar or two to hear that your Mom got locked up for it. Whew, I'd never dare come home again."

  Timmy tried to imagine his mother in jail because he had missed school. If that ever happened, he guessed he had better not come home again either.

  Arlis Carlisle lay quietly, hoping her husband believed her asleep. Larry was not; she knew his sleep sounds too well to doubt. He, too, was probably thinking about their son, somewhere in the Carolinas by now, off to his first great adventure. Perhaps not though. Larry also had his brother to worry about. Old Dog was seriously ill, so sick he would not survive. Somehow, she had difficulty believing that. Old Dog always survived.

  Old Dog was such a trial, but he was like chronic pain. After a while one hardly noticed the misery. Unfortunately, Old Dog simply devastated the Carlisle's social standing. Although no one outwardly criticized or laughed about the family's black sheep, Arlis just knew they snickered behind her back. If s
omeone else had a good-for-nothing biker in their family, Arlis would certainly have noticed, so others did as well.

  She could understand male acceptance of Old Dog, although it still surprised her how important men appeared to enjoy Adam's company. Men, after all, were little more than large boys, who still liked to believe themselves brave and adventurous. Dog's loose biker ways titillated them, probably made them feel young and vigorous. Arlis heard herself sniff in practiced contempt.

  Once, just once, Old Dog had had a genuine opportunity to make up for his years of sullying the Carlisle name, but every time Arlis thought about it, she almost cried before grinding her teeth in helpless fury.

  Old Dog mentioned dozens of rider acquaintances around the country. Most of them had horrid nicknames like Snake, Barf, or Zip. Not all, though, and he occasionally mentioned Malcolm, who lived in New York or maybe Connecticut. Arlis never listened closely.

  Just before the annual Harley-Davidson convention in Sturgis, South Dakota—Arlis supposed it was 1989—Old Dog let her know that a number of biking pals, including Malcolm might stop by. He rarely asked, but this time he wondered if she might fix up a nice home-cooked meal for them.

  Of course she said, "No!" Arlis Carlisle had let him know that she was not a servant for a bunch of motorcycle bums. Old Dog had shrugged, raised a peace sign, and gone away.

  Arlis heard the motorcycles as they turned the corner and came past the Mormon Church. She stepped onto the porch and waited.

  There were six of them, new looking machines with leathered and helmeted riders. They braked below the porch, and she stepped to the rail, fists on hips, letting her disapproval show.

  "Good morning, ma'am. I'm Malcolm, we're looking for Old Dog." The speaker was an old dog himself, certainly in his sixties, clean shaven and tanned, probably balding under the helmet.

  Arlis kept her voice cold. "He lives out back in the shack with the porch."

  She closed hard. "Stay off the grass going around." The screen door slammed behind her.

  The Harleys rumbled into life, and their thunder rounded the house comer. Arlis peered out the sink window, watching Old Dog vault his porch railing to back slap and shoulder punch his visitors. The riders, Arlis saw, were all old men. They wore glasses and had wrinkly necks. They ought to act their age and stop riding motorcycles, she decided.

  Larry and Tim were coming from the barn and stopped for introductions. Timmy climbed the porch, obviously intending to stay. Surprisingly, Larry also picked a spot to settle.

  An hour later Arlis heard the cycles firing up. Old Dog led them down the drive where they shifted to two abreast. Her husband and son came in the back door.

  While they washed for supper, Arlis put the food on. As usual, they ate in the kitchen where things were handy. When seated in place, Arlis asked, "Where is Dog taking them?"

  "Over to the Newport Hotel for supper. Malcolm will have his trucks there to take the motorcycles on to Cleveland. The riders will fly out and join up there for some more visiting."

  Timmy was more concerned with machinery. "They had handsome scooters, Dad, but I like Uncle Dog's shovel better."

  Arlis's interest had been piqued. "How can they afford to fly around like that? How do they get the money?"

  Larry Carlisle's fork froze halfway to his mouth, and he looked a trifle stunned.

  Tim said, "That Malcolm's got all the money in the world. He even owns castles and palaces and has some fancy kind of eggs worth millions, doesn't he, Dad?"

  A cold knot began forming low in Arlis Carlisle's innards.

  Her husband laid his fork down and looked at her in wonderment.

  "Arlis, I thought you knew. Dog has mentioned him a hundred times."

  She wanted to scream, "Who is he?" but contained herself. It was not easy; Larry was obviously upset by her not knowing.

  He cleared his throat, as if unwilling to explain.

  "Arlis, Old Dog's Malcolm is Malcolm Forbes, the famous publisher. Tim is right, Mister Forbes is very rich and internationally famous. He and his friends, who are also international personalities, call themselves 'The Capitalist Tools.' They are on their way to Sturgis for the Harley-Davidson gathering and stopped to visit with Old Dog."

  Arlis said faintly, "Oh, I didn't catch his name."

  She wanted to rage, to throw food on the floor, to rush out and burn Dog's shack to the ground.

  What a social triumph she could have had. Malcolm Forbes sitting at her table enjoying a few of her special recipes. Just a few discreet telephone calls with innocent mention of the great man's presence and casual invitation to drop by—no one could ever again have doubted the Larry Carlisle's place in things.

  She blamed Old Dog for this. He could have explained, but Dog would rather humiliate her, and let her miss the greatest social coup there could be. Arlis remembered her voice demanding, "Stay off the grass . . ." she feared she would throw up.

  Arlis hid her upset and pretended to listen as Larry ranted on and on about how Mister Forbes had said this, how the chairman of the paper company had said that, and what the White House advisor claimed about something else. Eventually the meal ended. She shooed her men away and cleaned up herself.

  It was dark when Old Dog motored in alone. Larry joined him, the men laughed, and Dog's boots thumped in and out of his house. Arlis felt horribly left out and neglected.

  The Harley chugged into low idle. In a minute Old Dog coasted around the comer. He waved at her silhouette on the porch and called, "See you in a few weeks." She watched his headlight turn left and heard the bike pass through town.

  Larry came through the house and sat beside her. After a bit he said, "Dog's off to Sturgis. Going to meet up with Malcolm along the way, if it works out."

  Arlis wished silently that Old Dog would never come back.

  Timmy came around the house making motorcycle noises and parked on the bottom step.

  Larry said, "Just like that, Dog packs a shirt and some socks and starts for South Dakota. Isn't that something?"

  Timmy explained, "That's the way real bikers are, Dad. 'They live to ride, and ride to live.'" The boy parroted a Harley-Davidson slogan.

  Arlis made the best of it, but just describing to social people how Malcolm Forbes and some industrialists had come by did not really stick. She also prayed for forgiveness of her anger at Old Dog, and a more tentative offering that suggested that she might have been more charitable to her brother-in-law's friends.

  Neither gossip nor prayer did much good. Arlis still got heartburn thinking about it.

  Larry Carlisle was awake. He could feel the tension in Arlis's still form and supposed she was worried about Timmy being off with Adam and of course the motorcycles she feared with illogical intensity.

  The damned things were dangerous but not suicidal. Men rode their whole lifetimes without injury. It was usually a young guy still learning who piled up and made interesting newspaper reading. Not always, though. George Coldren had gotten spilled because his kickstand was down, and George knew how to ride. Larry guessed the point of letting Timmy travel with Old Dog was that he wanted his son to experience things and not live and die in some safely cocooned ignorance. Arlis had not put her foot down, and Larry appreciated that. Old Dog was not her favorite relative, and it took a lot of restraint to see her only son ride off with him.

  That Old Dog was hurting did not help. Dog might misjudge and get really ill—it could happen. Larry had made sure Timmy had the office phone number as well as the home phone. When he was working, Larry might not pick up the house phone, and—well, it just paid to be prepared.

  Old Dog had reservations at a posh hotel right on the beach, and he had chosen to drive the pickup south. Both were firsts. Dog had usually camped in some place called the Nova Campground, and he always rode his Harley the whole way. Dog obviously wasn't himself.

  Tim was in for some wild scenes, that was for certain. Larry hoped the better things Adam would point out and talk about would ba
lance the bizarre, vulgar, and reckless Timmy would encounter.

  Larry remembered the easy, worldly competence of a youth whose U. S. Marine Corps father had turned over to his sergeants for maturing. That boy handled everything with exemplary aplomb. Larry Carlisle did not want his son emulating Old Dog's lifestyle—and experience usually helped honest perspective. He hoped and expected that seeing firsthand would remove the mystery, so that Tim could choose and judge with knowledge rather than immature imaginings.

  Often when Old Dog took off on a trip, Larry squelched an urge to climb on and leave his own work-day world behind. Riding in the wind, camping under the stars, seeing new faces and places always held attraction. Breakdowns, dirt, public antipathy, mean cops, and foul weather did not. Rootlessness quickly lost its allure for most, and many would-be wanderers developed a hunger for direction and meaning in their lives.

  On the other hand, until Old Dog saw the tunnel's end, he had not given a hoot in hell about direction. He might call in from the Florida Keys when they thought he was in Oregon or casually mention just riding in from Saskatoon.

  Larry wondered if Adam was often lonely. He found himself grinning in the dark. Perhaps in some higher or subconscious sense Old Dog could be lonesome, but Adam had arrived too many times with long haired, hard-bodied women riding behind. Arlis was predictably offended, more so as Dog aged, and the female companions stayed young.

  Male riders regularly rumbled up the drive looking for Old Dog. They came astride an astonishing variety of Harleys, with an occasional foreign machine as spice. The riders were often more outlandish than their rides. Some were powerfully intimidating, huge-bodied and tattooed. Those kinds made Larry Carlisle think of pillaging vandals. Arlis never got over the giant whose helmet boasted viking-like buffalo horns and who had chrome studs over the knuckles of his fingerless gloves. He wore an elbow-length fur cape attached to his leather jacket and damned if his handle had not been Ragnar.

  Rob Troyer out of Florida had a waist-length ponytail that he usually controlled with rubber bands, and his lady's saucy good looks (Bobby-Joe was it?) had about stolen Timmy's heart. Mike, a local Harley dealer, came by occasionally, and he had a gold Harley-Davidson eagle on a front tooth.