kalvin dot life

So the underground dairy network was a bait and switch. There truly does exist an old refrigerator hidden in the back of an unlocked garage in a small Montanan town where you can drop off $10 in return for two quarts of delicious unfiltered, unpasteurized goat milk, but the full story will have to wait. I figure it’s time to finally write down my first cross-country magical motorcycle mystery tour.

$500 won’t exactly get you a motorcycle. It might get you a hodgepodge contraption of leather, rubber, and steel, which may or may not start depending on the moment, which coughs smoke and backfires on its way out the driveway. But I drove it once around a Macy’s parking lot around 10 pm on a cold Minnesotan April night and shook to close the deal. I put 500 miles on it on the backroads in Wisconsin my junior year of college. The speedometer promptly fell off and I rode it out of gas twice, but I cut my teeth and gained confidence even if I never actually got my license.

When my junior semester ended I set off out west. I had two burlap-style saddlebags, one full of oatmeal and the other full of Soylent, a food phase my body probably won’t forgive me for in my later years, with the camping gear stashed in my backpack strapped on behind me. On my way to Minnesota, the exhaust burned through the bags and cooked the oatmeal straight up. So much for meal planning.

I swung through to visit my parents and for my birthday was gifted a set of armor-plated riding gear. I may have looked like a Power Ranger, but there wasn’t room on the back for a fair-haired hitchhiking companion swooned by a badass motorcycle riding vagabond anyway. I also had a National Parks pass which I intended to put to good use, though I never made a destination or plan more than 24 hours out.

Straight west from Minnesota led me to Badlands National Park in South Dakota. The area is gorgeous by midwest standards and here I had my first opportunity for adventure. While riding through the gravel roads of the park I was stopped by a herd of buffalo passing through. I turned off the engine, sat still, and watched. They came close and my bike and I sat shadowed under these beasts. Riding a motorcycle in the middle of a herd of buffalo made my heart beat just as loud as their hoof steps. I camped nearby that night and woke early to enjoy the dawn. There were a few other morning risers scattered around the open field. I peered across the grounds at a man and a solitary buffalo seemingly at ends with each other. Sipping tea, I watched in astonishment as this buffalo charged the gentleman. He jumped out of the way and the tent appeared to catch the force of it. I blinked twice. There was no sound to the altercation, just a few beats of hooves and a rustle. I shook my head as the buffalo meandered away and reflected upon the vividness of my own experience the night before.

South Dakota turned to Wyoming which in turn became Montana. I camped on mountain roads and swung through a provincial town for a new bike chain. When I had this repair done I forgot to check the oil, a mistake which turned the next several weeks into more of an adventure than I bargained for. I rode the bike pretty hard across the interstate, with the Montanan elevation contributing its due. The sun was out in such force I got sun poisoning on my only exposed skin, my right wrist where glove nor watch nor sleeve was protecting it. It was this hot out when I descended into a small valley which I came to learn was home to the small town of Little Deer, on the Crow reservation. Descending in, I heard a terrible noise of clanging metal under me and lost most power to the engine. It still rode, but just enough to get it to a gas station and investigate. I’m no mechanical whizz and it didn’t sound good. I filled it with gas and pondered on what to do.

Sitting in the gas station parking lot I began to take notice of my surroundings. A few seconds later I was approached by a rather ghastly-looking woman asking for money. I gave her a few bills and she ambled off, only to directly turn around and ask for more. Seeing this, a man got out of his truck and began berating her, which cemented the fact in my mind that this is probably not an ideal situation for me to be in. To remove myself from further developments I drove my hobbled bike across the street to a grocery store parking lot. Hopping off, I approached a jovial-looking man sitting outside his truck and asked him if he knew of a repair shop anywhere. He asked me if I was stranded and I responded in the affirmative. “Go talk to that cop” he said, pointing. I kinda hesitated, being unlicensed and not exactly appreciative of the previous altercations with police I’d been partial to. “Go talk to that cop NOW.” Yessir. I made haste and asked where the nearest repair shop was. Being a town of 300 people, there wasn’t one, but there was a junkyard with a mechanic a couple of miles back and I could try my luck there. So I headed out.

With the bike refusing to start, I began pushing. Three things worked against me. First, it was uphill, out of the valley. Second, it was 100 degrees out and I was wearing armor planted jacket and pants. Third, three stay dogs followed me, literally nipping at my heels. Stopping to rest once the dogs understood I offered nothing but the smell of burnt oatmeal and kicks, I looked down between my legs to see a used needle, and the gravity of my situation sunk in. I had 21 years, long hair, and ambition that outweighed my ability. But as they say, all you need in this life is ignorance and confidence; then success is sure.

I eventually made it to the wrecking yard and worked alongside the mechanic to find out I’d bent a rod from lack of oil. The fix was a new engine, which wasn’t going to happen for this 1981 Honda out in the middle of big sky country. I called my dad to give him the scoop. After a bit of chatting, he offered to drive out and get me. It was a generous offer, there being a thousand miles between us, and I considered it for a second. But I declined. I didn’t know where I’d stay that night or what I’d do tomorrow, but I knew I hadn’t made it truly west yet. There was the Pacific Ocean to see. The Rockies. The Redwoods. I asked him not to tell my mother everything and turned to the immediate situation. Where to sleep?

The genial Native American owner of this junkyard offered me a bed in his camper. How could I refuse? In fact, I offered to give him the bike in return. We signed over the title and stood outside his shop talking in the setting sun. Suddenly gunshots broke out. Automatic and semi-auto shots all across the valley. He turned to look at me solemnly “There’s a war on, son.” My eyes widened a bit in my blank face. I was at a loss and we stood there for a moment. Then he cracked up and between laughs chortled out “Nah I’m just shittin’ ya they’re out target practicing and all.” After all that had happened that day, I just shook my head in resignation. I got into the lower bunk of the RV that night and only let one tear slip out.

The next morning offered a world of possibilities. Hitchhike east or hitchhike west. West it was. I made a rule to myself to never sit with my thumb out, but to keep walking backward when a cat came by. I’d smile and every so often gives the oncoming cars mimed tugs on an invisible rope to reel them in. That never worked, but I was picked up by a full car of friendly Native American men, only one of which spoke English. In fact, in the dozens of times I’ve hitchhiked since I’ve had the most luck on or near reservations or native land. People with a community are always more compassionate.

I caught two more rides on my way to Billings. One woman didn’t speak any English, but the next man did and he had stories to tell. Upon picking me up he said he always picks up hitchhikers, since he himself was in the same situation at my age. He said to stand back from the highway when semis go by because he once was knocked unconscious by a blown-out semi-truck tire. He said he’d met Bob Dylan and that the singer was the biggest prick he’d ever had the misfortune to converse with. And he said he was adopted into the Crow tribe after an eclectic tribunal, which he went on to describe.

“I was a bit older than you when I hitchhiked my way here from out east. This little town existed at that point even, but the creek we just crossed was called ‘Shit Creek’ in the native language until the government came through and named it ‘Fly Creek’ in English. I stopped at a general store and hung out on the porch. I offered my help when it was needed, and they offered me a spot out back for the night. I liked where I was so I stayed another day. And one of the elders watched me hanging out on that porch and helping out. I stayed another day. And one more. Finally, after watching me there for most of a week, this elder spoke up and asked me simply if I’d like to join them. I thought about it for a bit and said yes. A year later I met my now wife, a beautiful Native American girl, and I’ve been here ever since.”

He also pointed out a hillside and said it was the famous battleground of Custer’s Last Stand. Apparently, a rancher under the name Buster had bought some of the lands, changing it from Custer’s Battleground to Buster’s Cattleground. He pointed out houses and lands which were foreclosed on and bought up by wealthy real estate owners and bought me breakfast before dropping me off in Billings. On our way, we picked up a fellow hitchhiker, a man much older and more forlorn. With this, I began to learn the difference between homeless and home-free.

Standing by the side of the on-ramp in Billings, with my backpack and helmet stacked next to me, I stuck my thumb out. No luck. After an hour I meandered around and read the graffiti on the nearest lamppost. “10 hours, nothing!” High spirits can only last so long. But, it didn’t take much longer for a short-sleeved young man to pull his tiny black roofless two-seater to a screeching stop on the side of the highway and open the door for me to get in.

I looked into the passenger side seat to see an AR-15, muzzle pointed to the sky, already in my place. He grabbed it, shoved it aside, and asked if I was getting in. “Yep!” I crammed myself in there next to the semi-automatic rifle, with backpack and helmet on my lap, and let the wind whip my hair all the way to Bozeman. I didn’t think the morning’s stories of folk singers and native people could be beaten, but indeed they could.

Turns out this generous young man, maybe mid-thirties with close-cropped black hair was a deep-sea underwater welder. He fixed bridges and battleships with tools he described as ‘lightsabers that work underwater.’ He said he picked me up because I didn’t look like a normal hitchhiker (who carries around a motorcycle helmet?) and figured he could use the company. From him, I got an almost unbelievable story involving him meeting three beautiful women on a flight to Hawaii, who then invited him to stay and party at their condo for the length of his trip. It was one of those stories that seemed too ostentatious to make up, so I actually believed him, still to this day. He dropped me off in downtown Bozeman where I had a friend I could crash with for a bit while I got my affairs in order. Here ends the first part of this saga, which I will pick up again next week in ‘Motorcycle 2: Electric Boogaloo.’