Two Wheels To There

Two Wheels To There

Two Wheels To There

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Pherther-Grams

twowheelstothere

The mid-May weekend was looking decent, so Surtch Pherther, jonesing for a desert rip, would hit dirt again. He’d aimed to dark-wander with good tunes and smoke, but ride-tired and for the week’s work and a nightfall chill, was fine turning in early to breeze on the fly and nothin’ otherwise. The next morn, he tracked dawn up a near, near-familiar ridge for fossil-hunting and a sudden snake-watch after a biggun rattled itself know, and then throttled off for fuel, food, and a Bud at a state-line oasis, where he met two dudes who’d cycle-slogged two-hundred-fifty-ish miles through downpours and desert heat just to carve a glacier.

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Jun 9

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The mid-May weekend was looking decent, so Surtch Pherther, jonesing for a desert rip, would hit dirt again.  He’d aimed to dark-wander with good tunes and smoke, but ride-tired and for the week’s work and a nightfall chill, was fine turning in early to breeze on the fly and nothin’ otherwise.  The next morn, he tracked dawn up a near, near-familiar ridge for fossil-hunting and a sudden snake-watch after a biggun rattled itself know, and then throttled off for fuel, food, and a Bud at a state-line oasis, where he met two dudes who’d cycle-slogged two-hundred-fifty-ish miles through downpours and desert heat just to carve a glacier.

Moto-Ogling and The Mosquito Race – 2011.09.03(a)

Published on August 24, 2015 by Ry Austin 7 Comments

“One for the race, please,” said Surtch Pherther to the clerk.

“Here you go,” she said, swapping a ticket for his currency. “Now, just ride through this gate, and park beyond the show tent that’ll be on your right. Concessions are under the grandstand, and you’re free to wander the paddock and the garages and, you know, check out the bikes and stuff.”

“Okay, thank you. Wait, what?…”

She chuckled. “Of course. Just watch for racers out test-riding and on their way to the track.”

Surtch was beside himself. He hadn’t imagined that he’d be allowed to get familiar with the machines. It hadn’t even crossed his mind that it might be possible…

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin
Just a Couple of Joker Machines

That morning, in pre-dawn’s thin, blue-gray wash, he’d zipped up the vents on his leather coat, snapped shut those on his full-face, wriggled his fingers into his gloves, and switched on Riot Machine and pressed its starter. With a crank-crank-ba-RUMPH-blub-blub-blub, the naked bike’s big V heat had begun to rise. He’d hipped it vertical, heeled its stand, POP’d it into first, and at easing the clutch lever out and the throttle on, thundered off.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

He’d rumbled west at 15 over the limit on arrow-straight Industrial Way: past drab factories, tilt-up warehouses, and countless lots for ready rigs; past the vast tailings pond and pile with sides so slightly sloped that it nearly goes unnoticed; past the refinery and smelter and sky-piercing stack–all forever crumbling and always on the rise–seizing what’s precious from the City of Contradictions’ gaping open-pit; and around, where the head of the Partition Mountains forces Industrial Way to join the interstate and shoves it and the rails onto fickle Lake Termina’s sometimes-shore–foggy when freezing; otherwise, marshy, muggy, buggy, and enchanting for its harshness.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

History of the Wild West claims that it was for passage less perilous that horsemen and handcarts, wagons and stages, and roads and rails had rounded the ranges when possible, skirting each and shooting straight for the nearest end of the next one west as though in some super-scale dot-to-dot, but no… It was the mountains that had held men out and pushed them around: The peaks had sought to keep their secrets–their glitterings hidden and groves untracked, their snowmelt unsavored and vistas unseen. They’d sought to safeguard their elevated virtue.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin
Apostle Rockets

About 30 minutes after leaving home and after a few miles of toying with 85 in a 75, Surtch had throttled down gradually on the ramp that swings off long, rises to overpass the interstate, and drops–suddenly to 45 mph as well–depositing one into the dusty, greasy guts of little Brinton, less a town than a glorified truck stop with the regular roadside fare for weary travelers struck with hunger whenever.

As he’d tried to cut Riot Machine’s speed to the limit, he’d mumbled into his muffling helmet and above the remaining road-, wind-, and bike-noise, “This morning’s like autumn. Something about this just feels like fall”.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin
Buttered Toast

Twelve or so years earlier, Surtch had joined his brother and sister-in-law in peaks-nestled Silvervale for dinner, a sort of celebration for his brother’s birthday. While they had afterward wandered the old mining town turned tourist trap, a late-August evening chill had lifted from its lofty perch, trickled down through the filtering grasses, shrubs, and woods and spilled across splashing streamlets onto Silvervale’s steep, off-season streets.

Surtch had remarked that something about it all smelled like autumn, and if he recalled correctly, his companions had questioned his perception. The thing was, he hadn’t know why. If there’d been evidence, he could have cited it, could have defended his senses, but–though roadside grasses had been late-summer dry–the undergrowth still had been lush, and the aspen leaves fully green. Nevertheless, to Surtch there’d been something–something intangible, something inscrutable, something maybe just beneath the surface.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

“HellOOO racers and fans alike. Welcome to your Salina Raceway.” The loudspeaker announcement, a bit distorted and screechy, echoed off the pavement and off the cinder block of the grandstand and the garages and drifted into the vacant, desert sky. “We hope you enjoyed the gOrrrgeous morning, that you’ve drooled on a bike or two, and that you’ve bought a bite to eat and something refreshing to drink from our concessionaires, located under the grandstand. If not, there’s – still – time.

“NOwww, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. The race of the classic and fabulous, the downright delightful, the historic, but highly modified, within reason, mind you… The Honda CB160s-EEZ-Eez-eez… Racers, please proceed to track gate number 1. The event will commence in 15 minutes. Thank yoouuu.”

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin
Nice Pair…

With the lunch of champions in hand–a large Coke, watered-down and over-iced for sure, and a box of Mike and Ikes–Surtch climbed the grandstand steps to join the other spectators. There weren’t many–the place was virtually empty–and they were gathered at the railing overlooking the pits and the track. They were mostly family, friends, and racers themselves, content in each other’s company and transported by the gaiety of the event–a good group.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin
Road Rash

“We have a real treat for you today, race fans. The event will begin with a Le Mans-style and bump start. For those who don’t know…”

The suited-up racers took starting stances on the track’s inside edge and, at the drop of the flag, dashed across as well as possible, snatched their bikes from their assistants, and proceeded to push start–or to try to–those little engines that could. After one racer rushed to the wrong ride, resulting in a brief, theatrical scuffle on the track and a hearty chuckle from the grandstand, all bikes got started, got moving, and within a turn or two, magically were clustered: Stragglers had surged, leaders had lagged, and all were synchro-sweeping out of sight, speeding toward the far reaches.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

Cheerful chatter in the grandstand filled the brief noise-void before a cloudlet of dust rose in the distance as a racer coasted his stalled bike off the track. Immediately thereafter, a remote hum followed by a low buzz signaled the pack’s return. The racers appeared in warmth-wavy flashes across the asphalt and mounds of dirt and sparse brush–there, gone, there, gone, there, gone–like breaching by a pod of mechanical sea forms on ground swells of a bleak future-scape.

Suddenly, in plain view around the final wide curve before the home straightaway, they zipped, high-revving their low displacements at 75 or 80 mph if they were lucky. The smattering in the grandstand erupted in hurrahs and applause, and to the grinning stranger nearest, Surtch hollered gleefully, “Ha-haa! They sound like a herd of blasted mosquitos!” And just as suddenly, the racers were gone again, off bagging curves of lap two, synchro-sweeping out of sight, speeding toward the far reaches.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin
The Mosquito Race

It was early afternoon, and from the high desert valley floor, summer heat now was rising–spreading for itself, settling everywhere, getting into everything. Above the cheerful chatter that filled another brief noise-void, Surtch could hear the metal canopy high overhead pinging and popping with expansion.

He mumbled to himself, “Today–it’s like autumn nonetheless. Something about it just feels like fall–something intangible, inscrutable, maybe just beneath the surface. If only there were evidence”.

Filed Under: Riot Machine, Salina Raceway Tagged With: brinton, lake termina, motorcycle races, motorcycle shows, partition mountains, recollections, wandering

There’s Salt in the Water – 2011.06.15

Published on February 13, 2015 by Ry Austin Leave a Comment

2.2011.06.15

He fled work at five. He ate bulgogi and banchan, spicy tofu soup, and crunchy cooked rice. He rode to where the Lake Termina Funfair is long gone, where Grandad as a lad played Swing.

Deep-stepping dry sand and parting reeds, stalked by a ghost, he passed remnants… ruins… wreckage… rubble… residue… dust…

Through fly swarms he forged, and footprinted damp sand, and he reminisced, in his bygone childhood, being Grandad’s shadow.

Shore others jigged and tagged, touched and held, stared out at nothing, and gazed into others’ eyes. Shore others far off. Others.

Countless gulls were careful on the ground, watchful from encrusted pilings, and carefree aloft, and he regretted, as a stupid kid for pals, once mocking Grandad’s limp.

To the water’s edge, toward the setting sun, he went, and toed the toe of the surf and eyed the eye of the glare, and he teared up for never apologizing.

Yet it wasn’t about that, or just that, but everything, from forever, even before him, and Lake Termina was too shallow and small to absorb Surtch Pherther’s deepest desire…

It doubtless would return the body to shore.

Filed Under: Escape Artist Tagged With: art, lake termina, railroads, ruins, solitude, the mindquake, wandering

Low-Flying First Dirt – 2009.10.25

Published on February 13, 2015 by Ry Austin Leave a Comment

60, 65, 70… Surtch Pherther could not have imagined: cruising the Cozway Island road carefree at careless speeds; smooth-spanning severe washboards; lifting over low stones like big, ancient teeth stayed in emergence; skimming shallow, gravel drifts; blurring past trashed machines and their diggings; hardly, it seemed, ever touching ground.

1.2009.10.25

Almost at the tip of the land, he arrived at the point of the road, an interpretive trail turnout. Leaving Escape Artist, he went to take in the big sand and its reed patches, tamarisk among coarse boulders, the relative quiet, and in waves, the scent of Lake Termina, sometimes a stifling reek, other times a fragrance like fine spices.

2.2009.10.25

On his return to pavement, he diverted, slipping unsteadily across a mud patch and bumping up a rocky two-track to a familiar low saddle. About a hundred feet farther up the mountainside lay the most prominent shoreline from a massive, prehistoric lake.

4.2009.10.25Surtch thought of his times on the island: walks along an east side trail to a glyph-decked outcrop; four-wheeling “closed” roads with his brother one warm spring night and about getting beach-stuck on the remote other side; midnight mountain biking in the frozen fall; several slogs up the snow-packed draw to the ridge; climbing in a winter solstice predawn with a high school friend and smoking cigars like pros but sipping single malt like wimps at the top where Surtch wishfully hollered his best free verse at daybreak; and countless times target shooting with his family where he now stood and stared southwest over the evaporation ponds and into a bit of the remoteness beyond, to maybe glimpse future rides, future adventures, future challenges.

Back on pavement, Surtch was soon at the head of the onramp. He throttled hard, and Escape Artist responded, its nose rising; throttled off, un-clutched, and its nose dipped; shifted to second, clutched, throttled, and its nose rose; and over and over and over and over again, to third and fourth and fifth and sixth. By 85, at the end of the ramp and onto the 65 interstate, a smile had spread wide across his face.

Filed Under: Cozway Island, Escape Artist Tagged With: lake termina, mines, solitude, wandering