US 18: Myriad Lakes and a Quantum of Veritas

By the time we’d eaten, laughed about Rick until our sides hurt, talked over our day’s ride, and generally kicked back at Dennys, I was out of steam. My plan, when we got back to the room, had been to make coffee and sort dirty clothes for washing. I’d also planned to trawl the internet to find out about Minnesota’s seemingly myriad lakes and, continue to seek out a quantum of veritas in conversation with Mel. But, I made the fatal mistake of lying down for a couple of minutes; and that, right there, was where best laid plans of mice and men went completely sideways.

Later, in the small hours when I woke, it was completely dark, too cold to be sleeping on top of the bed, and very quiet; except for the not so gentle rumble from the gloom on Mel’s side of the room. I felt around in the darkness for the cigarette packet I’d left on the bedside table and, because I was still dressed, slipped stealthily outside. Now, there are those of you who will already know this but for all the rest, I’ll tell you. A cigarette taken on its own, first thing in the morning, is nowhere near as satisfying as one with a nice brew of strong coffee. So, once outside, I wandered to the curb-side to see if there were any viable prospects for coffee acquisition.

Caffeine Quest

Over the road and about a hundred yards to the south, lights from a service station punctured the predawn darkness. Up to that point on our road trip, I hadn’t been to any service station in the US that didn’t have coffee; so, I headed in the direction of the light. As the automatic doors slid noiselessly open I stepped inside, and immediately knew that my quest had been successful; a strong aroma of freshly brewed coffee hung like a promise in the air.

‘Morning,’ I said. 

The young console operator jumped, turned and looked up.

Something Familiar

Momentarily I thought there was something vaguely familiar about him but that, of course, wasn’t possible; I’d never been in Minnesota before, much less Montevideo. At just a bit under six foot, he wasn’t unusually tall but his shoulders were impressively broad, his chest deep and his jet-black hair was buzz cut close to the scalp. An olive complexion betrayed a Mediterranean or perhaps even First Nations heritage.

‘Sorry Mate . . . didn’t mean to startle you,’ I said, with about as much apology in my voice as I could muster at that time of the morning.

‘No problem . . . just didn’t hear you drive in,’ he responded.

‘Well, that’s because I didn’t . . . I walked over from the motel.’

‘Ah . . . that explains it. So, what can I get for you?’ he asked.

‘Just looking for a coffee, Mate.’ I said with the best smile I could put together; which probably wasn’t very good because I don’t generally do the whole smiling thing very well.

‘Help yourself . . . we got House Blend, Columbian, and Dark Roast.’

‘Which one’s the strongest?’ I asked.

‘Dark Roast’, he returned.

Not from around here . . . are you?

I sauntered over to the coffee bar, decanted a medium cup, squirted in a few shots of Coffee Mate sweetened whitener, stirred, and then took a tentative sip. It was, indeed, pretty strong and the couple of squirts of coffee whitener made it almost palatable. I ambled back towards the console.

‘What’s the damage?’ I asked.

‘Say what?’ he asked with eyebrows raised.

‘The damage. You know, what do I owe you . . . for the coffee?’

‘You not from round here are you?’ he said; more a statement than a question.

‘No . . . from Australia.’

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘thought so . . . got to know a few of your guys in Afghanistan.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Is that good or not?’

He laughed and then allowed his features to settle into a good natured grin.

‘Good guys . . . blokes, I think you call them don’t you?’

Yeah . . . well, that’s good. At least I don’t start from behind the eight ball.’

‘So you have a few arseholes in Australia too then,’ he continued grinning.

‘Too right . . . every place has a few – some more than others.’

‘Well, I’ve never met any,’ he said.

Marines . . . they run in the family

‘You still in the service? I enquired.

‘Yep. Marines . . . just home for a couple of weeks on leave.’

‘Hey,’ I said, ‘the bloke who owns the motel we’re staying at is an ex-marine  . . . says he has a couple of boys in the Marines too.’ 

‘Yep, he does . . . I’m one of them’.

Ah, there you go . . . that’s why he looked familiar. I’d seen his photograph in the motel’s reception area. And his heritage was clearly not Mediterranean or First Nations; the motel proprietor had introduced a petite Vietnamese Lady working in the front office as his wife.

‘Does your Dad own this place too?’ I asked.

‘Nope. One of his ex-marine buddies does . . . I help out on night-shift sometimes when I’m home on leave,’ he said and raised an eyebrow.

So, what brings you to Montevideo?’

I told him about our road trip, where we’d been and roughly where we thought we might go and why.

‘Anyway . . . what do I owe you for the coffee?’

Taking Care of Allies

‘It’s on the house buddy.’

‘Well, thank you . . . that’s very kind.’

‘Least I can do for one of our allies,’ he grinned and held out a hand. 

‘Name’s Luke.’

I took his hand. 

‘Lester,’ I said, and just then a vehicle pulled into the service forecourt.

‘Looks like you’ve got a customer . . . better leave you to it. Thanks for the coffee . . . and take care,’ I said as I turned to go.

‘You take care too Buddy . . . and travel safe.’

The automatic doors slid silently open again as I approached. 

I stepped outside. 

Away to the east an incipient sunrise paled the sky just behind the low set buildings in the distance. I strolled to the edge of the fuelling apron, paused to light my first cigarette for the day, and then strolled across the road and back towards the motel.

Pre-Dawn In Montevideo

In the incrementally dissolving darkness, the stars were fading fast and the city was slowly coming to life. Traffic on Highway 212 had increased and in the still coolness I could hear a distant locomotive whistle. Gravel on the motel driveway crunched underfoot as I made my way back to our unit. Easing myself into the canvas director’s chair strategically placed against the wall of our unit, I set my coffee down on a diminutive circular table complete with rust patina. 

Mel was still snoring; I could hear his stentorian rumble through the window. I tapped another Marlboro out of my softpack; placed it in the corner of my mouth; flicked the lighter; cupped my hand around the flame; and drew a deep breath. Although the sky’s indigo had paled, it would still be the best part of an hour before that great ball of fire, the sun, would edge above the horizon. The gentlest of breezes hardly disturbed the trees that lined the driveway but leaves rustled sporadically in the gloom. 

There was a cold edge to the air; the first hint of autumn’s promised chill. The searing furnace of the Mojave and Utah’s Canyonlands had leached out of our consciousness leaving only a residual sensation of intense heat to be stored along with impressions of people and places along the way. In the late afternoons we’d begun to feel the first nip of a winter that would soon come marching down from the north. 

Born in Wewak

In the half-light, I savoured my cigarette and sipped on the sweet creamer-laced Columbian. My thoughts drifted in the general direction of that brother of mine blithely but noisily asleep in the room behind me. I pondered the relentless passage of time; the years that had slipped away; and, the chaotic confluence of events and happenstance that had formed the warp and weave of our separate lives. These events and circumstances had conspired to bring us to this quiet, early morning in the mighty Midwest; land of a myriad lakes and half a world away from the places we called home. Perhaps it was time to add to our quantum of veritas.

My brother, Melvin Wayne, was born in the hospital on Wewak Hill in what is now the East Sepik Province of Papua New Guinea. Back then, the eastern half of that big dinosaur-shaped island just to the north of Australia was still a Trust Territory; administered per not so kind favour of the Commonwealth of Australia on behalf of the UN. The western half, now designated Irian Jaya, was known as Dutch New Guinea back in those days; the last sad remnant of Holland’s delusions of colonial greatness.

Be that as it may, when Mel was born there in 1958, Wewak was the Administrative Headquarters of the Sepik District; a vast patchwork area that stretched from the crocodile and mosquito infested floodplains of the Sepik River and Murik Lakes to the Dutch New Guinea Border and back to the foothills of the towering Owen Stanley Ranges.

The Way We Were

The Seventh-day Adventist Mission, where we lived, was sited on the western side of Wewak Hill; a modest sized mesa-like plateau positioned at the end of a peninsula of land that separated the eastern and western harbours. 

In the 1950s, you had to be ‘European’ to live on Wewak Hill. The Chinese, who owned and operated almost all of the wholesale and retail outlets in town, mostly lived ‘over the shop’. And those shops were perched uneasily on a narrow strip of flat land that formed a  kind of border between Wewak Hill and an expansive mangrove swamp. New Guineaans, most commonly referred to by the Europeans as ‘Natives’, lived in villages and settlements at Wirui, Boram, Kreer and Brandi; in fact anywhere – as long as it was not on Wewak Hill.

Now, it’s probably worth addressing a possible misconception here. In Wewak and the surrounding area there were Europeans, Chinese, and Natives. Being European in the Mandated Territory of Papua and New Guinea at the time didn’t necessarily mean that you were from Europe; it meant that you were ‘white’ as opposed to being Chinese or Native. Though precluded from living on Wewak Hill, natives were permitted to work there during daylight hours; after all, someone had to provide domestic services to the Europeans who lived there.

Wewak Hill

You could circumnavigate Wewak Hill in about ten minutes by Jeep on a gravel road which actually comprised ‘koronus’ [crushed coral] rather than gravel. Inside that circle were the Administrative Offices for the District, the Single Officers Quarters, the Cricket Oval, the Mission Aviation Fellowship Headquarters and the Base Hospital. On the perimeter outside this circle nestled the homes of the Senior Administration Officers and other notable Europeans: the District Commissioner, Bob Cole; Bobby Gibbs, of Gibbs Sepik Airways fame; John Corrigan, the Copra King; and Sno Davies, Corrigan’s ‘consigliere’. Also on this outer perimeter there was the Wewak Hotel, the only pub in town; the Martin’s place adjacent to the Hotel; the Sepik Club, which served the coldest beer in town if you were a member; the Primary A School, for the children of Administrative Staff; and, the Seventh-day Adventist Mission.

Base Hospital

What passed for a hospital probably wouldn’t have qualified anywhere else. It had a concrete floor – of sorts – and a rusty corrugated iron roof, but its walls were thatched with large, heavy propped ‘shutters’ for windows. The wards and operating theatre were unlined and unscreened against the hordes of Anopheles mosquitoes that invaded all places of human habitation at sunset. The hospital had its own emergency generator but this was even less reliable than the town grid; it was notoriously difficult to start and prone to sporadic and unpredictable breakdown. Medical staff dealt with this uncertainty by confining, as far as possible, theatre operations to off-peak times during the day when town power was in lower demand. Air conditioning was simply not a thing in the Territory back then.

In any case, that’s where my brother was born.

Visiting Hours

While Val [Mel’s mother] was in confinement, Dad would visit in the early evenings when his day’s work was done. He’d arrive home from wherever he’d been, collect a chair from the dining table, stride across the expansive front lawn of the Mission Station, cross the koronus road, and position his chair just outside the unglazed window of the Maternity Ward. And there, I suppose, he would rehearse the events of the day for his good lady who would be seated at the self-same window – but on the inside.

I was just a month or two shy of my eighth birthday at that stage and generally pretty enthusiastic about the impending arrival of a little brother. This enthusiasm was not, however, all it seemed on the face of things; it had everything to do with a gratuitous desire for self-preservation and very little to do with a generosity of spirit.

Going Home

My relationship with the lady who was to become Mel’s mother had been fraught, perhaps even doomed, from the outset. Following the marine explosion and fire, Dad and I had been medevaced from the Australian Petroleum Company’s drilling platform by catalina to Port Moresby and subsequently to Sydney. My injuries had healed quickly but Dad spent months in treatment at the Sydney Sanitarium [now the Sydney Adventist Hospital] for his broken legs and extensive burns. After my discharge and while Dad continued treatment, my aunt and I moved into the Mission Hostel just over Fox Valley Road from the hospital. Ultimately, when Dad was finally discharged, we travelled together, by rail, back home to Perth.

A Novel Experience

Now, travelling to Perth by rail in those days was not what it is today. Back then, you boarded a steam train at Sydney’s Central Station and rattled your way through the southwestern suburbs of Sydney, across the high plains to Gundigai, where the dog sits on the tucker box, and on to Albury. There you would change trains because the locomotives and rolling stock could go no further. Years previously, New South Wales had adopted the  4’8” rail gauge used in England and Europe. In Victoria, and some parts of South Australia, a 5’3” gauge from Ireland had been installed. At Port Augusta it was again necessary to change trains and rail gauge for the final long haul across the desert to Kalgoorlie and Perth.

At the time I thought the journey was exceptionally exciting, novel and high tech; my travel to that point had been mainly by road or sea. The reality though was that it was cramped, uncomfortable, noisy, slow and shrouded in an all-pervading aura of smoke, grit and coal dust. The journey from Sydney to Perth took the best part of a week, depending on connections; those well-heeled enough travelled by air. We were definitely not ‘well-heeled’. Dad was a missionary whose worldly possessions could be fitted into a Globite suitcase with room to spare.

A Quantum of Veritas in the Land of Myriad Lakes

By the time Dad and I arrived back in Perth – months after the accident – I’d worked out that the lady who’d arrived at our hospital in Sydney was not, in fact, my mother. She’d turned out to be Auntie Rae – my mother’s sister. So, in the absence of a mother and brothers, I guess I got unreasonably possessive about my Dad. While I had no real concept of what might have happened to bring about my mother’s disappearance, I was in no mood to even remotely entertain the possibility of a replacement.

Dad, on the other hand, though well on the road to physical recovery, was seriously damaged – psychological and emotionally. Of course, I neither knew nor cared about any of this. My only preoccupation, and greatest fear, was the possibility that my Dad might disappear too. So, when Val arrived on the scene, I saw her as something of a threat; at very least she was something that diverted what had been my Dad’s undivided attention.

What Val thought at the time, I have no idea. Even now, I struggle to make sense of whatever logic informs the female thought process. As little more than a toddler, there was no chance that I could comprehend the motivation, emotion, intrigue or physical need that drove the burgeoning relationship between my Dad and this unwelcome and intrusive other.

Water Under the Bridge

Looking back now, I have some appreciation of my Dad’s devastated loneliness and his need for a quantum of physical solace amidst his emotional desolation and despair. There must also have been an almost irresistible urge to cauterise the hemorrhage of this unspeakable tragedy by putting it all behind him and starting again. And this might just have been possible except for the little boy with the serious face and sad eyes who had survived against all odds to be a constant reminder of what could have – should have – been.

Well, things don’t always work out the way they should, do they? In any case, this was all water that had flowed under the bridge decades before; with the best, or worst, will in the world there was no going back now. Our Dad was long gone. Val, Mel’s mother, was living in a retirement facility pondering, among other things no doubt, the belated discovery that her erstwhile husband had been a ‘really good man’. This realisation had ambushed her only after our father’s passing; it seemed to have been a notion that had completely eluded her during the years they’d spent together.

Minnesota Dawn

But, enough of all that. Right then in Minnesota, we were a couple of blokes riding roads I’d never travelled in the northern Midwest of a country I’d never seen. We were just a couple of old buffers, our best years well behind us, teetering on the edge of our ‘sunset years’; admittedly, I was a lot closer to that edge than Mel. 

And while I’d been mulling over the past the gloom of very early morning had progressively faded to reveal substance; houses, shops, trees and traffic. I stood, stretched and then wandered down to where the motel fronted Highway 212.

With a population of about five and a half thousand, Montevideo would not have qualified for city status in Australia; but here it was designated as such and, indeed, was the county seat of Chippewa County. Sited in a double river valley at the confluence of the Minnesota and Chippewa Rivers, Montevideo had all the hallmarks of a service centre for the farms and other agricultural enterprises in the surrounding area.

Ten Thousand Lakes . . . Really?

As we’d crossed the State Line a couple of days earlier, it was hard not to notice a massive billboard blazoned with the words Minnesota – Land of Ten Thousand Lakes. At the time I put this down to the kind of hyperbole that advertising executives use to capture the attention of unsuspecting road trippers. It was only while I was sitting outside in the half light of early morning that I discovered, courtesy of my IPad, that the billboard’s claim was in fact an understatement.

Minnesota, actually has over fourteen thousand lakes larger than ten acres. It also has over sixty-nine thousand miles of rivers and streams; enough, in fact, to circle the globe two and three quarter times. This, I guess, explained why the State had a recreational watercraft for every six people. So, there was indeed a myriad lakes in Minnesota and more than a quantum of veritas in their billboard’s claim.

A State on the Move

With an economy primarily reliant on farming and agriculture, Minnesota produces around forty-six million turkeys yearly; harvests over thirty-three million tons of corn; nets almost nineteen million pounds of fish per annum; and, grazes over five million cows. One of the first States to support the Union at the outbreak of the Civil War, Minnesota is ranked tenth in educational outcomes and first overall in fitness. I couldn’t help but be impressed but I did wonder about what things might have been like before Anglo-European-American settlers arrived.  

Time to Get Up and About

I wandered up the road again for another coffee – and one for Mel. When we’d stopped the previous day, I’d been glad to get off the Deuce and take a break. But now, it was a new day and I was itching to get back on the road again; not because there was a deadline to meet but because our days had settled into a self-perpetuating rhythm of movement with a life of their own.

When I got back to the room, Mel’s bed was empty and I could hear the shower running. I positioned his coffee on the bedside table where he would see it and retreated to the canvas chair outside. And, within a few minutes Mel emerged to face the day; shaved, scrubbed, showered, and looking pretty chipper for that time of the morning.

‘Great day,’ he observed.

‘Great one day . . . perfect the next,’ I parrotted.

‘Not in winter,’ he cautioned. ‘This would all be under a couple of feet of snow in December!

‘Well . . . it’s not December, is it?,’ I countered.

‘Quite right my good man,’ he grinned. ‘Might be a good day for a road trip – I think we should take one!’

‘Good idea,’ I said, ‘right after we get some food into you!’

American Diners

With that, I stubbed out my cigarette and we headed out together in search of a diner. And that search was ultra-brief because across Highway 212 and about a hundred yards along to the north sat the Rivers Family Restaurant. We certainly didn’t need our bikes to get there but it would have been more trouble to take them back than to just go on – so we rode.

I know I’ve said this before but, I’m going to say it again anyway. I like eating in American Diners and I can understand why they are as popular as they are; the food is generally inexpensive and the quality is good; the service is efficient and cheerful; and, the facilities are usually neat and clean. Rivers Family Restaurant was no exception though perhaps better than most. On offer for breakfast was everything from the Rancher’s all-in breakfast through your regular bacon, eggs and hash browns, to as many pancake stacks with syrup as you could eat. I can’t even say that the coffee was a disappointment, though I must admit we’d developed fairly low expectations of the brews on offer in the US.

On the Road Again

Afterwards we wandered back to the motel to pack, load motorcycles and check out. That having been done, we took the measure of each other’s engine, gear and primary case fluids, checked tyre pressure, slung our legs over the saddles and fired up. Montevideo had been generally uneventful but it had been calm, hospitable and restful.

We idled through to the town limits so our V-Twins could reach normal operating temperature and then joined Highway 29 and accelerated north through Benson, Starbuck and Greenwood and on towards Alexandria. Fields of corn seemed to stretch to the horizon on both sides of the road, the sky was clear, the wind light and cool, and traffic was minimal; what most would call ideal riding conditions.

On Riding Motorcycles

There is something elemental about motorcycle riding; particularly if you’re riding during Summer in jeans, T-shirt, boots and you’re helmet free. Driving, it is said, is like watching a movie; doing a road trip on a motorcycle is like being in that movie. In a car, you’re separated, cocooned if you will; quarantined away from the wind, sun, and rain. You see the moving landscape but you’re not really part of it. On a motorcycle, you’re out there subject to the elements and weather; you’re engaged with the environment – you’re part of it. 

I’ve ridden in driving downpours when no amount of wet weather gear will stop you getting soaked to the skin; during winter on a dark road from Canberra to Sydney via Goulburn when no amount of layering will prevent the biting cold chilling you to the bone; in midsummer across the Barkly Tablelands when the outside air temperature peaks out at 47 degrees centigrade and the heat radiating from the road sucks the moisture out of every cell in your body.

On a motorcycle, there is no avoiding the acute reality of the seasons; the bite of the wind on a black winter’s night; the unrelenting angry glare of the sun on a scorching midsummer’s day. All that having been said, on this road trip we had established a few rules that had served to moderate the more trying aspects of being out in the elements.

Apol’s Harley Davidson

We hadn’t been on the road too long when, at the outskirts of Alexandria we happened upon Apol’s Harley Davidson. Not a massive dealership but as good an excuse as any to take a break – and, in my case, have a smoke. We parked the Lowrider and Deuce and then slipped inside to take a look around and to perhaps pick up a T-shirt; by this time I’d acquired quite a few of these – fitting them into my T-Bag would soon be a challenge. Then, having acquired my souvenir, I decided to slip out to the parking area for a quiet smoke. Mel, for his part, was deeply engaged in a conversation with the manager, so I thought I’d leave him to it.

Outside, it had just gone midday. The sky was a deep almost cloudless blue and, while there was distinct burning potential in the sun, the shaded areas were fresh, cool and almost completely devoid of humidity. I lit up and took a cautious sip of the black brew I’d decanted from the percolator in the customer service lounge. The burnt bitterness suggested that it had been the lees of yesterday’s brew recycled for another day’s unsuspecting, and mostly undiscriminating, clientele.

It was terrible! It was also free so there was no cause to be too petulant about it; and, anyway, I needed the caffeine. Notwithstanding the fact that we’d been on the road for less than an hour, the sunshine’s balmy warmth and the cosiness of my kevlar lined jacket was having a soporific effect; on several occasions I’d caught myself with a glazed focus – looking but not seeing.

Looking for another Rick

I’d managed to get through about two-thirds of my coffee and had just made a start on my second Marlboro when Mel stepped out into the sun’s glare, scanned the parking area, and made a beeline directly for me. He looked, for all the world, like a man on a mission

‘Hey Mate!’ he exclaimed. ‘I think Rick lives somewhere north of here – on one of the lakes.’

‘OK,’ I said cautiously. ‘Who the hell is Rick?’

‘Rick Dahlstrom . . . you know, Gina’s Dad.’

‘Ah yes,’ I said without any real idea about the value or relevance of this little gem of information.

‘Yeah . . . when he and Gina’s mum split up a few years back. Rick dropped his bundle, quit work and headed north.’

‘Do you want to catch up with him . . . while we’re here?’ I asked.

‘Wouldn’t mind . . . heard he wasn’t doing too well.’

Now that, right there, is so typical of Mel. His own breakup with Gina had been fraught, gut-wrenching even, yet here he was, concerned about his ex-father-in-law’s well-being. In his shoes, I would have said screw you and eschewed further contact. But then again, as I’d been discovering during our weeks on the road, Mel was the polar opposite of the kind of person I am; he’s a really decent human being with a big heart.

‘Well Mate,’ I said. ‘We’re supposed to be making this up as we go along . . . so, let’s start making it up!’

‘You sure?’ he asked. ‘You don’t mind?’

‘Hell no . . . you lead and I’ll be right behind you.’

Heading North

Now, I’d love to be able to say that I remember exactly where we went and the roads we used to beat our way north. Truth is, though, I don’t. What I do know is that we rode increasingly deserted roads between seemingly endless fields of corn. By then, I’d developed a fairly unshakeable faith in Mel’s uncanny ability to find his way pretty much anywhere. So, I just kicked back, listened to Credence, revelled in the gentle coolness of the afternoon under a clear blue sky and felt the easy, confident beat of my big V-Twin as we idled our way north.

If I’d thought about the logic of Mel’s quest, I would probably have fairly quickly come to the conclusion that, without address, directions or phone contact, we had about half an ice-block’s chance in hell of finding Rick’s Lake in the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes. But right then, the problems, contradictions and challenges of my life along with its demands and expectations were on the other side of the world; thinking systematically and logically just wasn’t on my agenda.

Our push north was punctuated at regular intervals by pauses for snacks, coffee and the occasional cigarette for me. As the afternoon wore on and the shadows lengthened, the warmth of the day leached away, and our road became progressively narrow until it finally morphed into a single lane sealed carriage way.

End of the Line

Then, a couple of hundred yards ahead, I saw Mel’s stop light flare. He slowed, U-turned, rode briefly back towards me, and then stopped. I knew he’d shut down because his headlight went out. I slowed and edged across the road to where the Lowrider was resting on its side stand. Until that point I hadn’t noticed the change that had caused Mel to stop but just then I did; the sealed surface had suddenly become gravel – and the gravel stretched away into the distance.

I eased to a stop, shut down, took out a cigarette, lit up, and took a long draw. Mel continued staring into the distance for what seemed like a long time but then he turned and looked directly at me.

‘What do you reckon?’ he asked after a long silence.

‘Hey’, I said, ‘I signed up to go wherever you want to go . . . your call Mate.’

Mel glanced at his watch, took a long hard look at the clouds that had been building and spreading from the north east, and then stared down the gravel road again. We’d stopped on a kind of extended country road in the middle of unfenced cornfields that stretched into the distance as far as the eye could see. And the silence, except for the random ticking and clicking of cooling motorcycle metal, was deafening. 

Gospel According to Mel

Finally Mel turned back to me.

‘Well, it seems to me that we’ve developed a few Road Trip Rules over the last couple of weeks’, he said quietly. Looking me directly in the eyes, he held up his left hand and counted off our rules with his right hand one finger at a time.

No apologising for snoring;

We don’t do escalators that ain’t workin’;

No helmets . . . unless absolutely necessary;

When it rains we stay in bed, go to a diner, or get coffee;

Tornados are not fun . . . so we don’t do them; and,

Fat asses don’t go on Rick’s fender . . . or ours.

He paused . . . and so I filled the silence.

‘Yep!’ I said, and in my best imitation of a Southern drawl added, ‘and marty farn rules they is – marty farn!’

Mel stared at his boots and was quiet for a while before he looked up.

‘Yeah . . . well I’m adding one more,’ he said quietly.

‘And what’s that? I asked.

We don’t do dirt roads. 

‘We just don’t do dirt, Mate!’, he said with a mournful shake of his head.

‘I’m OK with that . . . but, are you sure?’ I queried.

‘Sure I’m sure,’ he said over his shoulder as he threw his leg over the Lowrider and fired up.

Back Tracking

I have no real doubt about Mel’s penchant for avoiding gravel on his Harley but, I suspect that the futility of trying to find Rick’s Lake in the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes might have undermined his usual commitment to taking roads less travelled; well, this particular road less travelled anyway. So, I stubbed out my cigarette, fired up the Deuce, U-turned and accelerated to catch up with his tail light’s amber glow which was rapidly fading into the distance.

We back-tracked south for the best part of an hour until, on reaching an intersection with Highway 10, we took a left and headed east. Although the shadows had been growing longer, sundown was still at least a couple of hours away. But, when we took a break for coffee and a snack on the outskirts of Little Falls, I took the opportunity to throw my riding jacket back on. Standing and drinking coffee in the diner car park was pleasant enough but there was a definite edge to the air when you were hooking along at speed. In truth, it would also have been sensible to slip on a helmet too but then that would have contravened one of our more important road trip rules; I settled for tying on my trusty khaki bandana instead.

Hinckley, Minnesota

After our break for coffee we continued east towards Mille Lacs Lake on a range of backroads that I can’t really remember in detail. Then, skirting the southern edge of the Lake we pushed on east until we reached an intersection with Interstate 35 a dozen or so miles short of Hinckley. We took the on-ramp and headed north. By then the sky in the west had taken on a blood-red glow and I could tell by Mel’s uncharacteristically erratic riding style, that his blood-sugar was getting low. So, in unspoken unison we flicked on our indicators and took the off-ramp to Hinckley.

There was no particular rationale for stopping at Hinckley; it was not so much a destination as a waypoint. I knew though that Mel and his bike were both running on empty. What’s more, it was getting late in the day and a bit too cool to ride comfortably without layering up; and, we’d both had about enough for one day.

Americas Best Value Inn

Interstate 35’s off-ramp delivered us onto a suburban street which, in turn, delivered us to Main Street, Hinkley. We idled along at little more than walking pace until we clapped eyes on an inordinately tall sign advertising America’s Best Value Inn. The name itself was enough to give us pause; we just had to find out.

So, we rolled into the parking area, killed our engines and headed for reception. We didn’t think getting a room for the night would be too much of a problem because, apart from our motorcycles, there were only a couple of vehicles in the car park.

It turned out that the property had only just changed hands and was under new management. The entire second floor was undergoing maintenance, repair and renovation, but we were allocated ‘the best available room’ at ground floor level. And yes, we could park our bikes on the sheltered verandah outside our room. We unloaded and hauled our luggage in.

The carpet was worn and obviously stretched because there were ripples. I turned on the air-conditioner and listened briefly to the quiet hum of the fan until the compressor kicked in; the noise was alarming and the vibration so pronounced that I thought it might shake itself loose and demolish the wall mounting fixtures.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Mel said. ‘Looks like it’s going to be a cool night . . . we’ll leave the window open.’

The Wildfire Cafe

So, we deposited our T-Bags, roll packs and helmets on the luggage stands, locked the door and headed back into town to check out the menu offerings at a diner I’d spotted on our way through.

By the time we’d parked our bikes, rear end to the curb, at the WildFire Cafe, the sun was well below the horizon. Twilight had evaporated and a chill wind blew random pieces of litter along the pavement. We pushed open the door and entered the warm, yellowish glow spilling out from low slung lighting that hovered about each oak table. Quiet conversations bounced unobtrusively back and forth around the room and an old jukebox played 1950’s Rock and Roll. We found a corner booth and slid onto the worn leather upholstery.

Our waitress, when she arrived, was a twenty-something young woman of Hispanic extraction; I thought. Immaculately turned out, she had a form hugging black, knee-length skirt; a crisp white tailored shirt with sleeves neatly rolled to the elbows; an open collar and buttons unfastened down the front almost to the point of provocation;  and, an absolutely captivating smile.

Juanita

‘Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Juanita . . . and I will be serving you this evening. May I get you something to drink while you look at our menu?’

‘Well . . . thank you,’ I responded after repositioning my dropped jaw. ‘My brother will take a Lime, Lemon and Bitters and I’ll have a Coke . . . Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ she returned and flashed another one of those brilliant smiles that would illuminate any room.

I suddenly decided that I didn’t particularly care about the menu. If I’d known about Juanita – which I hadn’t – I’d have gone there just to watch her doing her thing. She was stunning, flamboyant and engaging with a husky lilt to her voice that stopped just short of being explicitly suggestive. And, I guess, it’s in just such circumstances that you forget about the crusty old bugger you see in the bathroom mirror every morning and suddenly you’re dashing, debonair and in your prime. 

Well, as events transpired the menu really was worth some attention; the food was excellent; the service faultless; the conversation warm, engaging, entertaining and full of laughter; and, the coffee considerably better than average. 

And the stunning waitress with the brilliant welcoming smile? 

Reality Bites

Well, I didn’t really think it had been my wit, charm and dashing good looks that had engendered her scintillating engagement, dazzling smile and personal attention. Barb, my good Lady, tells me that I’m the only bloke she knows who’s managed to get old without getting wise; and I suspect there’s a certain truth in that. But, I’m not entirely delusional. 

Juanita turned out to be the owner of the WildFire Cafe. One of her regular staff had called in sick, so she was backfilling her own vacancy as a waitress.

Later, back at Americas Best Value Inn, we sat outside for a while and fell into quiet sporadic conversation; mainly about our Dad and his many exploits in Papua New Guinea. I had a cigarette while Mel gave the bikes a bit of a wipe and polish. Amidst a myriad lakes we savoured our quantum of veritas; our meeting of minds. We talked on into the evening, laughed frequently and, as only old friends can, we occasionally let silence drift in and envelope us when words ran out.

Just a thought . . .

You don’t have to fill every quiet space with talk . . .

Sometimes, you say a lot more by saying less

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