May 2001
Detour Version 1.0
Day 13
“G*# D+^ M^%#er#<-*ing SOB!!”
-Evelyn at Salinas Harley Davidson
We were going to the Salinas Harley dealer to get a new battery after Steve rope-towed me and my two cylindered arrow to life and headed east to the San Fernando Valley. Just like he did after dinner last night on the Wharf.
While in Salinas, two things happened:
Evelyn and the Shovelhead
Evelyn ran a tight ship in the Salinas HD repair shop. The younger mechanics unquestionably obeyed her while the 50+ year old, bearded ones worked together with her as equals. In her late 40s, she wore wire frame glasses and lots of classic HD jewelry in various body piercings; no visible tattoos; 5’6”; well-proportioned, wearing bib overhaul blue jeans that accentuated her finer points.
The shop had been working on a local customer’s 78 Shovelhead powered, blacked-out touring bike that had been under their care for three long weeks. A top end job and a lot of electrical work was already long since completed and billed. Still, the 23-year-old Shovel was not quite right.
I witnessed the day’s first test start, since they wanted to see if this morning’s latest adjustments had cured the Shovel’s ills. It answered the test with a set of arhythmic, shotgun blast-accompanied backfires. To which Lady E replied with a string of well structured, hyphenated obscenities.
I whispered to her that the bike seemed to be like an invited dinner guest who had overstayed his welcome or an adult child who returned to bunk with his parents after they had sold the family home, moved cross country and got an unlisted phone number.
She thought for a moment and then cooly responded, “Maybe, I should put that son of a bitch up for adoption?”
“What a flirt!” I thought.
Rey #2
After paying in advance for my replacement battery to be delivered later that AM, we departed the dealership for the day’s first ration of $2.50/gallon California Super Premium Grade gasoline. Having finished my refill first, a man ambled back and forth our way while I was daydreaming astride the Fatboy. As Steve moved from gassing up to tire pressure checking, our ambler began talking aimlessly to no one in particular about our machines. Since I made inadvertent eye contact with him, he corrected course towards me and began his patter that required no response from me — he was “on a roll.”
5’8”; mid/late 40s; very tan; small toad stool shaped growths on his neck which were dark shiny red; extraordinarily bad teeth as two groups of uppers had formed loose triangles to the outside of each of his eye teeth while missing both of his front uppers; worn but clean sneakers displaying split end shoelace bouquets; sporting an 80s Black Metallica tour sweatshirt and a gimme ballcap from a local agribusiness equipment merchant.
He said he was on a run for his girlfriend (she was buying, so he was flying). As proof he showed me a crisp brown paper bag containing a still chilled, screw topped bottle of the liquor store’s Malt of the Day special. He explained without missing a beat that he had what they called in Salinas “runner’s rights” – the privilege of the first swig in his instance the day’s newly bought, eye opener. He detailed his life for me hanging out with a bunch of guys on a nearby wall in a city park playing dominoes. The city had recently removed their playing table from the park. He, in a spark of inspiration, had fixed that by finding a piece of plywood which when placed on a park trash bin worked just fine.
Eventually, we went through the below Q&A’s five times until his short term memory flickered on:
He: What’s your name?
Me: Marlow.
He: Uh, what’s your name?
Me: Marlow.
Upon successfully repeating my name back to me, he introduced himself.
“I’m Rey., They call me Rey #2, since there’s so many of us. I think t there’s six of us. Only trouble is that most of them are in jail, detox, away, or . . . . .”
I responded while extending my right hand, “Well, Rey #2, I’m glad to meet you, but maybe you could drop the #2, since you’re normally the only one who’s around. How’s about calling yourself ‘Free Rey’ or ‘Rey B Free’? Both sound pretty cool, don’t they?”
After for Rey what was a very short moment to mull it over, he slowly stood erect and slyly grinned. “I like that. Rey B Free. Rey B Free.”
After pausing, he continued to repeat his new moniker, all the while never shifting his package to take my offered right hand. RBF had priorities.
We parted moments later with Rey B Free toreador-waving Steve and me out of the service station while he still death grip clutched his runner’s rights package.
We ate in Salinas while Evelyn’s boys fixed some other issues with my bike. This place — SANG, now held the roadtrip’s record for largest hash brown plate at well over two pounds. While cleaning my plate, I mumbled a brief prayer for all the motherless little spuds now residing in Idaho.
After lunch, we took a rip through the Carmel Valley Highway — a road with over forty miles of twisties, tree limb covered narrow lanes, good-to-great scenery, and little to no traffic between the PCH and CA route 101. The first ten minutes or so eastward from the PCH is pretty tame, but the rest is superb. We back tracked to supersize our ride.
Checked out of the Navy Lodge to a B&B for a major improvement in accommodations.
Dined at the Old Bath House – best meal, view, and service of the trip. Stellar. No reservations needed. Great wine list. Lamb entrée, Gran Mariner souffle. Flaming after dinner drinks served in a darkened dining room with Monterey Bay sparkling out beyond the picture windows.Afer pausin
Day 13 miscellany and counts:
Daily Windshield Bug Smash Bingo Game winners: yellow
Query count as of the end of Day 13:
Where’re you going? – 15
What’s that? (Steve’s Valkyrie) – 6
Damsels in distress? – 6 (7 or 8 if we count Rey or his girl)
Select Photo From Day 13:
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