Dead Like A River

Kansas in mid-September has some kind of love affair with flying bugs.

A fellow biker warned me of this at a rest area off Interstate 70, just over the state line. He had a Harley, and so naturally he was attending the first order of business, which was tightening every screw he could reach in the vain hope that his efforts would prevent a piece of his motor from shaking loose on the next leg of his trip.

He had been eyeing my black and red Cyclone chopper, and in particular the rat ornaments. But it was the reputed reliability of its 970 V-twin that he admired; secretly, of course.

He noted my beanie helmet hanging from the throttle. "You'll wanna wear goggles or shades up ahead," he said sagely. "Insect season. Clouds of them. And keep your mouth closed. Tilt your head down a little, breathe through your nose."

I thought this was sound advice, since I hadn't had any success breathing through my ears. Better than his advice, though, was his observation that the Kansas Welcome Center that graced the rest area had free coffee. My wallet was suffering from severe malnutrition and anything consumable that was free had my devotion. I wished him luck and sought out the coffee urns.

One hour, two coffees, and five rolled smokes later, and I was on the 70 again, doing 65 in overdrive. It was a clear day and gusty.

Kansas is one of those places where if you've seen a hundred yards of it you've seen the whole state. The landscape was flat and featureless, with an occasional tree zooming in and passing by like a monster in a dream that repeats itself all night. But I wasn't paying attention except to the bugs. I could feel them striking my face like bits of hail. Then the wind kicked up ferociously so that it was all I could do to keep the rat on the road and not be pushed off onto the dirt shoulder. I had to lean about forty-five degrees to my left to keep from flying to the right. I was literally leaning on the wind, going about 35 mph.

There was virtually no traffic. This was the middle of nowhere. Topeka was a good ways off still, where I would have to look for work at a day-labor office. But at present I was just trying to stay on the road and keep the bugs out of my mouth. I passed two guys squatting next to a stripped down Gold Wing, looking at me facetiously as I went by them like a trick rider in a rodeo. They had decided, apparently, that it was too windy for their liking.

The picketed Gold Wing was several miles behind me when I saw the girl standing under a lone tree. She had seen me before I saw her, and was holding her right hand straight out to her side with the thumb up and jerking directionally, as if she thought I wouldn't know which way to take her if I stopped.

Picking up a hitchhiker is necessarily a quick decision. This one was easy. She was shortish and curvy and had dressed with the idea that looks mattered a lot. My only concern was that she might be a runaway. But I remembered that my trak phone was devoid of minutes and I hadn't the funds to purchase more; so taking the girl to Topeka was legally defensible if it turned out she was under-age.

I braked slowly as I veered onto the dirt. I debated whether I should dismount or stay in the saddle. I thought the girl might be skittish, and would prefer I remained seated, my back to her, rather than confront my six-foot-three height and that scruffy denim and leather moving toward her with the devil knows what intentions. So I sat there looking at her reflection in the mirror on my right ape-hung handlebar.

She stood about fifteen feet behind the bike smiling at me. It was a mixed smile. It told me that she was interested and wanted to feel me out before she made her decision. So I turned my head to look back at her, arching my brows as if to say, 'Well?'

"Hello," she said in a quiet tone; then, in a louder apologetic voice: "Are you in a hurry? I was just going to eat something when I saw you coming."

I replied that I was in no particular hurry. I put the kickstand down and shut off the engine. I waited to see how she would react to that. Her mixed smile became an almost expressionless one, like  a welcome mat that doesn't invite but doesn't put you off either. So I swung a leg over and stood, pocketing the keys. She said urgently, "Would you like a can of mac and cheese?" It was like she needed to justify me getting off the bike.

"I can give you a ride to Topeka, whenever you're ready. I have a bottle of tea on ice in my saddlebag, thanks. I'll just have that."

"Cool! I haven't ate a thing since yesterday. My name's Moira."

I nodded. "William." I looked her over as she unslung her backpack and bent over to unzip it. She had  mussy shoulder-length hair more red than brown and a smattering of freckles. While I was getting the tea bottle out from its large sandwich bag full of half-melted ice she said, "Oh and this is Josie."