Lacquer & Chrome

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Harold was excited to tell me about the twenty-two coats of lacquer over the jet black paint on his vintage Harley motorcycle. The deep shine of the paint reflected my image as clearly as the polished chrome that trimmed out this beautiful road machine. When I looked at Harold a little closer, I wondered why he took so much pride in his motorcycle yet took so little pride in his personal appearance.

On the knuckles of his right hand were the letters H.A.T.E. etched from a home-made tattoo. On his left knuckles were the letters L.O.V.E. printed in the same fashion. On his right arm was a tattoo of the American flag and on his left arm was a swastika of the German Reich. When I asked the significance of his tattoos he said, “I love America and I hate Nazis.” “Who are the Nazis in your life?” I asked. “Anyone who doesn’t accept me just the way I am,” answered Harold.

I was about to make a comment about Harold’s statement when his biker partner emerged from the convenience store. She had a carton of cigarettes and a six-pack of Budweiser beer. It was actually Bud Light. I don’t know the difference between Bud and Bud Light but if it has anything to do with calories, she should have made a different choice of beer. She needed all the calories she could get. This hardened biker looked like dried up leather. So that’s what years of riding in the wind and sun does to the skin. Ignoring me, she said in a harsh voice, “Scoot back Harold.” Without a word, Harold slid to the back of the bike seat while Brenda climbed aboard. I assumed her name was Brenda or she was wearing Brenda’s sleeveless leather vest because that was the name stitched across the back in red letters. So much for those images of halter tops pressed against tight firm skin as Harley motorcycles race down the highways of America. You know what I mean.

I was reminded of the time back in June when I helped my son Trevor move his family to Kentucky. I was driving the largest Penski haul-your-own-furniture rental truck that is available. It was about 10:00 in the morning and there was still chill in the air. My mind was on cruise control. I was eating my cashew nuts one at a time making sure that the can would last the entire journey. A familiar sound began to gradually bring me back to the present. It was that deep throaty rumble of a Harley pulling along side of me in the truck. As I looked down it wasn’t just one Harley but two passing by me. I took a double look because those two bikes were being ridden by young women. They both looked up at me at the same time and smiled just like the scene had been choreographed.

The bikes were black and polished to perfection. There were leather tassels attached to the ends of the raised handlebars whipping in the wind. The women’s hair was cut short and flowing back behind their heads like soft moss in a swift moving stream. The lady on the motorcycle closest to me was wearing a thin white halter top and the wind pressed the material tight enough against her body to reveal no other clothing beneath. She was traveling very light and I’m not just referring to her clothing. All she had for luggage strapped to her motorcycle was a rolled up sleeping bag.

The lady on the other bike wore a pair of cutoff blue jeans and a white tee shirt rolled up to reveal her midriff. There had to be goose bumps the size of grapes on her exposed skin from the chilly air but I couldn’t see them. She had a small backpack bungeed to the backrest of her motorcycle seat. As they moved past me I was puzzled by how skimpy they were traveling. Between the two of them they had one sleeping bag and one small backpack. They wore no helmets and no protective leather chaps in the event of a mishap. Traveling at seventy miles an hour I shuttered to think what would be their fate in an accidental slide on the asphalt.

As the two female motorcyclists moved out past me, I was thankful that they weren’t two of my loved ones out on the highways of America traveling all alone, smiling up at truck drivers as they passed. What would posses two women to wear so little, travel so fast and unprepared in the chill of the morning air? I have this old saying, “If it doesn’t make sense it’s because you don’t have all the facts.”

Before I could slide too deeply in thought along came two men on black Harleys. They were overloaded with gear; backpacks, sleeping bags, and spare helmets. Suddenly I realized that these two men who were completely covered in protective gear against the morning chill were the backup team of the ladies who just passed a few minutes earlier. The two ladies riding out front didn’t resemble Brenda but they weren’t old enough to have been biking for thirty years. Brenda probably once wore halter tops as she cruised the highways of America. Back then she was most likely riding her own bike out ahead of old Harold or some other casual partner while he hauled all the personal gear.

If those guys tagging along behind their women, carrying all the gear could see old Harold today and hear Brenda say, “Slide back Harold,” they may just take a slight detour and end up some where far far away from Millie and Mollie Motorcycle. Now those aren’t their real names. I don’t know their names, but Harold and Brenda have helped me see those young women’s wind blown, sun dried future if they continue to spend their days cruising the highways of America.

I paused to reflect on what highways I am traveling and where I will end up if I stay on the same course in life. Will I end up one day with my own version of twenty-two coats of lacquer and polished chrome as my most prized possession?

Epilogue:

Remember the old saying, “If it doesn’t make sense, you don’t have all the facts.” There is probably more to the Harold and Brenda story. Traveling along I-84 in the wide open spaces of Wyoming last year a Harley passed me with two riders. The man casually looked over and nodded as he passed. His companion also looked over, smiled and slid down the strap of her halter top and shared with me her endowment. I doubt her partner had a clue what had just taken place. Maybe that’s why Harold was riding on the back; to keep an eye on Brenda.