OFF THE WIRE
As the story goes, an old gray-beard was riding home from Mexico, with
saddlebags loaded full of toys and trinkets for some kids in an
orphanage near where he lived. It was a cold night in the high deserts
just north of the border. As he rode he thought of rides past, epic
journeys with long lost friends and the many nights just like this spent
in the saddle.
Ahead in the small beam of his old headlamp he thought he saw something.
As he rode on it appeared again, this time there were more of them.
Tiny little creatures that seemed to dart in and out of the beam as fast
as the wind. They were dark little dodgy spirits, quick, and all but
translucent in the moonlight—they were road gremlins. Before he could
react they were on the bike. As he mashed on the brakes the front tire
blew, and the old rear drum brake that had served him well for years
locked up.
When he came to he was nearly ten yards from his bike. One saddle bag
had been torn loose and was lying next to him in the cold, hard packed
dirt. In the light of the moon he could see his bike, the little spirit
like road gremlins dancing on top. He raised himself up to his elbows,
where he could see them more clearly, and they caught a glimpse of him
too. That’s when they began to approach. Slowly, almost curiously,
they stalked towards him. As they advanced he picked up the only thing
that was within reach, the saddle bag, and began to wave it at them
trying to keep them at bay. From inside the bag came a ringing noise.
He noticed that if he shook the bag the little gremlins would fall back,
plugging their ears in retreat. He quickly unstrapped the bag and dug
out two sleigh bells from a set of toy reindeer buried in the bag. As
he knelt there shaking the bells the gremlins retreated off into the
darkness.
As if attracted like a moth to a flame, two staggered lights approached
from the distance, and came upon the lone rider in the darkness. To the
lone rider they seemed like angels coming upon him with wings, guided by
the sound of the bells. The two riders helped the old gray-beard brush
himself off and gather his belongings. They set up camp and talked
long into the night, about the old man’s brush with the road gremlins,
and of many rides past. The old man offered to pay, but as-is biker
tradition, the two men would not accept any form of repayment.
In the morning the men helped the gray-beard patch his tire and limp to a
little service station in the next town. Again, as they prepared to go
their separate ways, the men refused payment. The old man had
suspected this, so in the early morning hours just before dawn, he had
awakened and attached two bells, one to each of his angel rider’s bikes.
As the old man watched his new friends roll out of the dusty service
station driveway, he thought he could hear the ringing of bells over the
low rumble of the bikes.
This post was edited by BikersPost at March 3, 2015 7:55 AM EST
