Age is a state of mind. Never was that truer than for three grown men racing like boys south on a deserted Texas 118. Screaming engines were in perfect harmony with Randy Meisner’s high notes in the Eagle’s hit song, “Take It to the Limit One More Time.” There’s nothing else quite like a mechanical concerto with no audience around to cheer for miles. It was just us, the machines and our limits. Being responsible adults in a world of constraints we were living beyond budgets, legalities, social boundaries and reason. Little did we know, the music was about to die.
Playing a game of musical chairs meets motorcycles, I was on Robb’s R1250RS with BMW’s newest motor and switchblade handling. Robb was on Randy’s R1250RT with the same motor but more of a gentleman’s express with bowtie looks. Randy, taking up the rear, was on my ten year older R1200RT with classic looks which is the nice thing you say about men in their 60’s. This combination of bikes and personalities left Randy, the fastest rider, on the slowest bike. When we pulled the pin out of the grenades for launch, he was not to be denied. Full expression of a biker’s personality comes out on someone else’s motorcycle. Treated only slightly better than a rental car, no one can wring out your bike like a trusted friend on a long empty road. Randy was whipping the old horse for all it was worth.
Killing our music was a decision made much earlier by people we didn’t even know. In this case, someone nearly 6,000 miles away in Munich, Germany made one of those back in 2003 mysteriously ending our fun. Like the rest of us, Randy had whacked the throttle wide open to keep up when the motor suddenly went to cut out. It would idle, but it wouldn’t rev. This is not too useful in the middle of nowhere along the 82 mile route from Alpine to Study Butte in Big Bend.
In a weird bit of fortune, I brought the one tool needed to remove the plastic panels covering the engine on my older BMW. In the sun by the road with Randy scratching his head over what happened, I did triage surgery on the BMW. When you’re used to fixing things with tie wraps and roadside prayer, there’s always hope. I was already imagining how to swap throttle cables when I came face to face with not one, but the three likely decision makers in Germany. This horse would breathe, but it was lame for the rest of the trip. A piece of black plastic broken by the throttle cable fell on the ground told the story.
Let’s call them Leopold the designer, Otto the accountant and Wilbur the test engineer. Leo decides that it would be easier to make a throttle cable lever out of plastic than steel. This is the critical part that turns your twisting right hand into a faster spinning motor. It’s the lever behind the go button. Otto the accountant approves because it’s cheaper or maybe Otto told Leo to make it cheaper. Who knows? Then Wilbur’s job is to make sure this actually works because if it breaks, you’re stuck. “What were they thinking?” These ideas usually have a noble beginning like shaving an ounce of weight and a few cents off of a 571 pound motorcycle. Regardless, none of these guys were there to help and the sun was getting hot with limited options.
Every great story has a hero and we had ours. Rodney is the crazy, fun uncle you had as a kid who drove a Ford F250 and rode a Harley Davidson. Entertainingly opinionated with a heart of gold, we called him “Clutch” because in the direst situations, he would make a clutch move. Never immune from our good natured ribbing, we made fun of his six shooter style Harley pipes that kept falling off and his immediate appearance when pizza with certain ingredients was served. We love Rodney.
As Randy and I were drawing straws over who was going to stay with the bike or strike out for help, Rodney rides up on his “loud pipes save lives” Harley. Quickly surveying the situation, he shouts, “I’ll go get my truck and trailer!” After the Harley storms off, Randy and I realize that it’s at least 100 miles back and forth from Alpine. It’s going to be a while. Then, in the shimmering distance, we saw what we thought was a store. Where was that before? I figure out how to ride a heavy bike at idle along the side of the road while Randy rides his bike over. Hopefully, this not a mirage because Randy is a diabetic. If he doesn’t eat, bad things happen. The plot thickens.
It's easy to miss the big picture in life. These unplanned interruptions give you a chance to reflect, if they’re long enough. I ran the gamut of emotions over how our fun ended and had a number of arm waving conversations with Leo, Otto and Wilbur. Of course, I just wanted to be helpful to the next rider. As we motorheads say, my mind was wrapped around the axle. That’s personality, character is another story. Our personalities show up in childlike fun, character is revealed when the fun is interrupted. Prejudice and pride fall are exposed for what they are. Even though you have a prestigious BMW, it’s still a dead BMW. Even though we can figure out our fair share of problems, there are those we can’t nor are we are intended to.
Rodney rode his Harley 164 miles and drove his truck another 100 miles that day on 118. He made another clutch move. You can say it’s common courtesy or biker code, but I don’t think so. Through the scrum of the rescue, loud pipes and hooking up a trailer by himself, Rodney remembered that Randy needed food and brought him a Wendy’s hamburger 50 miles from Alpine. He remembered that we were left beside the road. That’s empathy. That’s care.
You’ll notice that I’ve used a number of labels whether brands, nationalities and attitudes in the telling of this story. These are too often the way we categorize people as a matter of relationship short hand. I’ve done it.
There’s a book that says, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” Clutch moves are another word for sacrifice revealing that we are far more than our labels.
A Harley and a Ford didn’t rescue a BMW. A friend rescued his friends. Riding a Harley with loud pipes falling off 164 miles is a supreme sacrifice in my book.