A short story by Ron Wilbur
Dust streaked the old windows in a casual way, almost as smoke floats on the wind, casting a surreal pattern on the weathered wood floor that becomes more pronounced when the sun shines through at just the right time of day.
The old garage has seen many years. Hot. Humid. Cool. Each season has aged the outside of the structure in its own way with a weather-beaten finish, the timeless effect of both time and elements. Winter rain, summer sun, and spring winds have eroded the soft surface wood between the grain of the siding boards, creating an erotic braille if you touch its textured surface. In places the floor has long ago given way to the soft, cool dirt that preceded it.
This is a place that should hold memories.
Unknown to the two men, in the middle of the garage, under a light grey cloth cover, is a machine. The contoured, dust-filled folds of its cover disguise the outline of the iron and leather that once had been a living, breathing machine.
Nothing about this day changed the nature of the beast beneath the cloth.
Latent. Sleeping. Waiting.
The heavy wooden doors are pulled apart, rollers gritting, grating as they traverse the once trusted, now rusted, rails suspending rollers and doors above the ground. Two or three times the doors catch in a futile attempt to resist the moment, but then as greater force is applied, they move again, creating an ever-gaping maw.
The sun hits a piece of exposed chrome rim first, sending a ray of reflected light that cuts through the dust, momentarily blinding the man opening the doors.
“My God, what is that?” his voice exclaims through the dusty light.
“Pull the cover off, idiot. I can’t see a damn thing with all this dust.”
“Okay, let me find my way past all of this rust and crap on the floor. Okay. I got it.”
With a magician’s flair the edge of the cloth cover is grasped and pulled away.
“Holy Hey-Zeus! Look at that!”
“It’s a Harley. Looks like a Knuckle. Look at the rocker covers. What kind of paint is that?”
“I’m not sure, but that looks like a ghost painted on the side of the tank. Wonder whose bike this was?”
Two sharp sounds came from the back of the garage – a crash, followed by a long scraping.
“There’s something back there, Tom.”
“Nah, it’s just a rat or something. Probably scared the heck out of it when you opened the door.”
“Yeah, I can’t see anything back there. Hey, look at the chrome on this baby.”
The dust-filtered sun flashes slashing rays of light, revealing a surface still capable of reflecting back as much light as it receives.
“Wow, that is one beautiful machine. Think it still runs?’
It is a mint condition ’48 knucklehead Harley. 538 miles on its speedo. Flame in its heart. Dormant. Seemingly untouched for over 70 years, stored away in this tired old garage.
Tom runs his hands over her contours. “This is a sleeping beauty, this is. Wonder who owned this sexy lady?”
“Good question, but who cares anyway. Let’s see what else is in here.”
A quick survey discovers a couple of open-end wrenches, a spark plug socket, a gap feeler set, and a quart of vintage ’48 Harley-Davidson motorcycle oil. Plus, a spare almost new solo saddle with butter cup springs.
“Damn, dude, I don’t know what we found but I’m sure ready to see if it’s got any life left. Let’s fire her up.”
The kickstart was still a boot step away when the motor suddenly fired up on its own, sending a belch of smoke and flame out the pipes, headlight blazing through the garage, the engine then settling into a low throbbing rumble.
Both men jump and then run out the door at top speed, stopping only after they are midway into the overgrown, weed infested yard, and now gasping for breath and looking back at the garage with wide eyes.
“What in the living hell was that?”
“Let’s get out of here. I almost crapped my pants!”
“Okay, stop for a minute. There must be an explanation for what just happened. Bikes don’t just fire up on their own. This must be a trick. That bike has to be remotely operated.”
“Yeah, right! Like your car? It won’t start up even when you do everything right, and you didn’t even touch that bike!”
“I know. That’s pretty weird. Let’s go back and take a look.”
Both men move slowly back to the open garage doors and, staring from the outside, look in at the machine that is now idling at a low, deliberate rpm, headlight still on, turn signals flashing, a slight rocking motion to it as it idles.
“You should ride it, Jay.”
“Hell no, I’m not going near it.”
“C’mon, man! It’s just a machine. You have a Harley. Just climb on and see if it will still go.”
“Nope. Staying right here! Besides, you have a bike, too. You ride it!”
“Okay, can’t believe you’re a coward. I’m going in.” And with that, Tom slowly walks up to the right side of the bike and gives the throttle a twist.
The machine instantly jumps to a higher rpm, a deafening roar echoing off of the garage walls “ba-dap, a rap rap rap.”
“Think I should try to ride it? It sounds pretty solid,” Tom yells, lifting one leg over the frame and settling into the saddle. “Man, this thing feels good. I’m gonna’ see if it will run.”
Tom tilts the bike off of its jersey stand and, pulling in the clutch, shifts it into first gear, keeping the brake pulled. Clunk, the transmission drops into first. Angling the bike toward the open door, clutch released and a slight twist to the throttle, Tom and bike speed through the garage and out the open doors sending dust flying before the floorboards can even creak.
Jay watches as rider and bike shoot across the yard and down the rutted dirt road leading from the garage.
As the sound of the bike fades Jay looks around the garage to see what else is there. He finds some old tools, a rickety old chair, a work bench with an anvil and old wood bench vise, some oily rags, and a faded Harley Davidson owner’s manual. Blowing dust off of the cover, he opens it to the first page that starts with, “Congratulations on purchasing a Harley Davidson. This is one of the finest machines ever made, and you are about to enjoy many years of riding pleasure. Take a few minutes to read the following instructions thoroughly before taking your first ride.”
Handwritten on the margin was this comment, “I swear this machine is possessed.” And next to that, “July 27, 1948.”
Jay continues to read, but the old, printed manual seems to just contain the usual operating and care instructions. Hearing the sound of the returning motorcycle, he closes the manual and walks to the door just in time to see Tom riding toward him, trailing a cloud of dust.
The bike is soon back on its jersey stand, idling calmly, after Tom lifts off of the saddle and walks over to his friend.
“How was it? I thought you were gone for good!”
“This is some special machine, bro. It purrs like a kitten until you twist the throttle and then it screams like a wildcat. I could ride this thing all day. Did you find anything else in the garage?”
“Yeah, there’s an owner’s manual with a pretty crazy scribble in it. Somebody wrote that they thought the bike was possessed and then wrote in a date in 1948.”
“Wonder how long this bike has been sitting in there, waiting for someone to ride it?”
“Don’t know, but gas doesn’t keep long without spoiling so someone must have been keeping it up. Plus, the oil and transmission fluids had to have been changed or you wouldn’t have gone very far.”
“Well, it feels like it’s brand new. And with 538 miles on it, it’s barely past break in.”
“Let’s shut it off and see if it’ll start again.”
Tom finds the key and twists it. Immediately the bike shuts down and is quiet.
“Try to start it!”
Tom rotates the key again and starts to stand up on a foot peg to jump on the kickstarter, but before he can do so the bike rumbles to life and then settles into an idle.
“What the...,” exclaims Tom reaching over and turning the bike off again.
“Man, that’s creepy. How did it do that? This is an old bike. It looked like it had been under that old rag for decades. That’s crazy.”
The two men bought this property from an estate sale. The description said there was a shed on the land and what remained of a long abandoned and partially burned house. The property sits alongside an old dirt road that connects a few other properties, mostly also abandoned. Time has not been kind to this part of the country and what once was a promising rural area, where families were raised and crops grown, now is overgrown as nature reclaims the land. Driving on to the property this morning, the men had to pass through a gauntlet of brambles that scratched both sides of their car. If there is going to be anything good to come of this land it can only be at the end of a lot of work.
Their partnership started with an innocent question – “Hey, I’m going to look for good real estate to invest in. Are you interested?”
The answer “Probably. What do you have in mind?”
Following that came a long explanation and discussion of real estate median value curves, hottest segments of residential and rural properties, best location parameters.
This place is their first investment. It looked good on paper, except that it was bare land with just a shed and the remainder of the house. There is a good fence around it and it seems as though the land should perc, which is a good thing because there isn’t any community sewer this far out of population areas, and poop has to go somewhere.
The bike is forgotten as the men work to fix up the house, shed and land. Weeks of work with lumber and hardware start to change the complexion of the property from abandoned relic to habitable.
Floors, walls, ceilings, wiring, plumbing - Tom and Jay systematically go through each component of the property, bringing it up to date and restoring its original usefulness.
Walls have mice and debris in them, including one panel that has two pages of notes inside the wall describing the previous owner's frustrations and revelations. The Harley is more than a footnote - it apparently had a mind of its own and was only ridden a few times before the notes ended.
As they work on the property, both men ride the bike occasionally.
Each ride reveals a new secret about the bike - it's powerful, fast and nimble. And, on the few times when either Jay or Tom takes it beyond it's comfortable limits, the big Harley takes on a mind of its own, reducing speed, braking or easily navigating turns.
The machine has self-preservation in its genes, and it extends that to its riders.
One Saturday morning Jay tests the big machine's limits with a ride through the countryside. One hairpin turn comes up on rider and bike too quickly for Jay to react and in a moment, he realizes that a crash is inevitable.
Except it isn't.
As the rider and bike enter the turn, the bike revs slow and the rear brake engages without Jay's involvement. The exit from the turn is so smooth it is as if an expert motorcycle rider is riding the machine.
Just past the turn, Jay slows the bike and pulls off of the pavement onto the dirt siding, with its rider shaking and breathing hard.
"Holy crap," he says in relief and amazement. The ride back to the house is slow and easy and after parking in the yard and lifting off of the saddle, Jay tells Tom what happened.
After that, once a week the men take turns riding the bike while working on the property. Occasionally, they push the bike to the limits but each time the machine compensates for the excessive riding behavior.
After a year of this the two friends are done with the property and now are at a loss at what to do with the bike.
Eventually, they learn the story of the previous owner. He had bought the bike brand new in 1948, after buying the property and building the house. He married and moved into the house to start a family but that plan didn't work out. He died one year after the wedding and never came home from his annual job in Alaska.
The funeral was small. Just his young wife, the parson, and a few people that knew the couple.
The bike was kept in the garage as a remembrance of its first owner but never ridden again.
The property became a refuge for Mae, the widow left behind. She loved the seasons, when the fall rains would signal a change, the weather progressively getting colder and wetter. As the fall and winter clouds brought rains that settled on the land, the land soaked up the moisture and stored it for use in spring time when the air got warmer and sunshine sporadically splashed across the landscape. Winter was quieting, soft, sprinkles and drenching rain, with one or two weeks when snow fell and brought a white blanket of silence. Mae would wander the acreage remarking how each area and plant responded to the season. It was those quiet walks that grounded her, settled her spirit, and restored her soul.
Spring was the great awakening for everyone and everything on the land. Grass grew and carpeted the land with green. Flowers profused splenderously. Daffodills, flowering quince, primrose all popped up and displayed their colorful additions to the fabric of life. Mae was drawn to the pansies with their delicate petals and soft colors, and it was those flowers that reminded her mostly of her late husband, a man of quiet and deep thoughts who meticulously nurtured the plants every spring.
Summer brought a profusion of change. Fruit formed from blossoms on the fruit trees and provided sweet scents that floated in the air to the cabin, finding ways inside the walls to bring a smile to the widow’s face.
She wasn’t a total recluse. Once a week during spring, summer and fall she would drive into Olympia to replenish the cupboard stocks and trade fresh fruit and floral arrangements for special treats with the artisans that sold their wares at weekend local outdoor markets.
It was a quiet life, but not lonely. Birds watched silently from their perches in nearby trees and power lines as she talked to them about life, weather, and her feelings. On those warm spring and summer days when she could sit out on the porch, she would sometimes sing softly the songs that she and Trevor had fallen in love to.
Trevor had been the love of her life. They fell in love in their first year at Evergreen State, meeting almost by chance at a pop-up concert from a folk group from the Skagit Valley.
During an intermission, she had wanted a corn dog and waited in a line of five people at a small stand to make her purchase. A pleasant looking man her age was in line in front of her and given that the line moved slowly they exchanged a few pleasantries. Mae shared just a few thoughts with him, and as he reached the front of the line, he stepped aside, swept his arm in an arc toward the stand motioning for her to go ahead of him, graciously telling her she was next. She got her order, stepped aside and with a sweeping gesture waved for him to step up to the order window. He stopped for a moment as a soft smile crossed his face and then ordered exactly the same as Mae. She walked over to a table and sat down, looking up with surprise as he sat down beside her.
They talked about spring, warmth, sunshine, flowers, trees, and going on walks, something they both enjoyed. Corn dogs finished, drink cups drained, it felt like an awkward silence until Trevor asked her what she was doing the rest of her life. It wasn’t an invitation, but it felt like one, and the two wandered off from the concert location to walk around the park’s nearby gardens.
That day was when their hearts began to find each other. The romance was fresh, culminating three years later with a simple wedding ceremony in the same park where they had met.
Trevor was an unusual man. He had a quiet sense about him, which Mae felt when he talked to inanimate things, like the house, plants, insects, birds, and the Harley he bought in their first year of marriage. He was a fisherman, leaving in late spring for Alaska, working through the fishing seasons and returning in fall. For that, Mae was eternally grateful because the rhythm prepared her for the loss that was to come when he didn’t return after the next year’s fishing season. He had been washed overboard into the icy waters off Alaska and his body was never recovered.
There was no consolation with the notion that he died doing what he loved. She didn’t know the particulars of the accident that took his life, and preferred to think of his quiet smile when her thoughts dangerously wandered in that direction.
When Trevor bought the Harley he had explained to his young wife that owning a machine like this had been his dream for many years. During the cold months he had worked faithfully on the machine, changing out parts until it was just right for his physique. He confided to Mae that it was almost like it became a living object, sharing silent thoughts with him. When he would take the bike out for the occasional ride he would return with a silly smile on his face. On the few times she rode behind him on the bike she had the feeling that it was actually embracing her, as she sat on the small pad on the rear fender, arms around her husband.
This was the time Mae felt was the spring and summer of her life.
In the months after Trevor failed to return from Alaska, Mae spent days in solitude, not wanting to see or talk to another human being. In her grief she found solace and peace, two qualities she desperately needed. The bike became a symbol of Trevor, given space, occasionally cleaned but otherwise left undisturbed.
Seasons came and went. Mae became more of a recluse, only going out occasionally to drive to the store or to neighbors’ farm stands for essentials. It was a quiet life, but she always felt safe, as though the spirit of Trevor was protecting her.
When Mae died in her 80's the property sat for several years while her distant family struggled with what to do with it. The land was 15 miles from the nearest town, out in the country, and no one wanted to live there or had any interest in its potential.
Eventually, the house, land and everything on it was sold, having been abandoned for several years when Jay and Tom bought it.
On a summer Saturday, Jay and Tom are out working on the property and the two men talk about the old Harley while they each drink a cold stout.
“Hey, let’s take a look at that old vintage machine in the shed, man,” Jay says to Tom. "We haven't really done anything with it after those first rides when we first bought this place.
The men walk into the shed and approach the cloth-draped Harley.
“I haven't paid any attention to it for a long time. Have you fired it up recently, man?” was Jay’s question.
“Nope, haven’t touched it. Let’s see how it's holding up." Tom pulls the cloth off of the vintage Harley and both men silently draw in their breath. It looks brand new even though it's been a year since they first discovered it and at least nine months since they stopped riding it.
"Hey, we've never looked very close at this beast. Let's check it out," from Tom, reaching for a wrench.
In a few minutes Tom pulls off the saddle and finds a folded paper underneath.
"I have had this machine for almost one year, and it has the heart of a lion. It wants to stretch out and go fast, and then slow down and purr like a kitten. I have had what I would call close calls on rides, except in every case the bike slowed down or braked or turned without my involvement, in each case averting disaster. It seems that it has some kind of protective aura around it that keeps you and it out of danger. It seems unfair to call it possessed, but you can trust this machine to take you wherever you want to go, and to protect you as you go. In it, I believe, is a guardian angel."
Jay turns to Tom and says, "Too bad he didn't have this bike with him on that last season in Alaska or it might have steered him out of danger."
"I suppose. You know, somehow I suspect that Trevor watched over Mae for the rest of her life, much like that Harley does for its owners.
"He was her guardian angel."
Old souls live on, whether in humans or in machines. For people, it is other's memories of them that continue to give them life.
And apparently, for machines, too.