July 15th
I sat in Blockhead’s cluttered kitchen contemplating my next step. Should I head to Indianapolis, deeper into Illinois and St. Louis, or up into Michigan? I studied the map and reasoned that Michigan was the best choice. Blockhead insisted that I wait for him to wake before hitting the trail. History has said when Blockhead ties one on like yesterday he would be down till early evening. I sighed and sipped the last of my coffee before depositing the cup in the sink and slipping from my friend’s apartment. Maybe I’ll stop back, I told myself as I made my way down the low rise’s steps and out onto the street.
Looping my thumbs under my backpack’s shoulder straps, I headed for the rail yards.
Afternoon: Kalamazoo: On the wrong side of the tracks from Western Michigan U. sits Jack’s Bar and Grill; that’s where I sat this afternoon talking politics to a 40ish red head. She seemed interested in what I was up to, admitting that some of my platform planks were nonsense: “their value is in their satire.” She excused herself for a moment. As she did, I returned to nursing my tall blond. Leather wearing Redheads and blonds are always a distracting combination.
“Here’s the deal,” she said upon return. “I’m riding my Harley to Vermont, you can ride with me if I can intern for you.” Earlier, she introduced herself as Glenda from Grand Rapids.
“I’ll help you campaign as long as you ride with me,” she answered my question about what she’d meant by interning. There was no mention of blue dresses or cigars, but it lingered in the bar like the proverbial elephant.
A live and let live gentleman such as myself would never refuse such help. As I finished my beer, I realized I hadn’t spoken to a soul other than Glenda and the frumpy barmaid. When I said as much Glenda retorted, “I took matters into my own hands, I wrote Robert for president on the bathroom wall.” Mission accomplished, we stepped from the dark bar into the sun-drenched afternoon.
I climbed onto the bike behind Glenda and pulled my hat low on my forehead and over my ears. Her bike roared and we took off down Michigan Ave. We headed east on I-94, Glenda pushing the bike, leaving semi’s, buses and cars in the rearview. We exited the freeway and crossed the Michigan Countryside till we came to a stop at the Office Bar in Athens.
“Kinda thought Athens was a good stop for a presidential candidate, beings it’s the birthplace of democracy and all.”
“I’ll have a Bud and the presidential candidate will have a tall blond,” Glenda announced to the sleepy happy-hour crowd. A few brows raised and scornful glimpses cast in our direction.
“Looks like no presidential candidate I ever seen,” said a blue collar guy wearing a NRA cap.
“I’m not like any you’ve ever met.” It wasn’t my style to burst into a bar and make bold pronouncements, there’s a quality of superiority that I don’t subscribe. I immediately diffused any potential nonsense. “When was the last time a presidential candidate bought you a beer?” Four happy hour beers was a cheap price for converts. I spent two hour stumping with my newfound friends.
I’ve learned not to question the abilities of an drinking rider. Maybe it is a dangerous assumption, but as a general rule, bike riders are more careful than others, possibly it’s not having metal surrounding you and being immediately vulnerable. Whatever the reality, Glenda rode well and pulled off a side road somewhere near Sturgis. “Figured I ain’t gonna be in the real Sturgis this year, so this has got to do.”
I offered Glenda to pitch her tent but she refused. I lay back on a nearby picnic table and gazed upward and the darkening sky. I felt like I was giving Michigan short thrift. I thought of slipping off after she dozed off and working deeper into the state. At an impasse, I closed my eyes.
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