#shownomercycrew

Day 2 - Rain Dance

First rest behind us, and it’s an early rise to try and race the storm heading south. The skies are overcast, much like a mental fog that somehow exists everywhere except for long stretches of highway.

Traces of what this journey means on an individual level start to seep thru, scabs start to peel from hours of wind, and white noise. Grim has been scribbling away in his notebook, Jarnefr is thinking of short spoken segments detailing what each mile brings him, Hornsmith is shooting video, and I am here…cathartic.

At each stop we palm pavement and knock out 50 push ups, half a feet of ego, half to get blood back into our fingers. The Hornsmith is somewhere around 500.

On the horizon the dark clouds churn like an old steam engine cycling thru the mountain pass, and after conquering the electrical gremlin on Jarnefr’s Dyna, we duck heads and barrel into the storm.

At first the light splatter of mist on windscreen is a welcomed sensory input, amidst the learned scenery, but as the droplets increase in size, they do little to sooth sunburnt skin.

Trial is a given on any quest of the spirit, but wet gear needs attention, as much as stomachs need sustenance.

Drenched, smiling, we pull into Holiday Inn and make plans to get dinner with new friends who are eager to show support for the ride.

Day 3 - Odin’s Own (Brother)

A light drizzle greets the new day, as if some passive aggressive attempt to thwart the Spirit, but when there is a free breakfast waiting, not one among us doesn’t have a little incentive to jump out of bed.

The crowd of complimentary meal devotees, primarily old folks and families, look less than thrilled to see us, the black contrast to their fanciful travel plans. We disrupt the feel good vibe they had promised themselves over countless overtime work days, missed choir recitals, and bitter divorce threats. In a world full of sheep, the Wolf is an unwelcome guest.

Meat and coffee levels attained, a quick run to resupply, and the road is ours.

No more than 15 minutes down the lane and the skies let forth an intensified variance of the mornings embrace, but like a preordained hero of myth or legend, we have come prepared with key items for the quest, XXL black trash bags draped over all the “dry” goods, rain sock on the intake, and eyes on the distant clear horizon.

70 some miles thru the muck and Macgyver level mecromancy, we find ourselves enveloped by sickeningly sweet Doo Wop music, amidst a small town diner, 50’s throwback. Plans are made to find an overhang to inspect a noise on one of the bikes, and for some time we occupy the local banks drive thru.

Back on the highway as the Sun starts to show its radiance, now there is a distinct synchronicity in our riding. The once messy lane changes have become sweeping dances conducted by flashes of Amber and hand gestures. We block traffic to let each other over, and bury the throttle to chase down any who can’t make the exit. Regroup. Return to centre.

At dusk we simply don’t want to stop riding…so much so that fuel is neglected. Feed the Beast via high octane thermos and chance encounter with a Heathen Good Samaritan, then speedos peg, trance ensues, the song composure begins.

Night is a more gracious host than it’s AM counterpart. The obsidian skies fill with fireworks and smoke, a vision impairing but critical notation on the sheet music.

As the evening crosses into morning, and the hot coals from the first fire slowly expire, The Muse appears to us all.

Day 1 - Torchbearers

Hungover, ritual ash still on our faces and the sense of impatience rising.

There is a certain tone of somber in the air, not in the sense of an ill omen foreboding some cataclysm, but rather, quiet introspective behavior…this trip means more than wheels moving round asphalt.

We make pacts to perform Saltwater Sacraments on each side of the continent, a balance for the flames spread along the way. The waltz of Life and Death.

The coastline is died a red hue that does little to deter wading into its waters, and after some time spent soaking in the crimson wake, we set way back to the shore and off to the hospitality of a friends home.

Days 5/6 - Road Dogs

Days have started to blur, like the white hashed divisions on highway at full speed assault…and as sleep becomes a rarity, it is apparent that this melody has taken on a life of its own.

The hotel room, which under UV inspection would induce guttural reaction, served as a welcomed rest. As the morning Sun leaked thru the windows to creep cross now worn faces, reassurances of fair weather and mechanical grace were espoused.

Too much time in one places leaves you restless, and broke down Harley’s just piss you off.

Despite the “as seen on tv” reassurances of previous “fixes”, the crippled Sportster continues to best our efforts.

The one lead on a new tank seems unlikely as the method of acquisition is dependent entirely on Facebook.

Sulking in the humid shade, it is soon realized that without anything productive occurring, our ambitions of mended Harley’s are as worthless as the guys working the parts counter at the dealership. Good fortune is a rare commodity it seems.

As hope seems desolate, and plans to press on despite the fuel leak are solidified, the hero Jackson emerges, and we secure the transplant tank for Grim’s bike.

Some redneck ingenuity coupled with considerable cursing and they new tank is grafted on.

As dusk sets and night unfolds, we are gifted the first clear horizon in what seems like ages, and devour the skies like the first men to strike out of atmosphere. Worlds unknown.

Solace is found in an hour nap on park grounds and it’s a quick rise to greet the new day.

Come morning, hesitation becomes a foreign philosophy and each refuel is cut back to bone. Fill up, file out, become one with rhythm of air between gaps in helmet, finding an embrace within our charge. Primal.

Nearly 800 miles later we arrive at our temporary destination, find a place to stash our gear and bikes, and like any responsible outlaws would do, set out for drink and mayhem.