Day 24 - Shanks
As a morning daze lingered on my road worn face, the sound of Grimnirs hurried packing roused me from bed. Exhaustion was an attribute that no sleep seemed to ward off, and I was grateful that my companion wasn’t in a chatty mood.
Indiscriminately, personal effects were stuffed back into my G.I. green duffle, and with a quick downing of burnt coffee commandeered from the lobby, we stepped out into the thick AM heat.
I looked over my fine steed, its vivid black paint now tarnished with insect genocide and gravel peppering, then shifted my gaze to the OD Green Sportster alongside. It was odd to be down to only two bikes, but before I was able to recount the prior legs of our journey, Grimnir had fired up his engine and was waiting for me to load up. The Man was ready to be home, but one last visit need be conducted to solidify the lessons learned from this great adventure.
The Texas heat was pummeling, and as we hugged along the border of Mexico, traffic became hellish. Our Light Calvary tactics approach had been thwarted. With a vague sense of direction we diverted to the local Harley dealer for a phone mount, goggles, and an overpriced kickstand spring for the Sporty.
After some time laughing at the various T-shirt and hat designs, we quickly installed the phone mount and punched in the directions to our hosts house for the evening, a Mr. Terry Shanks.
Winding through the out skirts of Fort Worth we finally arrived outside of the house, a low slung softail in the driveway and the remnants of a primary cover hanging over the stoop, the name “Shanks” plasma cut in like trve American folk art.
Grimnir and I poured over the details on Terry’s bike as we tried to get into touch with him, but to no avail. We decided to give it another 30 minutes before blasting on to Tennessee, and just as the frustration kicked in for a wasted stop, Terry’s wife rolled up.
As strange men on motorcycles, camped out in her front yard, seemed to be a common occurrence, Rachel quickly unlocked the door to rouse Terry from his slumber, and he emerged in an apologetic and groggy fashion to welcome us in for some coffee or beer, or both.
As the caffeine drip settled into our veins, another member from the Out of Time M.C. named Jaws showed up with his old lady on the back of a beautiful heritage softail, handing out brews and welcoming us from our travels.
In rare occasions, kindred spirits seem to congregate, like the sudden appearance of fireflies in summertime meadow, veiled by shadow as the Sun dips, then gleaming on into the damp night…
The conversation quickly shifted from that of introductions and motorcycles, to concepts of societal disenchantment and outlaw philosophy, each of us recounting instances of our own sound character and grasp on life(DEATH), only to be weighed wanting by the society we took breath in.
I found my mind trying desperately to absorb the wisdom that cut through the humid July air.
Living in a time of waning worth, with plastic filler force fed into the vacancy of Life, the only option is outright revolt and abandonment of “Their World”, for the creation of your own…
Grimnir leaned over to pass me his card with a grin and asked me to go grab some more beer, as we were obviously in good company and happy to share in the camaraderie.
I hopped on the Dyna for the little jaunt to the gas station as the Sun drifted behind the trees, offering a welcomed relief from its daytime embrace.
After loading my saddle bags with beer, I darted back to the house, making way inside to rejoin the discussion.
Terry makes his living by hand forging custom knives from tool steel, and surprised Grim and I with an invitation to not only watch him work(something very few get to experience), but to help in the process.
Soon, we made way to the shed out back, housing both the forge and indescribable character.
As preparations were made to bring a blade to life, Grimnir and I scoured the premises, enchanted by everything our gazes met.
Before the process began, Terry recounted to us a story from his childhood when he had seen an outlaw type in all black ride up to a yard sale on an old Harley, a long blade on his hip. He told us of that moment, melding two powerful images, the motorcycle and the knife, both symbolic of freedom and carving a path of ones own choosing. He reflected back on the thought of “how cool it would be to be a biker who made knives” and then shared the realization he had indeed become who he had imagined. To him, the possibility of being THAT character in our story, was the immortality he had been chasing.
We watched in awe as the master performed his craft. The hammer fell, the metal danced.
At a certain juncture, an older Navy vet emerged and began a very structured cleaning process, quietly sweeping the mounds of rust and organizing sanding belts, careful to never disrupt the delicate process unfolding.
The man eventually introduced himself as Terry’s apprentice, and for a moment I found myself not wanting to talk, but only observe…perhaps prematurely judging the humble apprentice by his meek appearance.
And then I listened.
He spoke of the way the atoms within the steel were physically moved by the forging process, that the act of human will was in fact rearranging something nature had constructed for its own purpose.
He spoke of the beauty found in the curve of a blade, and its potent potential should the human will again make it move.
He concluded that in this life of uncertainty and ugliness, to bring something new, and beautiful, into existence from raw material was enough to get out of bed in the morning. It was enough to not end it all.
As the night inched into morning, the blade found its shape, its first thirst was quenched , and we each found our crash pads, planning to build the hilt in the morning.
