40StudeDude
10-01-2004, 09:33 PM
PLAYING CHICKEN
Several years ago...well, thirty or more, there was an obscure song that described one of my pals perfectly...it was called “Blak Denim Trousers and Motorcycle Boots”...sung by The Cheers...ever heard it? The chorus to their song went like this: “He wore blak denim trousers and motorcycle boots and a blak leather jacket with an eagle on the back. He had a hopped-up cycle that took off like a gun, that fool was the terror of Highway 101.”
My pal, Mick, wasn’t exactly the terror of Highway 101, that particular stretch of highway runs the coast of California...but he definitely ruled Highways 30 & 59 in and around my hometown in Iowa.
The bike Mick rode was blak...with lots of chrome and a winking skull -- painted on the teardrop tank between his legs, just behind that speedo. Alongside it, a chromed skull, sporting bright red jeweled eyes, sat atop the shifter near the tank. The back end of the bike sat low and it had a huge seat with springs under it...it looked like it was wedged between the fender and the tank. The handle bars were chromed, dual mirrors floated above the cables, the front fender was long gone and a lone headlight pointed the way from the middle of the springers.
“C’mon, let’s take a ride,” Savage (his nickname) would say, reaching for his sunglasses. “You can have the back seat.”
I’d already been in one motorcycle crash ( The Friday Nite Read: Harleys,Mad Dogs and Being Stupid.)and swore I’d never get on another bike. “Can’t today, Mick, got to go down to the A & W, see if they made the root beer correct.”
He’d call me names, I’d just grin and walk away…usually ended up at the restaurant, talking to Betts...uhm...Betty Lou. Ya see, I got to know Mick thru his red-headed girlfriend and she had a name similar to a line in the song that goes: “He had a pretty girlfriend by the name of Mary Lou, he treated her like he treated all the rest. Everybody pitied her cuz they all knew he loved that doggone motorcycle best.” Actually, Betty Lou had gone out with me a few times...and the one and only time she and her girlfriend went to the Starline Ballroom – the sock hop, in Carroll, he showed up. She rode home on his bike and guess what? I didn’t go out with Red (Mick’s name for her) anymore after that. After she quit me, I’d stop in and we’d chat...about Mick. He treated her just like that line in the song and she didn’t know if she wanted to stay with him anymore...kept pressing me for a decision that wasn’t mine.
“Betts, it’s you that has to decide if you love him enuff to stay with him, especially when you don’t know where he goes or who he’s with.” I’d say, thinking maybe I’d get another chance. It didn’t help any.
Many times Mick would push the door open with his boot and make a grand entrance, she’d smile and beam and motion to his arms…cover up those tattoos...the restaurant owner didn’t like tats...only Juvenile Delinquents and Hoodlums ruined their bodies like that back then. Mick didn’t care, but he’d swing his jacket on to cover them, for her. Mick’s tats evoked another line in the song: “On the muscle of his arm was a red tattoo, a picture of a heart saying ‘Mother, I Love You.” Mick’s was red & blue. On the other arm was a tattoo of a ball and chain and a skull behind both…with the words “Death Always Wins.”
He’d grab the stool next to me, slide his sunglasses up on his head and we’d chat about motorcycles, I’d interject hot rods. I wasn’t into bikes and he wasn’t into hot rods, but we got along...I liked to hear his stories...he liked mine. His stories always involved getting hassled, arrested by local cops and tossed in jail...by any cop in any small town on his way. They didn’t like “his kind,” in 1963, didn’t want him around. My passion, at that time, besides females & hot rods, was a ’57 Chevy 150 two door...and illegal street racing. Mick’s passion was playing chicken and racing trains...any hour of any day. And yeah, there really were guys that liked to play chicken out on the two lanes...I wasn’t one of them tho.
“One of these days, Savage, a train is going to take you out,” I’d say in jest. Sometimes he’d take the joke the way I intended, other days he’d put his face in mine and swear he was gonna pound me into so much road kill. “One of these days, you’re gonna get yours and I’m gonna be the guy that takes care of it,” he’d say, then turn and smile at Betts.
His threats didn’t bother me..I knew he wouldn’t pound me...I was one of the few friends he had in town. I’d change the subject then, ask about his bike… I think he called it’s engine a “Panhead” and at that time, the bike was already older than he was...he loved that bike and cursed that bike but refused get rid of it, said anything else was just so much junk. He was always putting oil in it and it always had a puddle under it every time he parked it...but the bike was fast and anything else wouldn’t have fit him...they definitely belonged together...couldn’t picture him in a hot rod or a lowered kustom, especially with that blak leather jacket he wore all the time, even on 90 degree days. On some of those days, he’d roll into the restaurant with full leathers on, Betts knew he was headed somewhere far away.
There’s a line in that song that goes like this: “She said, ‘I’ve got a feeling if you ride tonight I’ll grieve’, but her tears were shed in vain and her every word lost in the rumble of his engine and the smoke of his exhaust. He took off like the devil, there was fire in his eyes. He said, ‘I’ll go a thousand miles before the sun can rise.” She was well aware there were days Mick spent like that...and lost weekends as well...and she didn’t like it.
Red called one Tuesday, worried sick. “Mick’s been gone for over two weeks now. That’s not like him. Something’s happened to him.”
Typical female. Sometimes we wouldn’t see Mick for several days, then find out later he rode off to Des Moines to stay with biker friends, or go to Omaha, or Sioux City or Kansas City to have a beer with his buddies. A long, lost weekend trip would get him all the way to Las Vegas or Reno, to quell an itch he had. But after he’d been gone a few days, he’d always stroll back into the restaurant to see Red and she was always ecstatic to see him.
Still, being gone for better than two weeks was unlike Mick...“I’ll ask around...see if anyone’s seen him.”
I found out he’d gotten drunk in a drinking establishment quite a few towns away and his loud mouth challenged everyone within earshot to play chicken with him…no one was stupid enuff to accept so he left and to this day I still don’t know if what happened to Savage is true...ya see...the one thing he was always bragging about how good he was, was the fact that he could ride the rails on his Harley. No, not between the tracks...on one...he’d balance that bike on one rail and go like hell...and he was damned good at it. Couple that with his passion for playing chicken, racing trains and being drunk one late night and the story goes he tried to play chicken with a freight train...one single bright headlight screaming toward another single headlight in the blakness of a Midwestern nite.
Well, you can draw your own conclusion from that. The last line in that song goes: “...but he hit a screaming diesel that was California bound and when they cleared the wreckage all they found, was blak denim trousers and motorcycle boots and a blak leather jacket with an eagle on the back, but they couldn’t find the cycle that took off like a gun and they never found the terror of Highway 101.”
As I said, no one really knows what happened to Mick, one day he was there and the next he wasn’t ...and he never came back to town. Unlike the song, his bike was tossed three hundred yards from the tracks and twisted up so badly it was hardly recognizable, the engineer confirmed he’d hit something...but it took four miles to stop the train. And like the song, Mick’s body was never found... maybe the train did get him. Maybe the crash tossed his body into the swift river. Maybe it was so simple no one would figure it out: Mick got tired of the lifestyle he had, decided to forego it...and Red, the girl that loved him. Maybe he bailed off the bike before the train hit it, dusted himself off and hitch-hiked to California to become a rock star...and maybe that song was written about him...funnier yet, may be he wrote that song? Stranger things have been known to happen.
Copyright 8-2004 Aden Rush/R.A. Jetter
Several years ago...well, thirty or more, there was an obscure song that described one of my pals perfectly...it was called “Blak Denim Trousers and Motorcycle Boots”...sung by The Cheers...ever heard it? The chorus to their song went like this: “He wore blak denim trousers and motorcycle boots and a blak leather jacket with an eagle on the back. He had a hopped-up cycle that took off like a gun, that fool was the terror of Highway 101.”
My pal, Mick, wasn’t exactly the terror of Highway 101, that particular stretch of highway runs the coast of California...but he definitely ruled Highways 30 & 59 in and around my hometown in Iowa.
The bike Mick rode was blak...with lots of chrome and a winking skull -- painted on the teardrop tank between his legs, just behind that speedo. Alongside it, a chromed skull, sporting bright red jeweled eyes, sat atop the shifter near the tank. The back end of the bike sat low and it had a huge seat with springs under it...it looked like it was wedged between the fender and the tank. The handle bars were chromed, dual mirrors floated above the cables, the front fender was long gone and a lone headlight pointed the way from the middle of the springers.
“C’mon, let’s take a ride,” Savage (his nickname) would say, reaching for his sunglasses. “You can have the back seat.”
I’d already been in one motorcycle crash ( The Friday Nite Read: Harleys,Mad Dogs and Being Stupid.)and swore I’d never get on another bike. “Can’t today, Mick, got to go down to the A & W, see if they made the root beer correct.”
He’d call me names, I’d just grin and walk away…usually ended up at the restaurant, talking to Betts...uhm...Betty Lou. Ya see, I got to know Mick thru his red-headed girlfriend and she had a name similar to a line in the song that goes: “He had a pretty girlfriend by the name of Mary Lou, he treated her like he treated all the rest. Everybody pitied her cuz they all knew he loved that doggone motorcycle best.” Actually, Betty Lou had gone out with me a few times...and the one and only time she and her girlfriend went to the Starline Ballroom – the sock hop, in Carroll, he showed up. She rode home on his bike and guess what? I didn’t go out with Red (Mick’s name for her) anymore after that. After she quit me, I’d stop in and we’d chat...about Mick. He treated her just like that line in the song and she didn’t know if she wanted to stay with him anymore...kept pressing me for a decision that wasn’t mine.
“Betts, it’s you that has to decide if you love him enuff to stay with him, especially when you don’t know where he goes or who he’s with.” I’d say, thinking maybe I’d get another chance. It didn’t help any.
Many times Mick would push the door open with his boot and make a grand entrance, she’d smile and beam and motion to his arms…cover up those tattoos...the restaurant owner didn’t like tats...only Juvenile Delinquents and Hoodlums ruined their bodies like that back then. Mick didn’t care, but he’d swing his jacket on to cover them, for her. Mick’s tats evoked another line in the song: “On the muscle of his arm was a red tattoo, a picture of a heart saying ‘Mother, I Love You.” Mick’s was red & blue. On the other arm was a tattoo of a ball and chain and a skull behind both…with the words “Death Always Wins.”
He’d grab the stool next to me, slide his sunglasses up on his head and we’d chat about motorcycles, I’d interject hot rods. I wasn’t into bikes and he wasn’t into hot rods, but we got along...I liked to hear his stories...he liked mine. His stories always involved getting hassled, arrested by local cops and tossed in jail...by any cop in any small town on his way. They didn’t like “his kind,” in 1963, didn’t want him around. My passion, at that time, besides females & hot rods, was a ’57 Chevy 150 two door...and illegal street racing. Mick’s passion was playing chicken and racing trains...any hour of any day. And yeah, there really were guys that liked to play chicken out on the two lanes...I wasn’t one of them tho.
“One of these days, Savage, a train is going to take you out,” I’d say in jest. Sometimes he’d take the joke the way I intended, other days he’d put his face in mine and swear he was gonna pound me into so much road kill. “One of these days, you’re gonna get yours and I’m gonna be the guy that takes care of it,” he’d say, then turn and smile at Betts.
His threats didn’t bother me..I knew he wouldn’t pound me...I was one of the few friends he had in town. I’d change the subject then, ask about his bike… I think he called it’s engine a “Panhead” and at that time, the bike was already older than he was...he loved that bike and cursed that bike but refused get rid of it, said anything else was just so much junk. He was always putting oil in it and it always had a puddle under it every time he parked it...but the bike was fast and anything else wouldn’t have fit him...they definitely belonged together...couldn’t picture him in a hot rod or a lowered kustom, especially with that blak leather jacket he wore all the time, even on 90 degree days. On some of those days, he’d roll into the restaurant with full leathers on, Betts knew he was headed somewhere far away.
There’s a line in that song that goes like this: “She said, ‘I’ve got a feeling if you ride tonight I’ll grieve’, but her tears were shed in vain and her every word lost in the rumble of his engine and the smoke of his exhaust. He took off like the devil, there was fire in his eyes. He said, ‘I’ll go a thousand miles before the sun can rise.” She was well aware there were days Mick spent like that...and lost weekends as well...and she didn’t like it.
Red called one Tuesday, worried sick. “Mick’s been gone for over two weeks now. That’s not like him. Something’s happened to him.”
Typical female. Sometimes we wouldn’t see Mick for several days, then find out later he rode off to Des Moines to stay with biker friends, or go to Omaha, or Sioux City or Kansas City to have a beer with his buddies. A long, lost weekend trip would get him all the way to Las Vegas or Reno, to quell an itch he had. But after he’d been gone a few days, he’d always stroll back into the restaurant to see Red and she was always ecstatic to see him.
Still, being gone for better than two weeks was unlike Mick...“I’ll ask around...see if anyone’s seen him.”
I found out he’d gotten drunk in a drinking establishment quite a few towns away and his loud mouth challenged everyone within earshot to play chicken with him…no one was stupid enuff to accept so he left and to this day I still don’t know if what happened to Savage is true...ya see...the one thing he was always bragging about how good he was, was the fact that he could ride the rails on his Harley. No, not between the tracks...on one...he’d balance that bike on one rail and go like hell...and he was damned good at it. Couple that with his passion for playing chicken, racing trains and being drunk one late night and the story goes he tried to play chicken with a freight train...one single bright headlight screaming toward another single headlight in the blakness of a Midwestern nite.
Well, you can draw your own conclusion from that. The last line in that song goes: “...but he hit a screaming diesel that was California bound and when they cleared the wreckage all they found, was blak denim trousers and motorcycle boots and a blak leather jacket with an eagle on the back, but they couldn’t find the cycle that took off like a gun and they never found the terror of Highway 101.”
As I said, no one really knows what happened to Mick, one day he was there and the next he wasn’t ...and he never came back to town. Unlike the song, his bike was tossed three hundred yards from the tracks and twisted up so badly it was hardly recognizable, the engineer confirmed he’d hit something...but it took four miles to stop the train. And like the song, Mick’s body was never found... maybe the train did get him. Maybe the crash tossed his body into the swift river. Maybe it was so simple no one would figure it out: Mick got tired of the lifestyle he had, decided to forego it...and Red, the girl that loved him. Maybe he bailed off the bike before the train hit it, dusted himself off and hitch-hiked to California to become a rock star...and maybe that song was written about him...funnier yet, may be he wrote that song? Stranger things have been known to happen.
Copyright 8-2004 Aden Rush/R.A. Jetter