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Dawn Patrol
by Gary Charpentier |
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I
never knew what hit me… One moment I was
droning along, a thousand feet above the landscape, enjoying
another beautiful sunrise here on the Western Front. The
next tick of the clock found me fighting the controls as my
fragile craft, riddled with bullet holes, plunged towards
the earth in flames! As I watched the shell-pocked
battlefield rushing towards me, I realized that my final
moment had arrived… and my only regret was that the
last sound I would ever hear was the triumphant buzzing of
my enemy's engine. I opened my eyes
to darkness. I was lying on the ground, somewhere… That
terrible buzzing was still in my ears! I turned my head and
saw a red glow on the horizon. As my eyes struggled to
focus, I slowly realized that it wasn't the horizon at all,
but the edge of my bed! The red glow resolved into
numbers… 5:03. That annoying sound was not the engine
of a Fokker Triplane, but rather the electronic buzzer of my
battered LED alarm clock. Whew! Cheated death, yet
again… I reached over and
swatted the evil little box until the torment ceased. What
now? Knowing I would never get back to sleep with this jolt
of adrenaline rushing through my system, I decided to add
caffeine to the mix, and stumbled towards the kitchen to
brew up some coffee. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a
little voice was scolding me, saying I really shouldn't be
up so early on a Sunday. I acknowledged the point, but the
aroma coming from Mr. Coffee provided all necessary
rebuttal. A glance out the
window confirmed that the sun would rise yet again, as the
few clouds loitering about showed a rosy glow on their
bottoms. I poured my coffee, stepped into my boots, and
headed for the garage. A delicious
anticipation overcame me as the garage door slowly opened.
Just as a strip-tease artist peels away her garments
oh-so-slowly for effect, the sight of my Café
Scrambler gradually revealed from the bottom up definitely
gets my heart racing. Stepping inside my gearhead sanctuary,
I paused a moment to savor the familiar aromas of gas, oil,
and rubber. Switching on the
light, I let my eyes roam over the bike in our pre-ride
inspection ritual. Lots of chain-fling on the rear wheel. I
would have to wipe that off. I checked the oil: just below
full. Lights: check. Cables: tight enough. Tires: round.
Pressure: not much, it IS the weekend, after all.
Hoisting the
swingarm on a paddock stand, I sprayed a shop rag with some
citrus degreaser. Then, holding the rag against the rim, I
spun the wheel with my other hand, getting rid of the excess
chain lube which had been deposited there after my last
ride. A 30 second job, after which I returned to the house
to retrieve my riding gear. The bike was ready and I was
almost there. At the kitchen
table I pulled a map out of an old tank bag and contemplated
my "flight plan". The little nightmare that awakened me had
left some residual anxiety so I opted not to take the
speed-freak route for this morning's ride. Instead, I
settled on a nice leisurely run down to Red Wing, with a
touch-and-go at Treasure Island for a bit of blackjack.
Then, either Hwy 60 West to Zumbrota, or East into
Wisconsin. I could make that decision when I left the
casino. I shrugged into my
trusty leather and, helmet in hand, I returned to the
garage. Rolling Quasi Moto out into the driveway, his
chrome-sided gas tank reflected the rising sun, just now
peeking over the horizon. I love starting a ride at dawn,
especially on Sunday. Nearly everyone else is still asleep,
so I have the road to myself, and the brisk morning air
invigorates me. After donning my
helmet and gloves, I turned the key in the ignition
(contact!), pulled out the choke, and pressed the starter
button. The double overhead cam twin fired up immediately
and I let it idle for a minute keeping the revs low so as
not to wake the neighbors. Then we rolled out into the
street. Take off time: 0558. Highway 52 South
was all but deserted. I rode along, glancing to the right
from time-to-time at my absurdly elongated shadow. He stayed
with me all the way to the Hastings exit, where I
reluctantly left him behind. Highway 55
Eastbound…The "enemy aerodrome" lies down that road: a
huge complex comprising the police headquarters, courthouse,
and jail all in one convenient location. With this in mind,
I always obey the speed limit on this short stretch of
tarmac. They do try to catch you out here, with several
decreasing speed zones as you approach the Hastings city
limits. At the stoplight on the main drag through town I
turned left and then right on 10th Street to take the back
way into Treasure Island. This bypasses the speed traps and
traffic nonsense on 316, while offering better scenery and
twistier roads. We began to have a bit of fun here, finally
cracking the ton on some of the straights. Sweepers were
taken in top gear, rolling on the throttle and scraping the
pegs just a bit. There is only one stop sign on this route,
until you get to the road that takes you onto the
reservation. This part of the ride always goes by quickly
and before I knew it we were pulling into Treasure Island's
Motorcycle Only parking area. The tables were
good to me, as they usually are. I was out of there, fifty
bucks richer, before Quasi Moto could even cool down. My
gambling 'system' follows the old addage: "Quit while you're
ahead." I'll never get rich, I'm not greedy enough, but I
do manage to make most of my gas money this way. Walking back out
to the bike, I decided to take the western route. I ride
Wisconsin all the time, but I had only been on this stretch
of Hwy 60 once before, several years ago, on my beloved
Ducati, "Gogo". Destination confirmed, we left Treasure
Island behind and headed for the western horizon.
The rest of the
day was spent exploring backroads and little towns in
Southeast Minnesota. This is a truly beautiful place to
ride. I detoured south on Hwy 3 into Owatonna, then west on
Hwy 14, north to Waseca on Hwy 13… my belly had been
rumbling for some time and I was quite pleased when I saw
the sign for the Busy Bee Café in the center of
Waseca's business district. There was a Busy Bee Café
in London that was quite popular with the original Ton-Up
Boys, so I figured this would be the perfect place to stop
for breakfast. My hopes were dashed, however, when I found
that they are closed on Sunday. Dejected, I continued north
on 13 to the town of Waterville. Once there, I
found a delightful place called, oddly enough, The
Waterville Café. There was a 1961 vintage two-stroke
Yamaha displayed in one window. I later found out this was a
Japanese domestic model smuggled over here by an American
sailor many years ago. Several vintage bicycles filled two
other windows along a lengthy storefront. The place was
packed and apparently quite popular with the lycra/spandex
pedal bike crowd. I was able to park right in front of the
door and found a table where I could keep an eye on my scoot
while I ate. Is it just me, or do all motorcyclists feel
more comfortable with this arrangement? I never have to park
my truck where I can see it, but there have been times when
I actually decline to dine where I can't watch my bike.
The cheese omelet
with hash browns and toast was simply sublime. The menu was
extensive, but hungry as I was, I knew I wouldn't have the
patience to sample and savor some of their more
sophisticated dishes. "That's OK," I thought, as I donned
my wrap-around shades in my best Terminator impression…
"I'll be baaack!" I rode Hwy 60 back
east to Faribault, where I picked up Hwy 3 headed north.
This is another nice road for just cruising along, with lots
of pastoral scenery and usually very little traffic. I
stopped in at the Castle Rock Café for a cold one,
because I always do when I'm on this road. I've never eaten
there because I'm always either on my way to somewhere else
or I've already eaten elsewhere. I'll have to make a point
of it someday. By now it was
approaching noon, and the temperature was heading for the
nineties. I rode the rest of the way on Hwy 3 to Ton-Up
Hill, and came in for a landing. I was ready for a nap, but
wife Amy was home so I knew I was in for a 'debriefing'. It
seems my little dawn patrol was an Unauthorized Mission,
punishable by a fine and extra duty. I surrendered the
remains of my blackjack winnings and headed out to the shed
to start up the lawnmower. War is Hell… M.M.M.
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