We rode the motorcycles out at midmorning.
We wrestled them through a turn and then drove them out in shirtsleeves. The pigs had churned the earth, so bolting from the stable clouded the sky in thick dust.
Whimsy trailed me out and then I saddled her up while Greg replaced the fence stake in the wire loop. Laying in her Cockpit, Whimsy was narcoleptic from midmorning drowsiness as I slid her goggles up her nose. She had harassed the pigs, chased every skittering creature underground or into the bushes, and finally dug a grave to collapse onto the cool dirt.
“The day’s just beginning and she’s already nodding off,” I said.
I fired up the engine and kicked Tuskarossa out of neutral.
“Ok, small-small,” Greg said. “Just a few kilometers of this and it gets better – or not.”
‘Small-small’ is an expression that means ‘little-by-little’ and provides a good shorthand for a lot of things. We picked it up in Liberia, West Africa, which is where we first lived together and got to know each other – actually, in just that order. We don’t collect art, jewelry, or furniture from the places we live or visit, but we appropriate a word or phrase into our melting pot as the most lasting form of nostalgia.
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “I feel fine and if it gets ugly, I’ll let her down and ride it out alone.”
Immediately beyond the homestead, the road became an outbreak of rocky pustules. After a couple of minutes, I turned a sharp bend. Just into the descent, my front tire struck a loose, deep rock, which gave way. I lost speed and balance, and we performed a near perfect reenactment of yesterday’s bellyflop.
“You’re ok?” Greg said as he rounded the bend.
“Yeah, I’m fine and she’s fine,” I said. “It was just like yesterday and I just stalled out. I hope I’m not developing nerves or some kind of bad habit because this wasn’t happening at all before.”
“You’re probably just in your head,” he said, “but you’ll work through it. Just stay calm and breath.”
He pulled Tenderfoot to a stop and parked in the shade before the descent. Then he trotted down the narrow drop where Tuskarossa lay on her side. Wide-eyed and radiating her signature clown smile, Whimsy was like a bottle of fizzy soda, which has been shaken and is about to be uncorked.
“She was so sleepy when we started out but I think she’s awake now,” I said.
As Greg began to release her straps, we noticed a plume of dust appear over the rise behind us.
“Something’s coming,” I said. “I think it’s…”
He dismounted her before removing her goggles and, instead of shaking, she pawed at her face to remove them.
“Whimsy, over here!” He shouted and seized the handhold of her riding harness. “You stay!”
Another moment later, a herd of a dozen cows exploded over the rise. I don’t know what the different gaits of a cow are called and I couldn’t guess at their speed, but this was certainly more than a trot.
They were flanked and followed by two horsemen. Neither seemed to react or have any control other than to spur at their heels.
“With me,” Greg said and he manhandled Whimsy to the side of the road where I had retreated from my motorcycle.
The troop blasted past Tenderfoot and then bore down on Tuskarossa, which seemed more vulnerable and less visible laying on her side. But the cows parted naturally to either side like how a river flows around a boulder.
“That was practically a stampede,” Greg said.
“It was definitely the worst timing and place to crash ever,” I said. “My heart nearly stopped imagining them trample all over my motorcycle.”
Tuskarossa righted much easier than yesterday because the camber and the fear of another passing herd propelled our efforts.
“You hold onto Whimsy,” I instructed. “I’ll ride through this and we’ll put her on up ahead when things look better.”
“Absolutely,” Greg said. “There should only be another couple kilometers before it gets better. So you can ride the whole thing out, if that makes you feel better. We’ll give this White Devil some exercise after all the leftover pasta last night. Just go slow and stop once or twice so she’s not sprinting the whole way.”
“We’ll see what it looks like,” I said. “I’ll only go as far as I need to and then let her back up.”
“Go ahead and mount up,” Greg said. “I’ll keep the bike sturdy.”
I threw a leg over and then turned on the engine. As I rolled into motion, I noticed how Tuskarossa was lighter without Whimsy’ onboard, but the road was still as scaly as a crocodile.
When I was out of view, Greg returned to his motorcycle. Once he was in the saddle with engine running, he released Whimsy to follow after me. A few minutes later, I pulled to a stop at the top of a rise where I glimpsed a shallow creek below.
“I’m at the creek,” I said over the intercom.
I turned off the engine and stripped off my jacket while I waited for Greg and Whimsy to catch up. Whimsy arrived first and she greeted me with a wagging tail and a frontal leap that stamped paw dust on my shirt. Then she thrust her face into the water bowl, which I had filled and placed beside the rear tire.
Greg pulled to a stop behind us and dismounted.
“I think this is the creek that Ernesto mentioned,” I said. “At least it looks ugly enough to be the place he meant, doesn’t it?”
“Well, at least I think I see a line through this,” he said. “It could work but it’s not great.”
The road descending severely until it reached the creek and then blasted up steeply over a rise. Craters pockmarked the surface and the loose rocks were like fragments of exploded landmines. As we walked down, Greg’s steps traced a crooked line like the precise course of a pinball striking all the right bumpers.
“Yeah, I see it,” I said, “but really what do you think the chances are?”
“Look ahead and go slow but not too slow,” he said. “You want me to go first?”
“No, I’ll go.”
I always prefer to ride in front and especially where there is an obstacle ahead. I always worry that, if I see Greg struggle, it might sap my courage to try.
“I’ll tether Whimsy out of the way and film you from the bottom,” he said.
I lost the exact trace of the line by the time I was back in the saddle, but I remembered the general course it took. I controlled the bike slow and precise halfway through the descent until I reach a split where I couldn’t recall or decide which direction to take. For the third time in less than 24 hours, I was too slow, feathered the clutch too late, and I stalled.
“Oh, fuck,” I heard Greg say over the intercom.
Tuskarossa went over and I released a loud, Ufff!” as I face-planted beside her.
“Are you ok?” He asked as he approached.
“I hit my bone,” I replied.
“Like how?”
“Like I hit the ground hard on my hip bone,” I answered.
“Are you broken?” he said.
“No. But I was doing so well,” I said.
As I stood up and began to brush myself off, I looked down at where I had landed.
“I fell in the cow poop.”
