"Greasy Rider" by Troy H. Cheek on Jul 04, 2005

I had a visit from my childhood friend Bob Mumbler, of the famous duo Bob and Barb, the other day. It's always a pleasure to see old Bob, because I never know if it will be the last time. Bob, you see, is not long for this world.

His lovely wife Barb is trying to kill him.

I first learned of her nefarious plot several months ago during the week of Bob's 35th birthday. Bob called up to ask for a small loan to cover the downpayment on the new motorcycle that Barb had finally given him permission to buy. The woman obviously wants him dead.

I remember that week well because it was also the week that Barb called up to ask for a small loan to cover the increase in Bob's life insurance premiums after she tripled his accidental death coverage. I got suspicious when she said that she didn't mind the increase in premiums because she wouldn't be paying premiums for much longer.

Now, I certainly don't want to give them impression that Bob is in some way a reckless driver or prone to accidents. The fact that he changes cars more often than I change my underwear is simply a matter of personal taste. And I'm sure that it's just a coincidence that the local body shop named the new wing after him.

It was a good thing that I was at home the other day, busily involved in a project of mine, when the phone rang. Unfortunately, the project was an attempt to catch up on all the sleep I've been deprived of the last few weeks during my numerous "opportunities" to get in a little overtime. Still, I somehow managed to untangle myself from the covers and answer the phone on the third ring.

The answering machine, of course, picked up on the second ring.

"(Skree!) Hello? (Whine!) Who's that? (Howl!) Hold on! (Clang rattle clang clang!) Crap!" The answering machine's monitor speaker is supposed to cut off automatically when you answer the phone, so as to avoid feedback and permanent hearing loss. The next time it does that will be the first time.

"Sorry about that," I finally manage to say. "Hello, this is Troy."

"HEY, TROY!" came the now-audible reply. "BOB HERE! WHAT'S UP!"

"Not much," I answer. "Why are you yelling?"

"Just a little noisy here!" Bob said. "I was just in the area and thought I'd drop by for a visit!"

"Sure! I'd love to have you come by. Say, you're not on the cellular phone, are you?"

"Why, yes! How did you know!"

"Just guessing," I said. "Say, you're not using the cellular phone while driving your motorcycle, are you? That's dangerous."

"WHAT? Of course not!" he yelled over the engine noise. "That would be stupid! Why, I'd have to take my helmet completely off to be able to hear the phone! That would be suicide if I was doing 90 down this little winding dirt road that I'm driving right now! Er, that is, the one I'm planning to drive down here in a minute!

"Okay, see you soon," I said, deciding to end the call quickly.

"WHAT!"

"SEE YOU SOON!"

"OKAY!"

When Bob arrived, scant minutes later, I had already dialed "9" and "1" and had my finger on "1" just in case. This turned out to be unnecessary. Bob slowed down to way below Mach One to make the turn into my driveway.

My gravel driveway.

"Whoa!" exclaimed Bob as I helped him lift the motorcycle off his legs. "I didn't realize that you had a gravel driveway. When did you get that put in?"

"I think my grandparents had it put in when they built the house." Fifty or sixty years ago.

"Well, no major damage done. Touch-up paint's in the saddlebag."

I had no idea that touch-up paint was available in gallon cans. Bob explained that you get a much better price break that way. That also explained why Bob bought a midnight blue motorbike and now has an electric blue motorbike.

As we stood back to watch the paint dry, I complimented Bob on his riding jacket.

"The latest thing in safety technology," he bragged as he slapped his chest. "See these bulges? These are ceramic skid plates. They're made of the same material that they make the heat-resistant tiles on the Space Shuttle from. They work like a charm to prevent road-rash. Er, or so I've heard."

"The don't make pants, I suppose," was my only reply.

"They do," Bob admitted. "And getting a pair is on my to-do list."

Bob hobbled over the porch. I stepped inside and got us a pair of beers and a pair of needle-nose pliers. While we drank and caught up, I amused myself by digging gravel out of Bob's legs.

"I did manage to get the 100% cotton body suit," he said. "It's the latest in super-absorbant space-age material. It soaks up sweat and wicks it away from the body, keeping you nice and cool, especially in the dead of winter."

"It's doing a wonderful job of wicking up the blood," I had to admit.

"I'm having a ball," Bob said. "That Horseycow 800 is the best purchase I've ever made. I just wish I could get Barb to ride with me. But she's got this crazy idea that it's just not safe."

"I can't imagine why," I said as I wound the bandage around his knee.

"Did I tell you that she bet me $100 that I wouldn't pass my cycler's driver test that first time?"

"I remember you borrowing money from me to pay her off."

"Not my fault," Bob pshawed. "The Horseycow 800 is a precision piece of machinery. She just cooled off a little more than I thought when I went in to fill out the paperwork, so when I came out to take the driving part of the test, she was running a little rough. She died as I was taking off and flopped over before I could react."

I made non-commital noises.

"Say!" Bob said suddenly. "Don't you have a motorcycle? We could go riding together!"

"Used to have one," I agreed. "But that was a little Yamaha 80 and I outgrew it about the time I turned 12. Dad used to have a couple of dirt bikes out in the garage, but he sold them off. Got rid of the Hodaka 100 just last summer."

"Hodaka? Who makes that?"

"Hodaka. It was a little Japanese company based in Seattle. They're not in business anymore. Seems the local clergy decided that 'hodaka' was a swear word in Japanese."

"Oh," said Bob, obviously disappointed, though he hid it well. "I'd better hit the road. Um, I mean, I'd better be going."

"Drive safely. And give my love to Barb."

"Oh, that reminds me. Barb said to tell you that she'd have that money she owes you any day now. She said you'd understand."

Oh, I understand. I really do.

Copyright 2005 by Troy H. Cheek. Reprint with prior written permission only. Comments and questions to