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Hardy by Tom Allston
Cycle Guide December 1972
Hardy Kirkham probably would have felt like the King of the World if it hadn't been for his mother. She wasn't a bad person, understand: in fact, she was a good mother as mothers go, dutiful, kind, and solici¬tous of her son's welfare. That last bit was at the seat of the problem.
Hardy Kirkham lived in a fairly large Texas college town. In his younger days the U.S. Army had grabbed him up (as is its habit) at the beginning of one of its myriad "police actions" but had for some reason decided he wasn't really combat material, and so had put him in topography, then in map reproduction, and finally in all kinds of data reproduction.
Hardy, a sort of opportunist, had learned the trade thoroughly and after he mustered out had gone home and set up a small reproductive business: blueprints, short runs and the like. He became revoltingly independent. He could pick and choose his jobs, did not have to work a full week to put the loaf and jug on the table, and so was left with ample time to pursue the real love of his life: the fluid com¬munion between the road and his little Norton thumper.
His realm was ideal for a macadam freak: situated on a broad plain, the city was almost equidistant from mountains, seashore, forests and desert although it had none of any of its own.
This blatant independence made life a joy for Hardy and a trial for his dear mother. For Hardy Kirkham was going on thirty and not married.
''Hardy, dear," his mother said again as she made her biweekly visit to his small apartment in the rear of his print shop, "you are not even try¬ing”.
"Ridiculous," he countered, trying to keep the conversation from becoming too heavy. "There are few things I haven't tried."
"Try marriage."
“Momma" he said, already begin¬ning to become a little exasperated at the resurgence of the old hassle, "for some, not me. I do not need to become married. I have nothing to gain and too much to lose."
His mother arched an eyebrow.
"You could stand having somebody around to keep the place neater," she suggested. "Your life could stand some order."
Hardy snorted.
"Women are not drudges, Mother not now, and not merely the kitchen slave and child factory earlier day made them. now they are Fun Things."
"Things.
"A manner of speaking," Hardy backpedaled quickly. ''Slang. Be¬sides, I lead an ordered life."
"That I can almost agree with," his mother said her head in the icebox. "You're the only person I know who has whole milk dated by the month and year."
"I have my own life style, Momma, and I'm perfectly happy with it."
"Nothing's perfect, Hardy."
"And that includes marriage, Momma. I have my own ways and preferences, many of which a woman living with me can't or could not adjust to, probably."
"You mean like confectionery sugar on your oatmeal?" she asked.
"A shopping quirk, Momma. I mean like more important things."
"What's more important than a good woman?"
Hardy could have said 'Several good women,' or even 'My bike.' He said neither. He said:
''It's been nice seeing you, Momma."
"It's been nice seeing you, Hardy," she said, starting for the door. "It would be nicer, though
"Goodbye, Momma."
"Later, Hardy," she said, sighed, and left.
Thus, Momma's gentle harassment notwithstanding, Hardy enjoyed his life. He generally worked four days each week give or take a day and spent the rest of the time in genteel pursuits such as roaring down to Big Bend or up to Palo Duro, then bending the Norton through the twisty roads each abounded in. In season, he would pack several days' gear on the back and head for the Gulf a few hundred miles away, or the Red River resort area a similar shot in the op¬posite direction, for the best part of a week. He went alone or with com¬pany, as the situation happened to be. And he enjoyed it all.
Perhaps it was that almost unbro¬ken enjoyment that caught the atten¬tion of a malevolent demon somewhere who looked down and scowled, and shook his head bale¬fully. And conjured Bitsy Howell.
Beatrice Eleanor Howell, almost ten years Hardy's junior, had come to that Texas town from somewhere north and east, to attend the town’s large col¬lege. She carried a Midwestern Urban personality in a small, shapely frame topped with short blonde hair. A product of the current urge to femi¬nine identity, she had an inde¬pendence to match Hardy's own, a sometimes astounding determination and, apparently, no ability to resist a challenge. Like, for instance, Hardy Kirkham.
If fate were kinder, their paths would never have crossed. As it was,
Hardy one Friday evening responded to a quasi dare from a friend; a two stroke aficionado who was a recent hometown graduate of the Institution, to ''blast the drag and pick up some chicks. "
Hardy enjoyed riding with Lawrence Odom. His younger friend was articu¬late and amusing, and could never quite grasp why his big Suzy could smoke Hardy's single at the stoplights but couldn't keep on it through the curves. Hardy probably would have scorned the idea (he had a well manicured Little Black Book which served his needs) but he had had a spate of orders, it being near gradua¬tion time, and had worked from Sun¬day evening to mid afternoon this day, and so felt he could use a diversion . . . and some laughs.
So they cruised awhile, through medium traffic in the warm early eve¬ning, until Lawrence spotted a drive-in that ''looked promising." They pulled into the parking lot, Lawrence tried with no success to rack the Suzuki before killing it, Hardy showed him how a four stroke does it, and they waited astride the bikes for a curb hop. They ordered soft drinks and lolled in the saddles. Lawrence eyed the cars about them like a pickpocket at an auction, and Hardy's amuse¬ment grew.
To Hardy's mild surprise, they drew a reaction. The cars flanking them contained females, four on the right and two on the left, and their com¬mentary wafted to the two men. They were or were at least pretending to be duly impressed at the machines. Just as Hardy's straw rattled on air, Lawrence muttered "bingo."
A tall lass with long brown hair had left the back seat of the car to their right. She walked around, to lean on Lawrence's handlebars.
"Hi I'm Hedy'' she said.
''Obviously,'' Hardy punned under his breath.
''Larry'' Lawrence said, indicating himself, "and Hardy"
She smiled at them both. "You in school here?''
''Until last year,'' Lawrence af¬firmed. ''Hardy, Uncle Sam's Day School until awhile back."
"Y'all out riding tonight?"
Hardy stifled a piece of sarcasm. It's Lawrence's game, he chided him¬self, let him play it out.
He did it surprisingly well. "Just about to go look at the cereal mill," he said. The mill in question was a noble experiment by a dry cereal magnate of another era. He had man¬aged after all to get the town, some 30 miles distant, named for him.
To his astonishment, Hardy heard himself say, "Like to go along?"
He mentally kicked himself for a field goal: the girl was leaning on Lawrence's machine and Hardy hadn't even looked in the car.
He had just set himself up for, you should pardon the expression, a pig in a poke.
The girl smiled at Hardy, then called to the car: "Bitsy!"
The near door opened and a leg appeared. The rest followed and Hardy discovered his thumb was over the horn button, as he involuntarily clenched his hands on the grips.
She walked over to the Norton with a little grin.
''You piping me aboard?"
Hardy could feel his color rising, and hated it. Females never got the upper hand with him and this one grabbed it with four words. Hedy ren¬dered the introductions and flight plan. Bitsy nodded with what seemed to Hardy shame¬fully minimal conversation, the girls donned the spare helmets and the two machines headed east. The little blonde held his waist with a tension somewhere between pru¬dence and encouragement as they threaded through traffic.
''What kind of cycle is this," she asked as he stopped at a traffic light.
"A Norton single,'' he said.
''It's cute."
''It's British." The light changed. Lawrence blitzed ahead; Hardy plonked up easily. This light would hold longer.
''You go cattin' like this often?" she asked with a candor that gave Hardy a little panicky twinge.
"What makes you think we're 'cat¬tin'?" he demanded.
"The spare helmets, dummy," she said. Hardy was at a complete loss. Then she laughed, so he did too.
The ride out was not eventful, con¬sisting mainly of straight road under bright stars, with the occasional punctuation of antics by Lawrence on the big Suzy, with appropriate squeals from Hedy behind him. When they did get to a twisty section, Hardy passed them, just to keep accounts straight.
Then they parked the cycles and walked around Hardy guessed they were in the vicinity of the cereal mill, all right and talked.
That was easier than Hardy had expected, considering the background gap. The girl asked him about his work, the Army, his bike. Taking the cue, he quizzed her about her home state, her classes.
"Business management,'' Hardy echoed, "That's strange . . .”
"For a female," she challenged.
Hardy blushed again, and blessed the darkness.
But she didn't seem annoyed. "I just want to be my own boss," she said. "You know how groovy that is: not having to answer to anybody, account for what you do. Just do it. I've always been like that," she con¬tinued. "My parents tried to send me to a boarding school once: I hitch¬hiked home with a vanload of Marines on leave and they never recovered from the fright. I've had my independence, basically, ever since. Why, I couldn't ever even get married, even to somebody every bit as cockeyed as I am."
The line of talk made Hardy a trifle uneasy: in spite of his periodic state¬ment to his mother, he did have some old-line notions about what women were all about.
The discomfort passed as Lawrence and Hedy reappeared, both looking smug.
"Y'all ready to go back?" he asked.
"I guess we all is," Bitsy taunted.
They extended the return route somewhat, with a comprehensive tour of the city's new system of traffic loops and bypasses. They took the girls to their house in a quiet residen¬tial section near the campus. That, Hardy decided, tallied with Bitsy's declaration of independence: she would definitely consider a dorm a bummer.
They dismounted, and the girls re¬turned the helmets. Bitsy stretched, and then pressed at the small of her back.
"My butt is numb," she declared
"It looks all right," Hardy said, trying not to leer. "You're just not used to riding."
“No . . . it's the vibration," she insisted "My brother had a big Honda, and it never numbed me. Do all of these do that?”
Hardy shrugged. "I guess the new ones don't. But, "he added right¬eously, "they're not Classics."
"Oh, Christ," she sighed, then, oh, well," and walked up to him, straddling the front wheel. She leaned over the bars, smiled, and said, "I enjoyed it anyway," and quickly kissed him. Just as quickly, she was gone.
Hardy had a most unaccountable tingle. He kicked the Norton to life and headed for home. "Honda!" he said, and snorted.
Hardy didn't go looking for Bitsy after that, but like a newly learned word she suddenly began to crop up rather often, even far from the campus. It was on the third or fourth such encounter, after they had ex¬changed some small talk, that Bitsy afflicted a pout and said, "You haven't invited me riding again ' "
Hardy, his confidence restored by time, smiled and reminded her, "It numbs your butt."
For some reason, it struck a nerve, and her eyes flashed up at him. ''Now," she said, "would be a good time to dispense with that topic."
He realized he had somehow of¬fended her, but wasn't prepared for her next move: she grabbed him by the hand and led him outside to the cycle. She handed him his helmet and, ignoring the fact that he had no spare this time, climbed on behind him and pointed silently in the direc¬tion he knew her house lay.
Luck held, and they made it without encountering the local constabulary. She dismounted, and then led him by the hand again, into the house. Hedy wasn't there, he realized, as Bitsy stopped him, and reached up to un¬buckle his helmet.
Bitsy opened a nightstand drawer, took out a cigarette and lit it. She lay looking at the ceiling.
''How old did you say you are?" she asked.
''Twenty-nine.'' He turned and looked at her. She seemed to reflect on something for a moment, then smiled and shrugged. Totally uncommitted, it seemed to Hardy more damning than any critique, somehow.
Hardy didn't have anything to say, or a chance to say anything, when the little blonde popped into his shop a few days afterward and asked to borrow his spare helmet. He didn't ask why, just went into the apartment and got it, then handed it to her. She smiled and thanked him and left.
He saw the helmet again the very next afternoon. It was still a busy season, and, tied to the city for the foreseeable future, he sublimated his urge to ride by getting out into the rough country east of town, after¬noons, and taking on the boonies with a vengeance. The little Norton acted for all the world as if it didn't know it was a road bike: he blitzed through the South Plains rough stuff with skill and joy, and more than once had cause to mortify some dirt biker with the conquest of a difficult hill or tricky draw.
He was heading back toward town after such a catharsis, down a loose gravel road, when he saw the helmet. It shot past him out of the tall brush beside the road. It was followed by Bitsy feet first at about shoulder level while a cart wheeling Super Hawk ran a poor third. Then the whole assemblage thudded one two three into a firebreak ditch a little on the far side of the road. Hardy guessed a twin ditch had provoked the peculiar mode of travel. He stopped the Norton and dismounted.
He'd had a momentary flash of fear that the girl was hurt. Not so: she was on her feet, bloody but absolutely unbowed, and tugging at the Honda before he got there. He helped her right the machine, rigged, he noted, more or less for dirt riding, and she began kicking the shift lever back in shape, while vividly describing the ditch across the road.
Concerned at the number of small scrapes, cuts and bruises she bore, he said, "Are you all right, Bitsy?"
She looked up at him, tears in her eyes, and nodded. "But look at these goddamn handlebars," she sniffed.
Hardy suppressed a smile, and looked up the road. A short distance away was a gate, rusty remnant of a long ago range fence. The Honda's wheels still moved freely and round, so he pushed the bike to the gate, as she trailed behind. He braced the bars in the gatepost, taking care not to interfere with the forks, and care¬fully pulled the bars back to approxi¬mately even. Bitsy stood silently be¬hind him.
Satisfied the bars were straight again, he gave the machine a quick examination. The leather of the seat was torn slightly, and there were a couple of fair-sized scuffs. Like Bitsy, the machine was still structurally sound.
''Where'd you get it?" Hardy asked.
"Borrowed," she said very quietly, "from a guy at school."
'' Well, it's not hurt not really. You're both very lucky. If he doesn't like those scuffs, I know someone that'll repaint it cheap."
Bitsy nodded. She put on the hel¬met, and then straddled the bike.
"You know, you were lucky," Hardy repeated. "On an unfamiliar machine, in unfamiliar territory.'' His relief she wasn't hurt was turning to annoyance. She kicked the start lever once, twice, and on the third it caught. Hardy pressed on:
"What're you trying to do out here by yourself? You should never ride alone.''
She turned and looked at him. She stared a long moment, then said, "Hardy, I understand the Department of Civil Defense considers this to be the safest large city in the country in case of atomic attack."
What was this all about, he won¬dered. "So?" he said.
'Why is that, Hardy?''
He scowled. Why this seventh grade quiz?
''Nothing of enough strategic importance to bomb," he answered.
"Well, Hardy," she said, smiling sweetly, "if the bombs do start to fall, you should feel a little bit safer than anybody else."
She chunked the bike in gear, dumped the clutch and lunged down the road. Hardy stood in the shower of gravel, spat dust and wondered what the hell that was all about.
Hardy's mother came in the shop just at noon the next day. Hardy had buried himself in his work all morning, and was grateful for the break, even with hassling. They went back to his apartment for a chat.
After pleasantries and inquiries of health, the "chat" took its usual tack and Hardy's mother, getting nowhere, opined she was developing a head¬ache.
Hardy sighed. "There's aspirin in the bathroom, Momma.''
She rose and went into the bed¬room. There was an exclamation.
''Oh, I beg your pardon," Hardy heard his mother say. He jumped up and headed for the bedroom and ran jarringly into Momma, who had halted just inside the bedroom door.
Bitsy, wearing a light blue dress, her hair curled, was standing at the dresser, touching up her lipstick. She smiled at Hardy in the mirror.
''I brought your helmet back, Hardy," she said. "Thank you so very, much.'' Still smiling, she picked the helmet up from the dresser and of¬fered it to Hardy. Speechless, he reached for it. She let go the strap and it thudded on his right foot.
As Bitsy swished past Momma and out the back door, Hardy looked down at the helmet, which had hit painfully and too heavily. The inside was filled with good greenhouse dirt, and in the center stood one panzy. Hardy looked out the door, his mouth hanging open.
"Who was that girl, Hardy?'' Momma asked. ''How well do you know her? She seems like a nice girl, Hardy. "
Hardy contacted Bitsy more than once, after that, to invite her riding. Each time she demurred, herself res¬urrecting the subject of numbness. After about the third rebuff, Hardy asked himself why he bothered and discovered he had no rational answer. He decided to apply therapy.
Which, to Hardy, meant nothing but the road. His own advice not¬withstanding, he went solo, seeking out the most demanding stretches of asphalt to assault with the Norton. Lawrence Odom invited himself along a couple of times, but couldn't match his friend's furious style. After two game tries and one hard get off, he retired to the Stoplight Grand Prix, and left the roads to Hardy. After two long weekends and many afternoons of this, Hardy was truly his old self: he felt like he had it all worked out, and indeed could scarcely remember what the problem had been.
The third Saturday, at about noon, he flew northward wearing a grin that was an open invitation to June bugs. Ahead of him lay the smooth, serpen¬tine track that led to the canyon, and beyond to a huge man made lake, several hours away.
Screaming out the first long, straight stretch, he noted a vehicle moving up behind him. He rolled off' a little, knowing that the highway patrol would be less than amused at his speed. As the dot resolved itself, he turned the Norton back on: it was just another bike.
But Hardy found that if he didn't want company on his road, he was out of luck: whoever it was on a faster machine, for although he rolled on more and more throttle, the other kept gaining. Oh, well, he thought, let him pass, and then I'll be alone again.
The other cycle came closer, until he could tell it was a new shafty, a silver and chrome BMW with a very small rider. Hardy pulled a little to his right, to let him by. As the German cycle pulled alongside, its rider honked. Hardy looked around and almost lost the Norton.
Bitsy smiled, and waved her throttle hand over the new machine. Hardy swallowed a June bug. Words made impossible by the wind noise, the girl pointed at her rear, and then made the finger to thumb ''all right'' signal. Still smiling, she pulled steadily away from him then.
Hardy was dumbfounded and three weeks' therapy was shot to hell. Hardy didn't know whether this was a challenge, and it scarcely would have mattered. He goosed the Norton down the road.
He gained a little; she checked in her rearview mirror, and got it back. Her machine had a few more cubes, and a little more top end. As long as the road stayed fairly straight, she could put it to him, he knew. The two bikes blasted northward, blipping a small town at near The Ton mark. Hardy fancied they left the RFD boxes spinning. The road began to wind slightly, and Hardy's concentration intensified. He gained a few yards which she didn't put back on.
Hardy's confidence was fast return¬ing. The duel had gone on for quite a few miles now, and close ahead, he knew, the road crossed the lower end of the big canyon. There it wound and doubled and essed, and it was there that his single, scion of genera¬tions of championship racers, would come into its own.
Hardy had gained a few more yards by the time Bitsy dived into the can¬yon road. She threw the silver shafty into the curves with some skill, hardly slowing at all. It was obvious she had put her machine's break-in period to good use. But this was his element, so Hardy slowed less. Although the girl fearlessly heeled the bike until metal sang, he caught and passed her.
Hardy expelled a deep held breath, but didn't slack off, not immediately. He had his lead and, he assumed, his point, when he noticed a strange phe¬nomenon. It seemed to take more and more concentration to hold his speed. Hardy bore down, but it availed little.
For although the Norton was the next thing to a true road race ma¬chine, Hardy was not a true road race rider. He had not been, he thought, in the saddle long enough to be tiring, but he felt exhaustion creeping up on him. He couldn't understand it. He tried harder; it got worse. He almost lost it on a curve, and he slowed down.
It wasn't the exhaustion of time, which he'd known before. It had started low and crept up, and now he felt it, in his shoulders, and hands and feet. And to top it off his mind formed the words on a note of horror his butt was numb!
So Hardy tried, and sweated and strained, but the demand was too much. Before the curves were done, as he took a sweeper in full power drift, the BMW wafted by him. Hardy swallowed hard, and shook his head to clear it. The road was straightening now, and the other bike was still close ahead. He rolled the throttle full on, and bent down full on the tank, to milk the last bit of speed.
He ground his teeth, a frantic man: she had passed him in the curves!
This last foolhardy effort could have proved the end of a man in his weak¬ened state, but after only a few mo¬ments of the dash, the Norton began to decelerate. Hardy rolled the throttle back and forth: it still slowed. Hardy rolled to a stop in a roadside park as the BMW disappeared over a small rise. Unbelieving, he yanked the gas tank cap and waggled the bike back and forth. Silence. He let the machine gently down on its side and walked over beside a barbecue pit and sat down. It had been years since he'd felt like crying.
Traffic was light along the road as darkness fell. Even so, he could have summoned help by walking a dozen yards to the shoulder. But he sat, there beside the barbecue pit, and talked quietly to himself.
It was near midnight when a lone headlight topped the rise to the north. Hardy didn't look up as the light came down the slope, to pull into the road¬side park. The gentle exhaust note died, as did the light. Bright stars showed him Bitsy, with a wine bottle clasped between her thighs. She put down the side stand, took off her helmet and ran her hand through her hair. Then she held out the bottle.
''I'm sorry it's just gas,'' she said, and smiled.
Hardy could not smile as he silently accepted the bottle, then righted the Norton and poured the liquid into its tank. Bitsy had gone to sit at the nearest table. He closed the gas tank and looked at her. She giggled and he couldn't be sure blushed:
Hardy walked over to look at the BMW. Its silver paint shone softly in the starlight.
"How long have you had it?" he asked.
''A couple of weeks."
Hardy nodded. "How?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Took out a second mortgage on my brother,'' she said. ''Besides I’ve graduated. I've got a job here."
He turned, folded his arms and gazed at her. ''Why did you come back?"
She stifled a laugh.
''You mean why so long," she accused. He did not speak, so she did..
"All right, I'm mean! You knew that already. I saw you pull in here, and guessed what happened. So I stopped at the next town, and went and saw a really crummy movie. Then I got the gas and came back. I thought you'd still be here," she continued, her voice growing softer. ''I thought you'd want some time to yourself." There was another long pause, and then she put her hands over her face and laughed again. She peeked at him through the fingers.
"And that's it," she said.
''Not quite,'' Hardy said, moving toward her.
She couldn't read his face, so she jumped to her feet and tried to run. But he caught her.
The two machines stood silently there, near the road.
A man or a woman can change but only so much. Some loves fade and others are constant no one truly wise would try to predict. So no one can say how the Hardy Bitsy confrontation will finally end, or even whether it will. But when two truly independent people truly love independence, they can sometimes find it a co operative effort.
So if you're out on the road on a clear day, in the right part of Texas, you're likely to see two almost new cycles, a trim silver shafty and a big black Norton blasting the road south to Big Bend or north to Palo Duro. Sometimes one leads, and sometimes the other.
But in the end, it always seems to be a draw.
Cycle Guide December 1972
Hardy Kirkham probably would have felt like the King of the World if it hadn't been for his mother. She wasn't a bad person, understand: in fact, she was a good mother as mothers go, dutiful, kind, and solici¬tous of her son's welfare. That last bit was at the seat of the problem.
Hardy Kirkham lived in a fairly large Texas college town. In his younger days the U.S. Army had grabbed him up (as is its habit) at the beginning of one of its myriad "police actions" but had for some reason decided he wasn't really combat material, and so had put him in topography, then in map reproduction, and finally in all kinds of data reproduction.
Hardy, a sort of opportunist, had learned the trade thoroughly and after he mustered out had gone home and set up a small reproductive business: blueprints, short runs and the like. He became revoltingly independent. He could pick and choose his jobs, did not have to work a full week to put the loaf and jug on the table, and so was left with ample time to pursue the real love of his life: the fluid com¬munion between the road and his little Norton thumper.
His realm was ideal for a macadam freak: situated on a broad plain, the city was almost equidistant from mountains, seashore, forests and desert although it had none of any of its own.
This blatant independence made life a joy for Hardy and a trial for his dear mother. For Hardy Kirkham was going on thirty and not married.
''Hardy, dear," his mother said again as she made her biweekly visit to his small apartment in the rear of his print shop, "you are not even try¬ing”.
"Ridiculous," he countered, trying to keep the conversation from becoming too heavy. "There are few things I haven't tried."
"Try marriage."
“Momma" he said, already begin¬ning to become a little exasperated at the resurgence of the old hassle, "for some, not me. I do not need to become married. I have nothing to gain and too much to lose."
His mother arched an eyebrow.
"You could stand having somebody around to keep the place neater," she suggested. "Your life could stand some order."
Hardy snorted.
"Women are not drudges, Mother not now, and not merely the kitchen slave and child factory earlier day made them. now they are Fun Things."
"Things.
"A manner of speaking," Hardy backpedaled quickly. ''Slang. Be¬sides, I lead an ordered life."
"That I can almost agree with," his mother said her head in the icebox. "You're the only person I know who has whole milk dated by the month and year."
"I have my own life style, Momma, and I'm perfectly happy with it."
"Nothing's perfect, Hardy."
"And that includes marriage, Momma. I have my own ways and preferences, many of which a woman living with me can't or could not adjust to, probably."
"You mean like confectionery sugar on your oatmeal?" she asked.
"A shopping quirk, Momma. I mean like more important things."
"What's more important than a good woman?"
Hardy could have said 'Several good women,' or even 'My bike.' He said neither. He said:
''It's been nice seeing you, Momma."
"It's been nice seeing you, Hardy," she said, starting for the door. "It would be nicer, though
"Goodbye, Momma."
"Later, Hardy," she said, sighed, and left.
Thus, Momma's gentle harassment notwithstanding, Hardy enjoyed his life. He generally worked four days each week give or take a day and spent the rest of the time in genteel pursuits such as roaring down to Big Bend or up to Palo Duro, then bending the Norton through the twisty roads each abounded in. In season, he would pack several days' gear on the back and head for the Gulf a few hundred miles away, or the Red River resort area a similar shot in the op¬posite direction, for the best part of a week. He went alone or with com¬pany, as the situation happened to be. And he enjoyed it all.
Perhaps it was that almost unbro¬ken enjoyment that caught the atten¬tion of a malevolent demon somewhere who looked down and scowled, and shook his head bale¬fully. And conjured Bitsy Howell.
Beatrice Eleanor Howell, almost ten years Hardy's junior, had come to that Texas town from somewhere north and east, to attend the town’s large col¬lege. She carried a Midwestern Urban personality in a small, shapely frame topped with short blonde hair. A product of the current urge to femi¬nine identity, she had an inde¬pendence to match Hardy's own, a sometimes astounding determination and, apparently, no ability to resist a challenge. Like, for instance, Hardy Kirkham.
If fate were kinder, their paths would never have crossed. As it was,
Hardy one Friday evening responded to a quasi dare from a friend; a two stroke aficionado who was a recent hometown graduate of the Institution, to ''blast the drag and pick up some chicks. "
Hardy enjoyed riding with Lawrence Odom. His younger friend was articu¬late and amusing, and could never quite grasp why his big Suzy could smoke Hardy's single at the stoplights but couldn't keep on it through the curves. Hardy probably would have scorned the idea (he had a well manicured Little Black Book which served his needs) but he had had a spate of orders, it being near gradua¬tion time, and had worked from Sun¬day evening to mid afternoon this day, and so felt he could use a diversion . . . and some laughs.
So they cruised awhile, through medium traffic in the warm early eve¬ning, until Lawrence spotted a drive-in that ''looked promising." They pulled into the parking lot, Lawrence tried with no success to rack the Suzuki before killing it, Hardy showed him how a four stroke does it, and they waited astride the bikes for a curb hop. They ordered soft drinks and lolled in the saddles. Lawrence eyed the cars about them like a pickpocket at an auction, and Hardy's amuse¬ment grew.
To Hardy's mild surprise, they drew a reaction. The cars flanking them contained females, four on the right and two on the left, and their com¬mentary wafted to the two men. They were or were at least pretending to be duly impressed at the machines. Just as Hardy's straw rattled on air, Lawrence muttered "bingo."
A tall lass with long brown hair had left the back seat of the car to their right. She walked around, to lean on Lawrence's handlebars.
"Hi I'm Hedy'' she said.
''Obviously,'' Hardy punned under his breath.
''Larry'' Lawrence said, indicating himself, "and Hardy"
She smiled at them both. "You in school here?''
''Until last year,'' Lawrence af¬firmed. ''Hardy, Uncle Sam's Day School until awhile back."
"Y'all out riding tonight?"
Hardy stifled a piece of sarcasm. It's Lawrence's game, he chided him¬self, let him play it out.
He did it surprisingly well. "Just about to go look at the cereal mill," he said. The mill in question was a noble experiment by a dry cereal magnate of another era. He had man¬aged after all to get the town, some 30 miles distant, named for him.
To his astonishment, Hardy heard himself say, "Like to go along?"
He mentally kicked himself for a field goal: the girl was leaning on Lawrence's machine and Hardy hadn't even looked in the car.
He had just set himself up for, you should pardon the expression, a pig in a poke.
The girl smiled at Hardy, then called to the car: "Bitsy!"
The near door opened and a leg appeared. The rest followed and Hardy discovered his thumb was over the horn button, as he involuntarily clenched his hands on the grips.
She walked over to the Norton with a little grin.
''You piping me aboard?"
Hardy could feel his color rising, and hated it. Females never got the upper hand with him and this one grabbed it with four words. Hedy ren¬dered the introductions and flight plan. Bitsy nodded with what seemed to Hardy shame¬fully minimal conversation, the girls donned the spare helmets and the two machines headed east. The little blonde held his waist with a tension somewhere between pru¬dence and encouragement as they threaded through traffic.
''What kind of cycle is this," she asked as he stopped at a traffic light.
"A Norton single,'' he said.
''It's cute."
''It's British." The light changed. Lawrence blitzed ahead; Hardy plonked up easily. This light would hold longer.
''You go cattin' like this often?" she asked with a candor that gave Hardy a little panicky twinge.
"What makes you think we're 'cat¬tin'?" he demanded.
"The spare helmets, dummy," she said. Hardy was at a complete loss. Then she laughed, so he did too.
The ride out was not eventful, con¬sisting mainly of straight road under bright stars, with the occasional punctuation of antics by Lawrence on the big Suzy, with appropriate squeals from Hedy behind him. When they did get to a twisty section, Hardy passed them, just to keep accounts straight.
Then they parked the cycles and walked around Hardy guessed they were in the vicinity of the cereal mill, all right and talked.
That was easier than Hardy had expected, considering the background gap. The girl asked him about his work, the Army, his bike. Taking the cue, he quizzed her about her home state, her classes.
"Business management,'' Hardy echoed, "That's strange . . .”
"For a female," she challenged.
Hardy blushed again, and blessed the darkness.
But she didn't seem annoyed. "I just want to be my own boss," she said. "You know how groovy that is: not having to answer to anybody, account for what you do. Just do it. I've always been like that," she con¬tinued. "My parents tried to send me to a boarding school once: I hitch¬hiked home with a vanload of Marines on leave and they never recovered from the fright. I've had my independence, basically, ever since. Why, I couldn't ever even get married, even to somebody every bit as cockeyed as I am."
The line of talk made Hardy a trifle uneasy: in spite of his periodic state¬ment to his mother, he did have some old-line notions about what women were all about.
The discomfort passed as Lawrence and Hedy reappeared, both looking smug.
"Y'all ready to go back?" he asked.
"I guess we all is," Bitsy taunted.
They extended the return route somewhat, with a comprehensive tour of the city's new system of traffic loops and bypasses. They took the girls to their house in a quiet residen¬tial section near the campus. That, Hardy decided, tallied with Bitsy's declaration of independence: she would definitely consider a dorm a bummer.
They dismounted, and the girls re¬turned the helmets. Bitsy stretched, and then pressed at the small of her back.
"My butt is numb," she declared
"It looks all right," Hardy said, trying not to leer. "You're just not used to riding."
“No . . . it's the vibration," she insisted "My brother had a big Honda, and it never numbed me. Do all of these do that?”
Hardy shrugged. "I guess the new ones don't. But, "he added right¬eously, "they're not Classics."
"Oh, Christ," she sighed, then, oh, well," and walked up to him, straddling the front wheel. She leaned over the bars, smiled, and said, "I enjoyed it anyway," and quickly kissed him. Just as quickly, she was gone.
Hardy had a most unaccountable tingle. He kicked the Norton to life and headed for home. "Honda!" he said, and snorted.
Hardy didn't go looking for Bitsy after that, but like a newly learned word she suddenly began to crop up rather often, even far from the campus. It was on the third or fourth such encounter, after they had ex¬changed some small talk, that Bitsy afflicted a pout and said, "You haven't invited me riding again ' "
Hardy, his confidence restored by time, smiled and reminded her, "It numbs your butt."
For some reason, it struck a nerve, and her eyes flashed up at him. ''Now," she said, "would be a good time to dispense with that topic."
He realized he had somehow of¬fended her, but wasn't prepared for her next move: she grabbed him by the hand and led him outside to the cycle. She handed him his helmet and, ignoring the fact that he had no spare this time, climbed on behind him and pointed silently in the direc¬tion he knew her house lay.
Luck held, and they made it without encountering the local constabulary. She dismounted, and then led him by the hand again, into the house. Hedy wasn't there, he realized, as Bitsy stopped him, and reached up to un¬buckle his helmet.
Bitsy opened a nightstand drawer, took out a cigarette and lit it. She lay looking at the ceiling.
''How old did you say you are?" she asked.
''Twenty-nine.'' He turned and looked at her. She seemed to reflect on something for a moment, then smiled and shrugged. Totally uncommitted, it seemed to Hardy more damning than any critique, somehow.
Hardy didn't have anything to say, or a chance to say anything, when the little blonde popped into his shop a few days afterward and asked to borrow his spare helmet. He didn't ask why, just went into the apartment and got it, then handed it to her. She smiled and thanked him and left.
He saw the helmet again the very next afternoon. It was still a busy season, and, tied to the city for the foreseeable future, he sublimated his urge to ride by getting out into the rough country east of town, after¬noons, and taking on the boonies with a vengeance. The little Norton acted for all the world as if it didn't know it was a road bike: he blitzed through the South Plains rough stuff with skill and joy, and more than once had cause to mortify some dirt biker with the conquest of a difficult hill or tricky draw.
He was heading back toward town after such a catharsis, down a loose gravel road, when he saw the helmet. It shot past him out of the tall brush beside the road. It was followed by Bitsy feet first at about shoulder level while a cart wheeling Super Hawk ran a poor third. Then the whole assemblage thudded one two three into a firebreak ditch a little on the far side of the road. Hardy guessed a twin ditch had provoked the peculiar mode of travel. He stopped the Norton and dismounted.
He'd had a momentary flash of fear that the girl was hurt. Not so: she was on her feet, bloody but absolutely unbowed, and tugging at the Honda before he got there. He helped her right the machine, rigged, he noted, more or less for dirt riding, and she began kicking the shift lever back in shape, while vividly describing the ditch across the road.
Concerned at the number of small scrapes, cuts and bruises she bore, he said, "Are you all right, Bitsy?"
She looked up at him, tears in her eyes, and nodded. "But look at these goddamn handlebars," she sniffed.
Hardy suppressed a smile, and looked up the road. A short distance away was a gate, rusty remnant of a long ago range fence. The Honda's wheels still moved freely and round, so he pushed the bike to the gate, as she trailed behind. He braced the bars in the gatepost, taking care not to interfere with the forks, and care¬fully pulled the bars back to approxi¬mately even. Bitsy stood silently be¬hind him.
Satisfied the bars were straight again, he gave the machine a quick examination. The leather of the seat was torn slightly, and there were a couple of fair-sized scuffs. Like Bitsy, the machine was still structurally sound.
''Where'd you get it?" Hardy asked.
"Borrowed," she said very quietly, "from a guy at school."
'' Well, it's not hurt not really. You're both very lucky. If he doesn't like those scuffs, I know someone that'll repaint it cheap."
Bitsy nodded. She put on the hel¬met, and then straddled the bike.
"You know, you were lucky," Hardy repeated. "On an unfamiliar machine, in unfamiliar territory.'' His relief she wasn't hurt was turning to annoyance. She kicked the start lever once, twice, and on the third it caught. Hardy pressed on:
"What're you trying to do out here by yourself? You should never ride alone.''
She turned and looked at him. She stared a long moment, then said, "Hardy, I understand the Department of Civil Defense considers this to be the safest large city in the country in case of atomic attack."
What was this all about, he won¬dered. "So?" he said.
'Why is that, Hardy?''
He scowled. Why this seventh grade quiz?
''Nothing of enough strategic importance to bomb," he answered.
"Well, Hardy," she said, smiling sweetly, "if the bombs do start to fall, you should feel a little bit safer than anybody else."
She chunked the bike in gear, dumped the clutch and lunged down the road. Hardy stood in the shower of gravel, spat dust and wondered what the hell that was all about.
Hardy's mother came in the shop just at noon the next day. Hardy had buried himself in his work all morning, and was grateful for the break, even with hassling. They went back to his apartment for a chat.
After pleasantries and inquiries of health, the "chat" took its usual tack and Hardy's mother, getting nowhere, opined she was developing a head¬ache.
Hardy sighed. "There's aspirin in the bathroom, Momma.''
She rose and went into the bed¬room. There was an exclamation.
''Oh, I beg your pardon," Hardy heard his mother say. He jumped up and headed for the bedroom and ran jarringly into Momma, who had halted just inside the bedroom door.
Bitsy, wearing a light blue dress, her hair curled, was standing at the dresser, touching up her lipstick. She smiled at Hardy in the mirror.
''I brought your helmet back, Hardy," she said. "Thank you so very, much.'' Still smiling, she picked the helmet up from the dresser and of¬fered it to Hardy. Speechless, he reached for it. She let go the strap and it thudded on his right foot.
As Bitsy swished past Momma and out the back door, Hardy looked down at the helmet, which had hit painfully and too heavily. The inside was filled with good greenhouse dirt, and in the center stood one panzy. Hardy looked out the door, his mouth hanging open.
"Who was that girl, Hardy?'' Momma asked. ''How well do you know her? She seems like a nice girl, Hardy. "
Hardy contacted Bitsy more than once, after that, to invite her riding. Each time she demurred, herself res¬urrecting the subject of numbness. After about the third rebuff, Hardy asked himself why he bothered and discovered he had no rational answer. He decided to apply therapy.
Which, to Hardy, meant nothing but the road. His own advice not¬withstanding, he went solo, seeking out the most demanding stretches of asphalt to assault with the Norton. Lawrence Odom invited himself along a couple of times, but couldn't match his friend's furious style. After two game tries and one hard get off, he retired to the Stoplight Grand Prix, and left the roads to Hardy. After two long weekends and many afternoons of this, Hardy was truly his old self: he felt like he had it all worked out, and indeed could scarcely remember what the problem had been.
The third Saturday, at about noon, he flew northward wearing a grin that was an open invitation to June bugs. Ahead of him lay the smooth, serpen¬tine track that led to the canyon, and beyond to a huge man made lake, several hours away.
Screaming out the first long, straight stretch, he noted a vehicle moving up behind him. He rolled off' a little, knowing that the highway patrol would be less than amused at his speed. As the dot resolved itself, he turned the Norton back on: it was just another bike.
But Hardy found that if he didn't want company on his road, he was out of luck: whoever it was on a faster machine, for although he rolled on more and more throttle, the other kept gaining. Oh, well, he thought, let him pass, and then I'll be alone again.
The other cycle came closer, until he could tell it was a new shafty, a silver and chrome BMW with a very small rider. Hardy pulled a little to his right, to let him by. As the German cycle pulled alongside, its rider honked. Hardy looked around and almost lost the Norton.
Bitsy smiled, and waved her throttle hand over the new machine. Hardy swallowed a June bug. Words made impossible by the wind noise, the girl pointed at her rear, and then made the finger to thumb ''all right'' signal. Still smiling, she pulled steadily away from him then.
Hardy was dumbfounded and three weeks' therapy was shot to hell. Hardy didn't know whether this was a challenge, and it scarcely would have mattered. He goosed the Norton down the road.
He gained a little; she checked in her rearview mirror, and got it back. Her machine had a few more cubes, and a little more top end. As long as the road stayed fairly straight, she could put it to him, he knew. The two bikes blasted northward, blipping a small town at near The Ton mark. Hardy fancied they left the RFD boxes spinning. The road began to wind slightly, and Hardy's concentration intensified. He gained a few yards which she didn't put back on.
Hardy's confidence was fast return¬ing. The duel had gone on for quite a few miles now, and close ahead, he knew, the road crossed the lower end of the big canyon. There it wound and doubled and essed, and it was there that his single, scion of genera¬tions of championship racers, would come into its own.
Hardy had gained a few more yards by the time Bitsy dived into the can¬yon road. She threw the silver shafty into the curves with some skill, hardly slowing at all. It was obvious she had put her machine's break-in period to good use. But this was his element, so Hardy slowed less. Although the girl fearlessly heeled the bike until metal sang, he caught and passed her.
Hardy expelled a deep held breath, but didn't slack off, not immediately. He had his lead and, he assumed, his point, when he noticed a strange phe¬nomenon. It seemed to take more and more concentration to hold his speed. Hardy bore down, but it availed little.
For although the Norton was the next thing to a true road race ma¬chine, Hardy was not a true road race rider. He had not been, he thought, in the saddle long enough to be tiring, but he felt exhaustion creeping up on him. He couldn't understand it. He tried harder; it got worse. He almost lost it on a curve, and he slowed down.
It wasn't the exhaustion of time, which he'd known before. It had started low and crept up, and now he felt it, in his shoulders, and hands and feet. And to top it off his mind formed the words on a note of horror his butt was numb!
So Hardy tried, and sweated and strained, but the demand was too much. Before the curves were done, as he took a sweeper in full power drift, the BMW wafted by him. Hardy swallowed hard, and shook his head to clear it. The road was straightening now, and the other bike was still close ahead. He rolled the throttle full on, and bent down full on the tank, to milk the last bit of speed.
He ground his teeth, a frantic man: she had passed him in the curves!
This last foolhardy effort could have proved the end of a man in his weak¬ened state, but after only a few mo¬ments of the dash, the Norton began to decelerate. Hardy rolled the throttle back and forth: it still slowed. Hardy rolled to a stop in a roadside park as the BMW disappeared over a small rise. Unbelieving, he yanked the gas tank cap and waggled the bike back and forth. Silence. He let the machine gently down on its side and walked over beside a barbecue pit and sat down. It had been years since he'd felt like crying.
Traffic was light along the road as darkness fell. Even so, he could have summoned help by walking a dozen yards to the shoulder. But he sat, there beside the barbecue pit, and talked quietly to himself.
It was near midnight when a lone headlight topped the rise to the north. Hardy didn't look up as the light came down the slope, to pull into the road¬side park. The gentle exhaust note died, as did the light. Bright stars showed him Bitsy, with a wine bottle clasped between her thighs. She put down the side stand, took off her helmet and ran her hand through her hair. Then she held out the bottle.
''I'm sorry it's just gas,'' she said, and smiled.
Hardy could not smile as he silently accepted the bottle, then righted the Norton and poured the liquid into its tank. Bitsy had gone to sit at the nearest table. He closed the gas tank and looked at her. She giggled and he couldn't be sure blushed:
Hardy walked over to look at the BMW. Its silver paint shone softly in the starlight.
"How long have you had it?" he asked.
''A couple of weeks."
Hardy nodded. "How?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Took out a second mortgage on my brother,'' she said. ''Besides I’ve graduated. I've got a job here."
He turned, folded his arms and gazed at her. ''Why did you come back?"
She stifled a laugh.
''You mean why so long," she accused. He did not speak, so she did..
"All right, I'm mean! You knew that already. I saw you pull in here, and guessed what happened. So I stopped at the next town, and went and saw a really crummy movie. Then I got the gas and came back. I thought you'd still be here," she continued, her voice growing softer. ''I thought you'd want some time to yourself." There was another long pause, and then she put her hands over her face and laughed again. She peeked at him through the fingers.
"And that's it," she said.
''Not quite,'' Hardy said, moving toward her.
She couldn't read his face, so she jumped to her feet and tried to run. But he caught her.
The two machines stood silently there, near the road.
A man or a woman can change but only so much. Some loves fade and others are constant no one truly wise would try to predict. So no one can say how the Hardy Bitsy confrontation will finally end, or even whether it will. But when two truly independent people truly love independence, they can sometimes find it a co operative effort.
So if you're out on the road on a clear day, in the right part of Texas, you're likely to see two almost new cycles, a trim silver shafty and a big black Norton blasting the road south to Big Bend or north to Palo Duro. Sometimes one leads, and sometimes the other.
But in the end, it always seems to be a draw.
