Rick Long's Stories
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January 13, 2005
Fire in the Hole         4/25/2004
It's All Happening      6/25/2004
For a Printable
Version
The Power and the Responsibility
8/15/2004
The Best of Times or the Worst
of Times             8/27/2004
Uncle Rick....I'm All Right  
9/01/2004
Riding to the Post Office   
10/14/2004
Treassure or Trash? Who
Makes the Call
12/21/2004
                                The Right Time to Talk Motorcycles




By Rick Long

I was rolling south on Interstate 15 headed home from Las Vegas late one Sunday night. The wind can get
pretty strong along that route. If anyone ever tells you that a mid 80’s K100 handles well in the wind, mark
them down in your book as a liar and a scoundrel. I had been fighting hard to keep the bike up and needed
fresh gasoline and a rest.

The Linwood exit just south of Barstow is a good place to stop if you want to miss the city traffic. Truck stops
and restaurants are abundant on both sides of the freeway. I usually stop at the Pilot since it has a Dairy Queen
inside. I have a serious drinking problem when it comes to milk shakes and I thought it might be the right time
for a cold one just about then.

Did you ever have one of those feelings when you are riding along and you want to turn right but it feels like
you are somehow compelled, by God or nature or whatever your beliefs may be, to turn left? Well that’s
what happened that night. Somehow tonight the lights of the Rip Griffin truck stop across the street looked
good and it felt like that was the place I was supposed to be. No Dairy Queen inside but maybe it was the
right time for something else.

I parked the bike in front of the restaurant area and went inside, opting to get fuel for myself first and the bike
second. As I rounded a corner inside the restaurant still wearing my riding gear, I noticed an old truck driver
sitting alone at one of the tables. He had that look people get when life has been somewhat less than kind to
them. The wrinkles and worry lines told a story of a man who had lived seriously hard times. He saw my tour
jacket and helmet and it was like a light went on inside his eyes. He reached up with his hand and stopped me
as I was about to walk by. His face brightened and he spoke. “What ya ridin’?�

I smiled and said, “BMW.�

He began. “I owned a brand new R90 one time. BMW’s are great bikes. In fact, time was I had seven
new bikes in my garage. But fortunes change and I’m down to an old 18-wheeler now. Where ya been
ridin’?�

My turn. I told of the trip over to Vegas and several recent jaunts around California. The old timer hung on
every word as if each one was a drop of water to a thirsty desert traveler. He asked me to join him at his table
and we talked for almost an hour about motorcycles, bike trips, and a little about truck driving.

Then he started telling me about an old friend he used to go motorcycle camping with back in the day. The
more he told me about this friend, the more it sounded like one of my best riding buddies, Tommy Windom.
Tommy does my mechanic work and I had gone to dinner with him the night before I left for Vegas. Sure
enough, the old timer’s friend was indeed, my friend Tommy. They had lost touch years ago as good
friends sometimes do.

I invited the old timer to go outside with me and see my bike. We walked outside to the K100 and as he
admired the machine, I grabbed my cell phone out of the tank bag. Before he realized what I had done, I rang
up Tommy and put the two on the phone together. The old timer smiled and laughed as they talked and made
promises to meet up again the next time he was through that way.

After the call, the old timer and I said our good byes and I rode the bike over to the gas islands to recharge the
warp engines. Moments later I pointed the bike up the I-15 on-ramp and twisted the throttle for home. The
wind was calm now, as was my soul. Maybe I had done a little bit of good in the world that night. Maybe
somebody or something knew better than me that it was the right time to talk motorcycles.