Old Dog by Chandler Roy F

Author:Chandler, Roy F. [Chandler, Roy F.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Katherine R. Chandler
Published: 2013-10-15T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

Days blended. Bikers came to Old Dog's hotel to groan at the decadent splendor and to shower. They drank Dog's beer and swapped yarns. Stories ran the gamut of astonishing to vulgarly gross. All were interesting to Timmy Carlisle, although many burned his ears, and he was embarrassed that Uncle Dog knew he heard such stuff.

They also rode, up and down the beach, along Atlantic Avenue, and out Main Street. Faces became familiar to Tim, and it was not unusual for a hairy mountain man biker to clap his shoulder and say, "Hey, Little Dog, where's the old guy?" Or perhaps a massive tattooed arm of weather-coarsened hide would encircle him and ask how he was doing. Timmy loved those occasions.

He met a friend, son of a younger rider, and they worked the beach together. Tim's body browned under the daily sun dosages, and his hair began to bleach. He only thought of home when Old Dog reminded him of his obligation to telephone.

On Friday they rode north to the Holiday Campground. The camp was packed with bikers, but there were also trailers permanently set in place—folks who had nothing to do with Bike Week.

Old Dog settled in for visiting with cycle enthusiasts who did not live the biker lifestyle. Larry, Gary, and Scott were full-time mechanics. They owned Harleys and rode a lot, but their lives were settled on goals other than seeing new places and other riders. But, Old Dog knew them; Tim Carlisle's suspicion that his Uncle knew everybody worth knowing was reinforced.

As dusk came down a rowdy pack of youthful celebrants livened the occasion.

Their camp was a disgraceful mélange of patched-up tents and construction plastic stretched among trees and broken off branches to form shelters—possibly adequate to resist morning dew. A tragic collection of trashed out Japanese motorcycles surrounded the encampment providing a protective cordon against other passing barbarians.

Their campfire was, however, truly noble. A half cord of cut and split wood had been brought along, and the noisy gathering enjoyed a monumental blaze worthy of a city's pillaging.

Also notable were the beer coolers. Each participant appeared to have vied to provide the largest.

The group's beer-numbed entertainment was to ride a small Honda motorcycle straight into a nearby palmetto thicket—to see who could penetrate the furthest.

Each attempt ended in a crash with punctures and slashes from the sharp-edged palmetto fronds. Inevitably, a rider ricocheted and sprawled in the magnificent campfire. Singed and scraped the rider submitted to his friends' first aid—a thorough smearing with motor oil—and he was ready to try again.

The Honda refused to die, and the game finally ended in the dark with a thrown rider so deep in sharp palmettos he could not get out. His cohorts held the still running Honda over their heads, using the headlight as a searchlight, helping the lost rider find his way.

It was a good show, and only a too close roll of thunder announced to participants and watchers that a Florida downpour was en route.

Old Dog said, "Oh hell, I hate to ride in the rain.

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