LACONIA ... DUST THAT NEVER SETTLES!

by K. Peddlar Bridges, Bikerpoet Laureate.

It was Mid-Summer 61', my Father, Drover and I were heading toward Burlington Vermont. The 10 pm back country road seemed pitch black and lonely. We were just above Concord, New Hampshire, when we came around a quick turn and up popped a little neon oasis. It was a drive-in restaurant. The kind of drive-in restaurant that you see in movies like American Graffiti or on TV shows like, Happy Days'. "I know this Place," Drover said. as we pulled into the parking lot. In the parking lot there were Hot Rod Fords Nosed and Decked Chevys and Teen-agers right out of Happy Days' Central Casting. My mind tells me that the Song, "Black Denim Trousers and Motorcycle Boots," was playing on the jukebox when we walked in: But this could be just a pleasant little fantasy. But, what wasn't a pleasant little fantasy was there were dozens of 8 by 10 black and white photographs of Hot Rods, Bopper Style Teen-agers and 40s, 50s Motorcycles hanging on the walls. And that's when it happened ... Drover looked up and realized, he was staring right at a photograph of Himself.

"Holy Ship,' Drover said as he leaped up to get a closer look, 'There I am." "There I am," Drover said again. "This picture was taken in '59, while I was riding with the Gazeters on our way to Laconia." I peered into the photograph ... there sat Drover, tall, proud and handsome on a Harley-Davidson, Panhead Dresser. We looked at the other photos on the wall and found Drover in several group shots, but this was the money shot. He tried to find out if he could buy a copy of this photo, but I believe he never did.

Before leaving we stood in the parking lot and watched Hot rod Fords and Custom Mercs race in and out of the driveway ... till someone pulled up and yelled ..."The cops are on their way!" There was a mass exodus of Hot Rod Fords and Nosed and Decked Chevys squealing tires out of the driveway, spraying the air full of dust and rocks and black tire smoke too. Taillights disappeared into the dark of the night and echoes of straight piped exhaust trailed off into the distance.

We climbed back into Drover's black, 53, Ford Convert. He fired up its twin carb, dual exhaust flat-head engine and laid down his own share of black tire rubber. Squealing out of the driveway, he too sprayed the air full of rocks and dust and black tire smoke too. I can remember that night, looking back over my shoulder, as we pulled away from that little neon oasis and watching the patrol car poke its way through the dust and black tire smoke, as it still hung in the air and thinking, that dust will never settle, that black tire smoke will never rise and I will be forever heading toward Laconia. ***

THIS WAS A ROADPOET eMEMORY. *** DEDICATION ...

*** This story is dedicated to Drover aka The Last Gypsy. Drover was a best friend, a worst enemy, a Mentor and a Nemesis. The roots of our past go back to 1953, that is as far back as I can trace my own Memory. Motorcycles came into our lifes in 1954, Drover was 8 or 9 years older than I, so his riding season started years before mine and sadly his riding season has ended that way too.

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