On Being
Resourceful

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Cops on mountain bikes patrolled the streets. There were two to a block in the Pioneer Square area, and they were all busy, straddling their bikes to write tickets and stopping at corners to question vagrants. In the brick square itself the shade trees threw forest green shadows onto figures moving beneath. A wino lay sprawled on one of the benches, swigging from a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. Someone impossibly thin hovered around a tree trunk. The ember of his cigarette shook as he rapidly took a few puffs, threw it down, and crushed it under his heel.

I left the bike in front of a club whose bouncer said he'd look after it, and walked away with long steps in my black boots, rumpled jeans, and leather jacket; my shiny black helmet slung over my shoulder. This mode of dress, combined with a conscious don't-mess-with-me attitude, stopped short the rude comments and kissing noises that greeted me from the dark the last time I was here. Seattle is a port town, complete with sailors on leave, dock workers, and prostitutes. In the club area they mix with the wandering tourists, local grunge rockers, and yuppies -- an occasionally incompatible mix.

I like this town, despite its toughness; maybe because of it. It's a working town, and its clubs and marketplaces would still exist if the tourists suddenly disappeared. But I wouldn't have stopped here this time if the Ural people, the importers of my motorcycle, weren't here. I would have gone right on by, through the pine trees and past the red farmhouses of Washington state until I reached British Columbia. But that would have to wait a couple of days, while the Ural got a thorough checkup, so I did a cursory tour of Seattle.

"Nobody fucked with it," the bouncer told me as I walked back to my bike. He looked at a ticket and stamped someone's hand. "Bikers take care of each other," he said, implying he was one, too. "Here, sit down." He stamped another hand and pointed to an empty table on the sidewalk between himself and two boozy blondes deep in conversation. I sat.

There was no breeze next to the brick wall of the club. I took my jacket off and settled back with a microbrew. Club goers passed on the sidewalk. There were tourists in evening clothes and locals in grunge. One woman wore diamond earrings and a velvet jacket trimmed with gold braid, her hair done up in a French twist. The girl behind her hadn't combed her hair in a few days, and was wearing ragged bell bottoms and a plaid shirt with torn-off sleeves. Cars cruised by on the street in front of me, then appeared on the other side behind the trees planted between lanes. The bouncer chatted away about bikes and rides between stamping hands and yelling at a drunk who was hassling him.

A pot-bellied man on a stock Fat Boy backed into the space next to the Ural. "Cool wheels," he said, barely turning his head as he walked inside. I nodded, finished my beer, and left. My hotel was downtown and rather seedy with the continuous echo of footsteps all through the night.

The next day I headed for Randy's, the Ural warehouse supervisor and head mechanic. He'd said I could crash on his couch that night, and had offered to show me the countryside before my appointment at the factory. I'd only met Randy once before, in the warehouse when I'd bought the bike. Other than that, we'd had a few phone conversations about carburetors. I had appreciated the way he was able to talk me through a procedure step-by-step, telling me how things worked; his patient explanations made everything clear.

Randy's living room in Kent is cluttered with pictures of his daughter, TaNea, a dimpled, brown-eyed 5-year-old, and her 3-year-old brother, Brandon. For years he has spent long hours on the road traveling to and from his ex-wife's house for bi-weekly visits. In a few weeks that would all change -- he'd have them full-time.

"I'll have to get the Disney channel now," he said. "No more staying at the shop all night tinkering with things."

I could tell that having the kids there would be a relief for him. He wouldn't have to be so far away and worrying about them.

In the past, he'd spent his time building machines; among them, a magnetically-powered generator, and a lot of bikes. His latest project was the Harley he'd built from scratch.

"The engine is a Sportster and the frame is off a Honda," he told me, "with the front and the ass-end cut off."

He kicked the engine over and it rumbled with a low, irregular heartbeat more audible in the bones than to the ear.

I kicked the Ural over, all 37 horsepower, and followed him out of town and into the countryside. He kept his speed down so I wouldn't fall behind. The Ural can go to 65 or so, but is more comfortable between 55 and 60. Randy's Sportster, however, purrs along smoothly at way above the speed limit.

Randy's long brown hair and beard flew from under his black helmet as we rode through miles of pine trees, past a town with a country tavern, shops named Betty's Hair and Nails, Joe's Welding, and Larry's Tractor and Mower. Then there was nothing, except a warm wind and white clouds over the hills to the east. He waved to all the Harleys that passed, a fist-up signal I guessed was local because I hadn't seen it before.

We took one remote country road to another. At stop signs Randy looked for me in his mirrors as I pulled up beside him. We turned together, and he pulled ahead again. Finally we turned off into a small parking lot by a river. However nice it is to ride, it is also nice to stop to hang out with the person you've been riding with, to talk about the countryside, or that white Cadillac that had moved into your lane, or any old thing that had been spinning around in your head for the last couple of hours.

We cut the engines and took in the silence. Before I could even remove my helmet, I noticed Randy walk over to look at something on my bike. He knelt down and rubbed the bottom of the gas tank, then looked up at me strangely. I knelt beside him. The bottom of the tank and the well of the air filter were soaked with gasoline.

"Got an oil rag or something?" he asked calmly.

I handed him the rag I keep tied to the chrome bar of the sidecar windshield. He took his knife from the leather holster on his belt, and cut off a piece to stuff under the bracket where it was leaking.

"There's not much to do until we get back to my place," he said, finally. "I have an extra gas tank in the truck. It was just repaired."

The crack was by a bracket welded to the lower end of the seat. It is the weakest point in the system, a stress area where it bolts on. The gas dripped off the black paint in slow drops onto the top of the air filter and down the frame, evaporating before it hit the ground.

"It's just a slow one," he said as we walked to the river, dismissing the problem.

He lit a cigarette, "I wish I could go on with you. You're really going to like it."

"What?" I asked, sarcastically. "No discouraging words?"

Most people I knew had advised me to take along a cellular phone, mace, a taser, even a pistol on this trip. They have said "be careful," over and over again. They were talking about my dream trip. My let-loose motorcycle journey, my freedom, my independence. I told Randy that he was the first person who hadn't had even one negative thing to say about it. I told him that most people didn't think I should do it at all.

"Why not?" he shrugged. "I'd do it in a second. And you're resourceful."

Yeah, he'd do it in a second because he's a guy. But a lot of my kind of resourcefulness has to do with the fact that I'm a woman, and because of that people respond to me differently than to someone like Randy. They'll want to help me. Randy has to be resourceful in a different way. He's expected to know how to fix everything. He gets by because he is self-sufficient. I'll get by because who I am appeals to the rescuer in most people. And I've learned, as many women have, to take advantage of that. And though it's a good thing to be able to depend on others for help when it's needed, I feel that in some ways it's a cop out.

I couldn't believe that Randy actually approved of my trip, so I wondered what he really thought. I fluctuate between confidence and uncertainty, and just then I needed reassurance. That, or confirmation of my unstable state-of-mind from someone of like mind. I wanted him to tell me if he thought I was nuts, like the people who tried to get me not to go. But no matter how I provoked him, he wouldn't agree.

"When it's time to go, it's just time to go," he said.

The sun was bright on our backs as we watched a man and a little boy of about six on the other side of the river. The boy clutched a bag of bread as he stepped down the bank. The half dozen ducks on our side spotted them and suddenly sprinted across the water, flapping their wings and quacking loudly. The little boy took a startled, uncertain step backwards, almost falling. His dad knelt down and pulled him close.

Randy looked across the river and stroked his beard. He couldn't have looked more unlike the dad in white shorts and polo shirt on the other riverbank. But he'd be bringing his kids here too. And he wouldn't have his bike with him. He'd have a car with car seats and ice cream stains, and he'd find himself saying things like "if you don't behave I'm going to have to pull over, and you don't want me to have to pull over." I smiled at the thought of it.

Out of the blue he said, "I sure will be at home a lot more, too."

"Good." I replied. "Then if I have trouble with the bike, you'll be home when I call you."

He laughed. "I told my boss that I should go along with you for a while, so we know everything will be okay. But he didn't go for it."

I thought about that, and I knew he meant it. He'd go without hesitation, at least for the few weeks until the kids were his responsibility. And from then on things would be different. And as for me, even while giving up the independence I wanted with this trip, I couldn't help but think of how great those few weeks would be, not to have to worry about anything at all. No mechanical worries, no hassles from guys... nothing. How easy, to know Randy would be there to prevent things from going wrong, and to fix them if they did.

When it was time to go Randy cut a new piece of rag to tie to the bolt. Still, the gas dripped down the frame toward the motor, and I asked him about the chances of it blowing up when the plugs sparked.

"It's behind the plugs, so there won't be a spark problem," he insisted. "Besides, the leak is slow enough that the air will dry it off once we get on the road."

I was mad at myself for being so nervous, but I didn't know enough about it to make my own decision. I'd have to trust his judgment. But still, it was like having to take a dare.

"Hell, I had a friend who used to regulate his gas by reaching down while he was riding to turn on and off the gas flow," Randy said, laughing.

I looked at the kick starter, and at the gas dripping onto the rag. He stood beside me, waiting. In the end I trusted him, and kicked it over. Sure enough, it didn't blow up.

We took the freeway, the fastest way back. I looked at Randy, at the highway ahead of me, and down at the leak. Just like he said, the gas dripped out onto the rag, and dried as the wind hit it. It didn't even get my knee wet.

Index | Dispatch 8-