Three-Mile Island
UP FRONT
ALLAN GIRDLER
Due to the nature of our respective machines, I was aware of the motocross kid long before he was aware of me. I was poking along a one-track trail when out of the brush came that distinctive “Rriiinng, dit-dit-dit” and I thought Aha, the cry of the two-stroke is loose on the land! What with the crowded terrain I decided to be cautious, so I gulled into a clearing and sure enough, less than a minute later he leapt literally—unto view, spun a neat half-doughnut and parked beside me.
What I was up to was my old tricks.
Whenever I’m trundling along on routine business, just getting where I need to go, I have an eye out for interesting places. One of the best was a lagoon, with marsh and brush and trees and what looked like a dirt trail leading into one edge. On a Saturday I passed the place and spotted a small truck parked in a grove. Thus on this Sunday I came back suitably equipped, turned off the highway into a residential area and worked the streets until I found a dirt road, headed down the hill. . .and there I was. No signs, no warnings, no fences. I followed what seemed to be the main track until I came to a downed tree with a car parked in front of it. Easily bypassed, so I pressed on.
I was not alone.
Around a corner came three people, walkers, a white-haired couple and a younger woman. The couple looked, the woman glared.
Seemed as if this wasn't the first time. Hair in a bun, hard eyes, clenched thin lips, repressed, that's the word.
So I decided to hit her where she lives. I was nice.
Hi, I said cheerfully. What a lovely place!
The couple looked appeased, the woman looked daggers, so I rode on until I heard the two-stroke.
He was a motocross kid, all right.
KX125, boots, helmet and jeans. He l#ves in the residential neighborhood, he told me, but his other transportation is a Honda CB350. No truck. When his pals with trucks are elsewhere, he relaxes by rolling the bike down the street to the dirt, then he blasts around for a bit and goes home the better for it.
As we spoke, a bird, a big bird, rose from the marsh and winged to an island in the lagoon. Wow, I said. Yeah, he said, Eagle. That’s the hen. The herons over there are rare, but the eagles are even more rare.
Neat place, I said, and was told it’s a park. Public land but not yet developed, which is why no signs and no
harassment, either.
I was glad to hear it. Too bad about the walkers, I said, they didn't appear to like us being here, you and your noisy device especially. Never mind it was them that flushed the eagle.
T.S., he said, and he wheelied off into the woods.
I kept on exploring, up and down every trail. I crossed paths with the walkers twice more, each time stopping and remarking on the scenery, each time generating pulsing veins. As I headed for the exit, they were getting into their car. I waved.
Two of them waved back.
Rotten of me, I know. But. Before long there will be a real park there, with paved roads, picnic tables, a 100-yard nature walk. . .and a sign banning motorcycles because they might be used on the walk. If you're going to lose the war, you might as well win a battle.
On the way up the dirt road I noticed the odometer had clicked off three miles. The area was bounded by water, the beach, the interstate and a developed neighborhood. An island, you might say. My own three-mile island, I decided.
Next came a chance to redeem myself. On the way down the hill, the paved side, I spotted a damsel in distress. She and her scooter were stalled at the curb. I knew it was a she despite the helmet because she was trying to kick the lever with high heels.
Under ordinary circ*mstances, being a hardcore biker and all, I disdain scooters as not worthy of my notice. But heck, who of us doesn’t like to be the Gallant Knight?
I swept to a stop, bowed in courtly fashion, applied massive boot to lever and rmmmm, the scooter was running.
Delighted to be of service, I said, adding that I never before in my life had seen anybody wearing helmet and heels at the same time.
She dimpled prettily and accelerated, relatively speaking, away.
My next target was another estuary with interesting trails visible from the highway. But I’d never been able to spot any trails in, or out. I began exploring the side streets. The marshes became a valley that narrowed into a canyon, well below the streets around it. There were some interesting signs:
UNSTABLE CLIFFS!
ALERT YOUR CHILDREN!
NO OFFROAD VEHICLES!
Seemed fair to me. I stayed well clear. After riding up, down and 270° around, I found a road leading in. It went past a few houses then divided. To the left, the marshland. To the right a driveway marked by a sign “No Trespassing. Security Dog On Duty.”
Full stop. When I last wrote about exploring I admitted to being charged with vehicle trespass, for which I paid a fine. I got an irate letter about that, criticizing me for saying it was all right to commit crimes one could afford.
Which wasn’t at all what I meant. So, let the record show I intended to say that if you are wrong, admit it and take your punishment. I don’t like being convicted, I don’t like paying fines and I really don’t enjoy crime.
So I turned around. Parked in front of one of the houses was a three-wheeler. I reckoned this signaled a kindred soul. I rode up the driveway to where two guys were doing carpentry.
What’s the feeling about exploring around here? I asked.
Turns out this neighborhood, like most neighborhoods, has its designated crank, who sits in his house with telescope at the ready and the sheriff’s number memorized.
That wasn’t what I wanted to hear but I was glad I asked. Cross that island off the list.
By more luck I happened across a delicatessen specializing in imported cheese. I was wearing my genuine waxed cotton Belstaff jacket, the aroma of which is, urn, distinctive. Pungent. Patrons of average hamburger stands have been known to glare, even to move away. But aged gargonzola, tangy cheddar and others of that ilk also create their own atmosphere. Such was the case here. Not only did I get an excellent roast beef sandwich, when I asked for cream I got cream rather than powdered soybeans chemically transformed into non-dairy substitute.
When I got home I discovered I’d missed the Superbowl.
Strike that. I didn’t miss the Superbowl. I just didn’t watch it.
I have better things to do with my Sunday afternoons.
