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My motorcycle and me. Middle America. Big skies. Miles of mustard fields. Big fluffy clouds like cotton candy. A sweet young girl driving an old tractor on the horizon. And apple pie. Apple pie? Well, I’ll get to that part of the story…
I stop and take some photos. The scenery in these parts of Idaho is spectacular and the young girl backlit on her tractor just pushes me over the edge. I’ve got to get the shot! She sees me and drives towards the fence where I’ve parked my bike. Wow, is that yours? She gestures to my Valkyrie. I smile and say, of course. Her smile grows bigger. She is obviously totally intrigued by this lonesome woman riding around on the back roads of Idaho. I am more intrigued by her. A young girl maybe ten years old driving a tractor on a lonesome field. I beam back at her.
She is full of questions. Watcha doing riding around by yourself? I’m full of answers. I’m
working on a book about women who ride motorcycles called “Women and the Art of Motorcycles”. Wow! My grandma used to ride a motorcycle…I think. My grandpa still has old wrecked ones in our barn. I raise my eyebrow, oh yeah. Yeah. She’s grinning at me like a cat that just ate a canary. Hmmmm…where is your barn? I start packing up my cameras. It’s just up over that hill. Do you wanna meet my grandparents? They’d love to meet you and it’s getting close to suppertime, soooooo…
I’m absolutely enchanted. Of course, I want to meet her grandparents. Of course, I want to check out the old bikes in the barn. My mind is reeling thinking about the beautiful light that rakes through an old barn with the misty dust of hay and worn wood and other captivating details. Purrrrrrrrrrrfect.
I meet the young girl on the road. She drives the tractor like a pro. I can’t believe she’s only ten. Over the growl of the tractor, she fills me in on her story. It’s her summer break and she’s helping her grandparents run their farm. Her parent’s were killed in a car crash, so she lives with them now. I like this young girl. She’s beautiful and sad. Genuine yet protective. She’s surviving. She’s learning. She’s alive and trying to find her way in the giant scheme of things. There is nothing like a big open field of alfalfa and a vast blue sky that never ends to put things into perspective.
We round up the corner and I see the hilltop farm from the road. It resembles the Bates motel to me…I’m a bit concerned but too fascinated to turn back now. The young girl just smiles back at me and all of my worry melts like butter. She is so excited that she jumps from her tractor before it actually stops and runs full tilt to the side door. The screen door slams loudly, and I start to take my gear off. I look around the place. A bit rough around the edges but really quaint. The barn is sun burnt the farmhouse no better but there is warmth to the buildings that soothes the soul. I turn to face two very sunny characters standing in front of me both looking as worn as the wood but with two radiant smiles on their face. Ohhhh…I’m going to like these folk. 
The young girl in one breath manages to tell her grandparents about me, my bike, my adventure, the bikes in the barn, the everything and then some everything more. Would you like some apple pie? The grandmother asks sweetly. I smile and shrug. Sure, that would be great. Mental note: all I can think about is the dried up granola bar in my saddlebag and how starving I am for a real meal…even if it is apple pie. We sit in the kitchen. It’s a nice yellow kitchen that smells like pears. I like it. The grandfather hasn’t said a word but his eyes continue to twinkle at me like blue sapphires. I like him, too. The grandmother is no taller than 4 feet and walks towards me with a giggle, three glasses and big jug of what looks like homemade apple juice. Apple Pie. Apple hooch, actually! The grandfather finally speaks. Hooch?! You mean apple alcohol. Oh my, it’s only 4pm. We save this for special guests. I guess she’s referring to me. I love it, coos the grandmother and sips at her cocktail. We make it ourselves…old family recipe. Well, when in Rome… My young friend grabs herself some cold lemonade and scrambles onto her stool. She hasn’t really stopped talking since we arrived but I find her giddiness quite endearing. I look down at my glass. Apple Pie? Well, I’ll tell ya', there is nothing better to take the hard edges off a long day of riding like this sweet nectar.
Well, four apple pies and a home cooked meal later, and I was done like dinner. I was buzzing from the alcohol and knew there was no way I was going to be able to ride into the next town and find a cheap motel. I asked the kind family if they didn’t mind me setting up camp in their field. Heavens no! They would hear none of it. They had three spare rooms upstairs and that’s what spare rooms are for. We stayed up late into the night plus at least four more apple pies. The grandfather telling me stories of his first motorcycle and his last motorcycle – all of which a small part remained somewhere in the barn. A bone of a long lost loved one buried deep in the tomb of hay and dust. The grandmother said she only learned to ride for a brief period of time during the war when she needed to ride into town to do errands but couldn’t afford gas for their truck and the bike was more reasonable. She said most of the womenfolk in the area either rode a motorcycle or a horse. It just made sense. She wondered why, after the war, she had never thought to ride again but then just brushed the thought out of her mind with a shrug of her small shoulders. It was quite curious. It seemed the norm. The men came back from the war and the women quit their jobs, quit riding motorcycles and quit running the farms – hmmmmm…I guess, this subject was best left for another story.
I woke the next morning, the smell of bacon and coffee everywhere. I grabbed my gear and headed downstairs. I suspected that the kitchen was really the only room that was used in this house. Everyone sat at the breakfast table. Everyone sat smiling brightly back at me. They were lovely and I was genuinely happy to see these kind strangers. 
As I rode away, I looked back over my shoulders. The grandparents stood waving smiling into the sunshine like an old postcard. The young girl ran furiously behind my bike trying desperately to keep up and giggling the whole way. It was a long gravel road and I hadn’t really decided which way I was turning once I got to the bottom. West? East? Did it really matter? The giggling soon stopped and the young girl stood plainly in the middle of the road a good mile from her farmhouse. She stood so straight. I looked back at her and waved. She didn’t wave back.
I felt a sudden sadness overtake me. Here it comes again, I sighed. The bitter sweetness of goodbyes. I had spent only 24 hours with this family but I felt bonded to them in the most special way. I looked back one last time. The farmhouse in the distance and the young girl standing in the middle of the road…so still…watching me ride away. I smiled to myself, knowing full well, that one day she would be the one riding away. Riding to a destination unknown. And probably with a saddlebag full of apple pie. |
