Continued from: “The Accidental Encounter”, click to read the previous episode
The Chase
Episode 3 of 6
By Idella Sweetwater, PhD
Chief Cheerleading Officer, CCO
I sat frozen, tears still in my eyes, heart racing, V-twin motorcycle idling between my thighs like a spooked stallion as I watched the lone headline cresting the far hill behind me, coming hard.
The searing New Mexico sun seemed to be scolding me, “You bimbo, you made such a mess out of your little ‘accidental encounter’, then you made a premature exit and in doing so you stoned Bandit’s motorcycle. A motorcycle that is no doubt the source of that lone headlight now only one mile out and closing fast.”
Should I run for it, I wondered? If so, to where? There was nowhere to hide on the lonesome, empty, scorching black asphalt of New Mexico Highway Deadman far, far out in the boondocks of the least populated state in America. I looked at my gas gauge, half full. Or half empty if I got into a prolonged chase. Three-quarters of a mile and closing. Decision time.
I looked ahead, nothing but open road to the horizon, easily ten miles of visibility. Half a mile and closing. I dropped my 120-inch high-compression V-twin into first and dumped the clutch. I had no idea what Bandit might do to me now that I’d rained rocks on his gorgeous motorcycle, and I sure didn’t want to find out this far from help or a major hospital.
I hit second gear and the fuel tank double-tapped me in the boobs, the front end rearing back up under the massive torque spewing out of the Baker close-cut racing tranny to the grasping 180 rear tire. Third, fourth, fifth, sixth. The speedo flung itself to the right, 120, 130, 135, 140.
I was running flat out, leaning low to reduce wind drag, fence posts and phone poles flicking past like grass. I looked in my buzzing rearview mirrors. A blurry Bandit was still closing, one quarter mile back now. I could see that it was him. I had a quick, fast and stable motorcycle. How the hell was he doing what he was doing, I wondered in the raging hurricane-force winds. I rose up over a rise and felt everything lighten, then compress as I roared back down through the dip. Bandit was only a few hundred yards behind me. I was pegged at 141.
To my horror he was suddenly right beside me, riding casually on my immediate—and I do mean immediate—left, sitting back, relaxed in the tornado, as if he were going 50 on a windy, old, scenic back road. I could have reach over and touched him. He looked at me, smiled and nodded casually as if to say, “Lovely day for a ride.”
I had no idea what to do next. I was sprinting across the barren New Mexico countryside, elbow-to-elbow with arguably the most famous biker in the history of two wheels. My staged ‘accidental encounter’ had devolved from a highly-orchestrated job operation into an actual accidental vandalism job of his gorgeous chopper. I’d run for it and now I was caught dead-to-rights. I didn’t know what the hell he had under that gas tank, but that chopper was so fast that even I couldn’t outrun him and my bike was powered up right to truly move out and it was carrying at least 100lbs less than Bandit’s with his 6’4” and easy 230lbs frame. And yet there he was, with that casual smile and a friendly nod, glued to me like a sidecar.
Suddenly Bandit cranked his right wrist farther and leaned into the wind and appeared to have found the unicorn “seventh gear”. He pulled away like I’d let off the throttle, roaring ahead of me decisively in a rattling roar of straight-pipes, adding distance between us quickly.
It was possibly more terrifying that he was making such a mockery of my custom-built sprinter way out here in no-man’s land. Because him toying with me was letting me know, there was zero chance of escaping my fate, now matter what it might be. And I had, after all, just pelted the tanks of this former Hells Angel with stones. He had me the way a big male lion in Africa lopes in unstoppable long-legged strides after a fast-fatiguing, fleeing antelope, breezing along behind the desperate ungulate, toying with his sprinting dinner before hitting high gear and snagging it’s narrow, puckered antelope butt with five huge claws.
Should I keep going, I wondered, speedo stick still dangling downward at 140? Should I hit the brakes, make a U-turn and run the other way? Should I pull over and take my punishment, whatever it might be?
As we crested the next hill a small restaurant appeared on the horizon, about three miles up. Bandit continued to add distance between us.
Wait, I wondered, is he letting me go? Was being scared to death and then having my top end mocked the punishment? That wasn’t so bad after all, I thought. “Yeah,” I said in my mind to myself, “but you totally blew the job you went there to get.” “Oh yeah, well at least I’m not dead for tossing rocks at his chopper!” “You idiot…” “You couldn’t have done any better!” “Nice logic, chick, I am you.” The wind and adrenaline and fear were highlighting my psychological civil war.
I saw Bandit’s brake light half a mile ahead. Uh-oh. For a moment I lost sight of him as he dipped into a low spot. As I rode over the next rise I saw him, sitting there parked at the exit to the solitary restaurant, waiting on me, just as casual as the day is long.
My heart flutters returned when I realized he was letting me know, pull over little lady, we’re going to have a sit-down. I let off the throttle, creating a rattling snarl that spread across the vast moonscape. Bandit gestured with his right hand towards the restaurant as if to say, “After you.” I obediently exited and rolled up to the restaurant parking lot, drowning in apprehension and nerves.
Only one car was there. But a fly-spotted “OPEN” sign hung optimistically in the window. I parked and shut down my bike, listening to the popping shrinkage sounds of the super-heated iron and chrome retracing angrily in the otherwise still afternoon heat. Bandit rolled up slowly, purposefully and idled to a stop about twenty feet from me. He shut down his chopper, pulled off his helmet, stood up and put the brain bucket on his seat. He walked to the door as I watched apprehensively. Pushing the door, he held it open for me.
I got off my motorcycle, yielding. I knew there was no way out of this moment. I took off my helmet, let my hair down and obediently walked towards the open door that Bandit was holding politely, and authoritatively. It wasn’t “please come in”. It was “after you, I insist”; terrifyingly polite.
I walked inside, immediately noticing the cool air-conditioning on my chest and my thumping heart inside of it. A cook was working in the back. There was one old-timer reading an upraised newspaper in one corner. At least there would be witnesses, I thought.
“Sit anywhere you like,” the old-timer said from behind the upraised newsprint.
I looked at Bandit. He looked at me, pleasant expression, casual, confident, not a sign or indicator of what was coming next, pure poker face. I looked around for a good seat to die in. Selecting the table in the middle, I sat down.
As I was sitting, Bandit pulled out my chair for me. I froze mid-sit, my flawless rear hanging over the seat cushion. Bandit waited. Gingerly I placed my backside on the chair. He slid the chair in under me, sitting me into the chair. Then with seemingly no effort, he then slid me up to the table. Lord, I thought to myself, those arms aren’t for show. I weight 119 pounds and he moved me like the chair was empty. Ordinarily this would have been an overt turn-on for me, the gallantry, the display of gentleman like raw power. This time it was the opposite, scary strength combined with Hannibal Lecture sang-froid.
Bandit walked around to the other side of the table opposite and seated himself, facing me. He sighed, never taking his eyes off me.
“What can I bring you to drink?” the voice behind the newspaper asked.
“Two ice-teas, unsweet,” Bandit said staring into my eyes, but speaking to the upraised newspaper.
The old man folded the paper and got up stiffly to go fetch the two iced-teas.
“I never drink when I talk business,” Bandit added, this time to me. I was so discombobulated by his reaction to my disastrous attempt to get a job that I found my usually full vault of feminine tricks empty. I know what this is, I thought. I’m about to be given a price tag for repairing his motorcycle. Better than being strangled and buried in the desert, I thought. Quite a bit better, really. Of course I was currently between jobs.
Bandit sat gazing at me, just the hint of curiosity in his expression. Again I heard a plethora of female voices warning me, spooked birds shooting up out of the trees, chirping in alarm.
“Here you go,” the old-timer said pleasantly, placing the two iced-teas, unsweet, before us. “And there are menus on the table if you care to order anything. Our pie is good.” He trundled off back to his newspaper.
Bandit took a purposeful sip of his iced-tea and set the glass back down. The only sound was an oscillating fan up in the corner near the kitchen turning left, right, left, right. My mind raced. I was watching a scary movie that I just so happened to be playing the lead role in.
“I can explain,” I suddenly blurted out, my mouth now freelancing without my consent.
Bandit nodded, go ahead.
“Well, I’ve been watching the print-and-ink market for a while now, quite a while really, what’s left of it, and none of the publications I saw out there had what it takes and then I saw you’d purchased Easyriders and I thought okay, here’s the—“
“Got a name?” Bandit asked nonchalantly interrupting my nervous blathering. I felt a weird sense of relief at his interruption. I had no idea where to go with my rambling and now I had direction and a task I could handle; tell him my name. I blanked. I knew my name. Of course I knew my name. So why couldn’t I think of my na—
“Idella Sweetwater!” I accidentally shouted it out like a contestant on a gameshow belting out the correct answer before the other competitors could. I wanted to just get it over with, just take me out back and slay me.
Bandit took another sip of his iced-tea.
“Sounds southern,” he noted.
“Yes, Georgia, born and raised. Private schools—I was gifted, but not pampered, certainly not spoiled, even though I was daddy’s girl—then college up north, full-ride, but I love the Deep South, Wharton School of Business, you’ve probably heard of it, it’s Ivy League, University of Pennsylvania?” I spat. What was that, I shrieked inside my head. You just rattled that off like you’re being interrogated under torture. What happened to the plan? The whole plan? You were going to ask the questions, you were going to put him on the spot, grind him down on his risky business endeavor, tell him how tough it’ll be to bring back print-and-ink in a digital world, balance the playing field. Make him offer you the job. Make him beg. Instead you just start spewing like a rookie in her first interview. I was right. I couldn’t even argue with myself on this one. He’s obviously not going to kill you or even beat you up or he would have already done it. So chill and get your ass, your superb ass that is, back in the game right now, Sweetwater! I leaned back in my chair, trying to affect a more casual demeanor. I took a sip off my iced-tea, doing my best Brando imitation. “You?”
“Vietnam. Two tours. Publishing world, 40 years. Doctorate in life,” Bandit said pleasantly. I felt a torpedo hit my ego, broadside.
What seemed like an hour passed. The oscillating fan turned left, then right, left, then right. I sipped my tea again to kill time and try to rebuild my shattered game. Come on, Idella. You’re smart as hell, you’re hotter than a sickle blade in August, this guy must be interested in more than just decking you for pelting his bike with gravel. Get what you came for, he needs a COO and he needs, no, he wants you. He just doesn’t know it yet. I felt my juju returning. Girl power!
“So you like motorcycles,” Bandit said more as a statement of fact than a question. He owned the conversation. He owned the silence. He owned the air in the cafe. It was like he owned me. Although his disarming demeanor was at least allowing my heart rate to descend. I was reasonably certain he wasn’t going to kill me or beat me up. Admittedly he did have a certain air about him that was, could have been, under the right circumstances, attractive. Stop it, Idella!” I shouted in my head, “You weak slut! You’re here to do a job. To get a job.”
“Sure, I like motorcycles, who doesn’t?” I said.
“You wrench?” Bandit asked.
“I know metric from imperial,” I said. Nice! Now you’re talking. Blow him a little heat, girl.
“You build that scoot?”
“Ground up,” I said. I actually had a teeny-tiny bit of help from dad.
“Why’d you get a Baker six-speed racing tranny and go 120-inches if you aren’t planning to ride fast?” Bandit asked. I felt the second torpedo strike midships. Why you arrogant; I wanted to be mad, but I wasn’t sure how to be, since he’d made a mockery of what I thought was a unfeignedly fast big-twin out there on the blacktop.
“Well, I wasn’t really opening it up back there. I wanted you to be able to keep up,” I said. I was pissed. Nobody made fun of my toolbox skills.
“Oh. I see. I must have heard wrong. Sounded to me like you were in sixth. But must have only been fifth,” Bandit said, musing.
“Fifth? That was fourth,” I countered. I put my boots up on the table. I’d heard somewhere that in the Middle East showing someone the soles of you boots was considered to be a terrible insult and since there was no way I’d ever get a job with this guy now, I figured the least I could do it insult him.
(To be continued…)
