“When I die I want to meet God and say, what the hell were you thinking, like what were you thinking?”

—Indian Larry

Nighttime in the Borderlands looks like a film negative You’d have thought after having to give a coin Charon had given me to give to an Elvis that looked like the Elvis in the movie BUBBA HO-TEP so I could return to my world I would’ve had my fill of the Borderlands; and yet I’ve begun riding into them on a regular basis.

Sometimes referred to as the In-betweens, Borderlands are between our world and wherever we go after we die. Visited by most of us in dreams they can, on occasion, be entered through all-night diners with waitresses named Alice. Many have entrances called crossovers between large oaks and sycamores. Abandoned, Borderlands become ingrown; feeding upon themselves like plants left in too small containers or oxbow lakes cut off from the flow of a stream. Unused, an entry will fade until its location’s remembered only in folklore.

Daytime in the Borderlands begins in the golden glow of a Maxfield Parrish painting with sights and characters conspiring to make for surreal encounters. Nighttime’s coldly different starting with the ebbing of color and ending when light and shadow have traded places making everything look like a film negative.

Crossovers are complete when your outlook on life suddenly becomes like Huck Finn’s. Cuz’ when you’re in da Borderlands ya knows everythin’s happenin’ da way it’s suppose to be happenin’, n’ dat all da hurryin’ n’ worryin’ ain’t goin’ to change nothin’.

Late one afternoon after crossing over near some sycamores and riding through a couple of miles of farmland I recognized a familiar motorcyclist in the rear views coming up behind me on a 650 Triumph. Tall, with long hair and wearing a long sleeve shirt rolled up to the elbows, khaki pants and chukka boots; he’d yell, as he had before, something about Switzerland, turn and then motocross off across the hills. Was he trying to escape? A great escape route would’ve been to follow me back to where I’d crossed.

Scratched, but finding nothing bent or broken, I was still riding my trusty Wide Glide. Not as comfortable as Harley’s larger models with their fairings and bigger engines, and subsequently lacking their higher top speed; my bike, even with its extended rake, seemed faster through the turns. I’ll trade higher highway speeds and comfort for quickness through the backroad twisties anytime.

Minutes after the Triumph rider rode away, my favorite Borderland town appeared surrounded by newly cut hayfields framed by mountains. Mediterranean in character and with streets just wide enough to let our world slip between its buildings; the town’s outdoor market had become a special place of mine. Distant peaks invited me to someday find out what was on their other side.

In the past I’d spend an afternoon at the market, but today I’d explore a new part of town. My plan was simply to follow the street beyond where I usually parked, then continue on as far as I could. Except the street didn’t cooperate; instead it continued for only a half mile before ending in a large courtyard inlaid with a mosaic of blue tiles. Decorating the buildings surrounding the courtyard were balconies of blossoming wisteria trailing dreadlocks of purple down to the ground.

Across from the courtyard’s entrance, in front of an outdoor café, was a customized '40 Ford sedan. Parked next to it was a rigid frame chopper painted a deep violet and accented with yellow green and orange question marks. Even with the chopper’s sissy bar shadow acting as a sundial reminding me it was getting late, I still felt I had time to relax in my new surroundings.

“Most everyone orders beer when it gets this hot.”

The female voice came from behind moments after I sat down at one of the café tables.

“Sounds good,” I answered, thinking it really was hot with no breeze and the sun radiating off the tiles.

I’d replied without taking my eyes from the Ford. Everything about the sleeping driver said he didn’t belong. The huge misshapen hands resting upon the steering wheel, the grotesque shape of the head; all seemed discordant to the nearby beauty.

Turning around when a frosty pitcher of local brew appeared beside me, “You read my mind.”

Freckled and with reddish brown hair tied in a bun she laughed, “If I’d read your mind I would’ve brought a glass for myself.”

God, it’d be easy to stay here with the beer, the built to fit your body chair, and did I say the beer tasted great; and I’ll just close my eyes for a few minutes, and, and… I must’ve dozed off.

The warm sun, the combined perfume of flowers and freckles mixed to make the perfect sedative; powerful enough to have drawn an end of the day curtain around my table. Ahead and across the courtyard a last line of sunlight painted itself past my bike and through the entrance. The Ford’s driver was awake and laughing, the café closed, the waitress gone. How long had I slept?

Revving his engine the driver shouted, “Too late. Sun’s almost set, almost dark; visitors have accidents in the dark. Rules say if a visitor can’t return, someone from here gets to go back in their place.”

He was right; rules were if I didn’t return someone from the Borderlands could go in my place.

From behind me, “Hey Raggedy Man, rules also say you can’t make moves on visitors until the sun’s completely down.”

Twisting sideways I saw that my advocate was the owner of the rigid frame chopper. Tattooed and sporting a graying ponytail he grabbed his bike’s ape hanger handlebars, swung a leg over a tooled leather seat and started the most radical V-twin I’d ever seen.

Raggedy Man yelled back, “Devil’s in the details Larry, but then you always loved the gizmo-ness of things. Details and gismos aren’t gonna help your friend though, but a few minutes before dark and there ain’t no way he’s outrunning me.”

Raggedy Man revved the Ford’s engine underlining ain’t no way.

While they were talking I’d climbed aboard my Harley hoping it had somehow transformed itself into Charon’s Hayabusa and pointed it toward the courtyard’s entrance. Just then the chopper pulled in front of my bike and stopped.

Twisting around in his seat, Larry beamed me a big smile, “Raggedy Man’s thinking you’ll take the same route you used coming into the Borderlands. What he’s not expecting is for me to show you another way. Way we’ll be going has lots of tight turns and switchbacks otherwise he’d run us down on the straight stretches.”

With that Larry burned rubber out and across the blue tiles, through the courtyard’s entrance and into the street. I did the same, faithfully following the chrome question mark on the back of his sissy bar. Past shops, past buildings capped with twilight we rode; Larry jockey-shifting through the gears and me right behind. “Barbara-Ann” by The Regents was coming in strong over my radio.

Most of today’s customs have become long slovenly show-not-go copies of copies; variations of the same design and passed off to rich entry level riders as originals. Larry’s was different. Built to be ridden it twisted its way through corners, pushing me to push the Wide Glide’s limits.

When the sun dropped below the horizon Larry began to slow, finally stopping just inside an alley surrounded by bizarre looking shops, some leaning over us.

Pulling up beside him, “Why are we stopping?”

Turning off his engine, Larry motioned for me to do the same, “Awhile ago we fooled Raggedy Man into thinking we took your favorite route out of the Borderlands; by now he knows he’s been tricked.”

Confirming Larry’s prediction the primal scream of a powerful motor could be heard bouncing off buildings and coming closer.

My response was an anxious, “Shouldn’t we get going?”

Larry’s reply was calmer, “Where? Last thing we want is to meet him head on. My hearing says he’s off by a couple of streets, so be patient. When he passes I’ll know which way to go.”

While we waited I stared at Larry’s engine, “Your engine, I’ve never seen anything like it. Cylinder heads look like an oversize combination of a Knucklehead and Shovelhead.”

“Made from a Pratt and Whitney radial aircraft motor,” answered Larry, “salvaged from a crop duster that crashed near the mountains. After finding a machine shop with a plasma welder and what was left of a 2002 Indian Scout minus its motor; I cut myself a V-twin out of the plane’s engine. Once I was able to beef up the transmission and clutch it didn’t take long to make myself a chopper; was even able to weave in a bit of titanium. Thing’s easily the most powerful bike I’ve ever built. What’s funny is I was actually thinking of making a chopper like this before I left Brooklyn; had the frame, transmission and radial engine, just needed to line up a similar welder.”

Raggedy Man cut short our conversation by roaring past a block away; his sound trail leaving diminishing echoes. We waited a full minute then headed in the opposite direction, weaving our way through narrow streets, sometimes even backtracking. For nearly an hour we continued this cat and mouse game before leaving town by way of a covered bridge. Beyond the bridge was a thin line of sycamore trees outlined by a full moon; separating them from us were some ready to harvest cornfields bordered by tall sunflowers.

Larry skidded to a halt at the end of the bridge then pointed across the fields at the trees, “Road forks up ahead; take the right turn, there’s a crossover just past it. Don’t stop until you’ve left the Borderlands.”

“You could’ve returned in my place, why didn’t you?”

Larry smiled, “Not my time, maybe next time. Speaking of which you better get going or there won’t be a next time.”

A quick glance back at Larry and I was on my way. Rows of corn whitewashed with moonlight lined the road for nearly a mile then the fork appeared causing me to focus on making a right turn.

To my left…to my left was Raggedy Man coming like a bat out of Hell! Do I go faster or slow down to make the corner? I voted for faster by opening the Wide Glide’s throttle and hiking my ass so far out over the inside of the curve it could’ve passed for a sidecar.

Closing at an angle was the Ford. From the opposite angle came “yours truly” leaned over and trying to dodge the driver’s baseball glove- sized hand. BANG! I was still wobbling from the impact when I passed through the sycamores. Not until I was into our world and “End of the Line” by The Traveling Wilburys had finished playing in my ear did I look back. What was left of a hand attached to a long wrist clung to my sissy bar. Ripped from Raggedy Man it hung as a reminder of how lucky I’d been to have Larry’s help.

For a copy of this book, click here: www.cafepress.com/Derrel

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