Roadside Ron by Ronald J. Cox, Ron Cox

From the Publisher

Coming out of a long term marriage, which ended in divorce, "Roadside Ron" Healy decides to leave Chicago and fullfill his three life-long dreams; move to the California Coast, buy a Harley-Davidson and ride from one end of the country to the other. He packs up his belongings and heads west but never makes it to the coast. He stops about 90 miles shy of it to gas up and get a soda to escape the desert heat.

The owner of the gas station, a slow moving wise old man named John, talks him into staying for one night in order to repair a customer's carburetor. That one day turns into two years. As he's trying to resolve his marriage in his mind, he meets two women; Billy Jo, the daughter of a local horse rancher and Gloria whom he met on the Internet who lives in New York. He's mysteriously drawn to Gloria, even though he's never met her. He purchases the Harley and prepares to ride cross country, now more to settle his mind more than enjoy the trip. He decides to go to New York and meet Gloria, which further strains his relationship with Billy Jo.

On the way to New York he meets an intimidating looking biker named Maddog, who used to belong to a notorious motorcycle gang and they team up for part of the trip.

While on the road, Roadside realizes he's in love with Billy Jo and tries to get in touch with her to let her know, but she's nowhere to be found.

Now, more than anxious to return home, a series of events unfold before he arrives to find out the truth of Billy Jo's wherabouts.

Product Details

• Read a Sample Chapter

Read a Sample Chapter

Sweat dripped off my forehead into my eyes, stinging them and momentarily blurring my vision. I placed my forearm against my brow and wiped the perspiration onto my coveralls as I straightened up to lean against the fender of the car.

"Whew, it's more humid than normal." I peered out the garage doorway where the sun beat mercilessly onto the parched driveway. My hand searched for the rag stuck somewhere under the hood.

Finding it, I held it up, looking for a clean spot to wipe my eyes. I stared outside, wanting to rip off my coveralls and get the hell out of here, now. As much as I wanted to bolt out the door, I couldn't. I had work to do.

It was only nine-thirty in the morning and already in the mid-nineties, common for late spring in the desert. It would probably reach one hundred fifteen degrees by early afternoon. Chicago was never like this. I'd lived in Borrego Springs for about two years now and was slowly getting accustomed to the temperature.

Shrugging off the heat, I focused my attention on the car in front of me. The customer would be here to pick it up soon. As I groped around under the hood for the wrench, I thought, I've got to finish this carburetor job by lunch so I can take care of business. The five hundred dollars was burning a hole in my pocket and I had trouble concentrating. Only two more payments to make.

Old John's voice snapped me back to reality. "Hey, Roadside, how ya doin' there? You almost finished?"

"All I have to do is bolt it back on and fire up the engine. It should work just fine. It'll be about thirty minutes."

"Okay, I'll leave you alone so's you can finish up," he said, limping out of the garage back to his office.

I set the carb on the manifold and at the same time thought, I have to hurry so I can get to Oceanside and back, then to Jay's Pool Hall tonight. I got into my hurry-up frame of mind as I tightened down the carb. The wrench slipped off the nut, slamming my hand into the steel manifold. I let go of the wrench and it fell to the floor with a loud, metallic clank. "Son of a bitch!" I yelled. I didn't have to look; I could feel it bleeding. The warm, bright-red blood oozed down my fingers in a slow, steady stream from gashes on my first two knuckles. It's been a long time since I busted skin on a car.

Gotta slow down. Gotta take it easy, I thought to myself as I stood up, walked over to the bench and sat down. I've got a long way to ride today and there's no sense in killing myself before I get there.

As I sat staring at my hand, my mind drifted back to when I first met John a little over two years ago. I was newly divorced after a long-term marriage and raising two children. My father passed away when I was young and my mother had just passed away from cancer at age sixty-five. The rest of my family was spread out all across the country. I couldn't stand the thought of going through the healing process of my divorce in Chicago and I didn't care much for the big fast city. My two children could take care of themselves now, so I did something I always wanted to do, move to the West Coast. I loaded up the old van with my tools and tied the 650 Yamaha motorcycle to the back and headed west. My mind played back my first day here as I waited for my knuckles to stop bleeding . . .

I'd been on the road three days when I pulled into Borrego Springs, a little town at the foot of the mountains in the Anza-Borrego Desert about an hour and a half from the California coast. I had to stop to gas up before heading through the mountains.

I spotted John's Gas Station just up the road and turned in. It was a station right out of the past. It looked like it came from a fifties movie and the pumps were as old as I was. John limped slowly over to my van, shuffling in his oil-stained, threadbare coveralls. His short gray hair looked like it hadn't been combed in a week. He peered over his horn-rimmed glasses into my window and said, in a heavy western drawl, "Fill'er up, sir?"

"Yes, I want to make sure I have enough gas to make it through the mountains. I've never been this way before."

"Good idea," John replied, rubbing his gray, stubby whiskers. As he pumped the gas, he glanced at my Illinois license plate. "Long way from home, aren't ya?"

I looked at him with a tired grin, "Yep."

After he finished filling my tank, I decided to go inside the station and get a cold soda. I'd been driving all day and had a mouth full of desert dust, so I pulled over to the side and went in.

I noticed a stool off in one corner and asked, "Is it okay if I sit down?"

"Sure. Take a load off your feet and set a spell."

I sat down, trying to quiet my racing mind. I'd just done a lot of long, hard driving and was in a state of numbness from leaving everything I knew and loved, while at the same time driving headlong into the unknown.

The apprehension of not knowing where I was going or what I was going to do when I got there was beginning to overwhelm me. I took a sip of soda, hoping to settle my nerves, and watched John as he sat staring out the window. He had a rugged, windblown, wrinkled face from the scorching desert air. His hands were typical mechanics' hands with thick fingers and grease imbedded in each crack and under every nail. He moved slowly, as if he really didn't care whether whatever he was doing ever got finished or not.

"Nice town you got here."

"Yeah," he replied, "not much happening. But that's the way I like it. No big hurry, nothin' that important to rush about."

My eyes roamed around the garage. "I used to have a carburetor shop in Chicago. I had a pretty good business and was making some good money when I left."

"So why'd you leave if you was doin' so good?"

I stared out the window. "I just went through a divorce after eighteen years of marriage and lost the desire to keep the business going. I also needed to get away from that city." He looked at me and could see the pain in my face. I broke eye contact and looked back out the window, "I always wanted to live in California, so I packed up my belongings and pointed my van west. And now, here I am three days later, only ninety miles from the coast."

John looked at me. "If ya don't mind my asking, what made you get a divorce after all those years?"

"We just grew apart. I figure people fall in love not of their own choice or making. It just happens. And I think people fall out of love whether they want to or not. We don't have any control over it either way. I guess that's what happened to us."

John remained quiet, staring into space. Then, looking at the floor, half-mumbling, said, "I was married for twenty-seven years. My wife died of cancer five years ago and I still ain't got over it."

"Sorry to hear that," I said, "It must be hard to lose someone that's been a part of your life for so long." He nodded. I took a couple of large gulps of soda, and asked, "So how's business, anyway?"

"Kind of slow, but it should start picking up pretty soon. We get a lot of tourists from the coast and from Arizona passing through. In this heat a lot of things can go wrong with a car, and they usually do." He looked at the motorcycle on the back of my van. "What kind of bike is that?"

"A 1979 Yamaha 650. It's just an old beater to get around on."

"Looks pretty good. You must take care of it."

"When I bought it, it wouldn't even start. Since I've had it, I've practically rebuilt the whole thing."

"So you know a lot about motorcycles, huh?"

"I do now," I replied.

"And you know how to rebuild carbs?"

"Well, I've been doing them for about twenty years."

"Do they work when you're finished with them?" John asked.

"Over the years, I've learned how to do them and do them right.

I hate doing something twice, so I do it right the first time. It's the great American way, right? Quality is what's important, right?"

"That's the way it's supposed to be, but a lot of people just don't give a damn," John said.

"Yeah, I know."

"So, you're headed for the coast? Any particular place? Do you know someone there?"

"Nope. I have no idea where I'm going when I get there. This is a new experience for me and it's kind of scary but I feel like it's something I've got to do. Anything to get away from Chicago."

John gazed outside, tapping his fingers on his desk, then looked down the driveway at a car parked alongside the building. "So, you had your own carburetor business?"

"Yes, and I'm sorry I had to close up."

"I can do anything on a car except carbs," John said, looking down. "I try, but my hands are just too big and clumsy. Too many tiny parts in them."

John held up his hands for me to see. He was right. Then I looked at my own hands. "I guess I'm lucky to have long thin fingers. I can reach all those tiny parts."

"It's funny you should happen along now. See that Chevy parked over on the side?"

I looked out onto the driveway. "Yes."

"It needs a rebuilt carb. I have to drive ninety miles to get one and that takes up the better part of the day. If it doesn't work, I have to take it all the way back. It's a big pain in the ass. I could get all the rebuild parts from Jake's Auto about fifteen minutes down the road. If I could rebuild it myself or have someone do it for me, it would sure make life a lot easier."

"Is that a fact?" I asked, hesitantly.

"Yeah. I've been sitting here watching you. I'm a pretty good judge of character. I can tell an honest person when I see one. I got this feeling' you're honest."

"Yep, everything I've said is true." I was starting to wonder about John. I thought he had something on his mind.

"I'll tell you what. I don't know what your financial situation is, but if you can help me out maybe I can help you. It's already late and Jake's is closed. If you're not in any hurry to get to the coast, you can stay here tonight and rebuild that carb tomorrow. I'll pay you half the profit if it works right. I've got a shower and a bathroom in the back. It's nothing fancy, but it'll do the job. You can sleep in your van tonight."

I'd been on the road three days and could sure use a shower. Besides, it was really late, I was tired, and in no real hurry. After all, this was the beginning of a new life, why not stick around a day or two. I had no pressing issues to take care of. I looked at John, "Yeah, why not? I could use a few bucks."

"Okay! By the way, my name's John. John Phillips."

"Mine's Ron Healy. My friends call me Roadside Ron."

"Roadside, huh? Welcome to Borrego Springs, Roadside."

My mind drifted back to the present. It's funny how a couple of days had turned into a couple of years. I glanced down and saw my knuckles had stopped bleeding.

I looked at the clock, ten-thirty in the morning and I still had one tune-up left to do. All I could think about was driving to Oceanside and getting rid of the five hundred dollars in my pocket.

I finished the job and went into the bathroom to clean up. As I washed, I stared into the mirror. My hair had grown to shoulder length and was pulled back into a ponytail. It was bleached blonde from the intense sun. I'd had my left ear pierced and was wearing a small pearl earring that my daughter gave me. My skin was tanned to a dark brown, almost bronze, which made my blue eyes stand out even more than they usually did. My muscles were well defined, but not overdeveloped. I worked out every day to keep fit since I rode my motorcycle almost everywhere.

I stared at my image and thought, Man, what a long way from that conservative, midwestern, homeowner, businessman I was two years ago. I felt good about the way I looked. No one was able to guess my age. At most, they would say early thirties.

Looking over my shoulder, I walked away from the mirror and whispered, "Not bad for forty-two." I changed into riding clothes, felt my pocket to make sure the money was still there and walked over to my motorcycle. I got excited every time I made this monthly trip to deliver the payment.

John was standing in the driveway and as I backed my bike out he warned, "Take it easy and be careful out there. Remember, it's Friday and there're a lot of maniacs on the road."

"Don't worry, I will. I've made this trip many times."

"Don't matter. You I trust, it's the other idiots on the road I don't."

I couldn't help but feel that John had become emotionally attached to me and he really cared. I guess I'd become attached to him also.

"If I don't see you when you get back, remember to make sure everything's locked up. I'll see you tomorrow," he reminded me as he always did.

"Okay, I will. See ya," I replied as I rolled my bike out onto the street and pointed it towards the mountains. I could feel the heat rising from the ground as the sun beat down unmercifully. The temperature was now close to one hundred fifteen. The base of the mountains was only about ten minutes away and I knew that once I got there and started climbing up, the temperature would drop to the mid-eighties.

Once on the plateau, the warm wind blew across my face as I followed the gentle curves and hills. I never surfed the ocean but knew how it felt to surf the asphalt highways, gliding through the hills and valleys of the beautiful countryside. Even though I'd made this trip many times, I still couldn't get over the diversity of this state. There were cattle ranches, horse ranches, farms and little towns. This stretch of ninety miles had everything a person could think of, from the hot, flat desert to lush green mountains, to the warm breezy coast with swaying palm trees. In winter, a person could snow ski in the morning and lie out in the sun at the beach in the afternoon. Amazing.

After a few minutes, I kicked back and let the sun caress my face and arms. The smell of pine trees and fresh-cut grass filled my lungs. The highway dipped and rose as I rode around the lazy curves. It was almost as though the road was holding me in its arms and gently rocking me back and forth. The wind felt like a soft, warm hand running through my hair. I let the road take over as it always did and I became one with everything around me. Before I slipped into the trance that the road always put me in, I decided to stop in Ramona, the halfway mark to Oceanside, for a cup of coffee.

I came back to reality as I reached the city limits of Ramona and pulled into a small coffee shop on the main drag. I could think better in the open spaces. Everything was slow-paced. It was as though life itself was clearer here for some reason. Maybe it was because of the simplicity of the town and its people. I always made it a point to stop here for coffee whenever I rode to the coast.

Most times, I would sit and watch the people walk by. I could see the bikers and their ladies glide by on their gleaming machines, usually on their way to the mountains or the coast. Sometimes, they would wave and I would wave back. Couldn't hang out today, though. Had to get moving.

I gulped down the last of my coffee, then pulled back onto the road fully refreshed. I was beginning to get excited the closer I got to Oceanside. I kept thinking, just one more month, and just one more payment after this one. My second dream was about to come true. The first one was moving to California. Although it still seemed like a dream, here I was.

The traffic started getting heavier the closer I got to the coast, so I had to concentrate on the road. As I focused on the traffic, I pictured Jim waiting for me as he did every month. I'm sure he wanted the five hundred dollars as bad as I wanted to give it to him. Just a couple more miles to go.

I turned right on Main Street in Oceanside, drove a few blocks, then stopped in front of the store. I looked up and read the sign as I had been doing for the past year: "Jim's House of American Motorcycles."

I peered through the window and could see Jim sitting behind his desk as usual. Then I looked over to the showroom floor to make sure it was still there. Something was strange. The bike had been moved closer to the door. Maybe he got some new cycles in and had to rearrange everything. It didn't matter, the bike was here and that's all that counted.

I cut the engine and slowly walked towards the door. Jim looked up as I entered the showroom. "How you doing?" I asked, waving as I walked over to the bike.

"Just fine, Roadside, and yourself?"

"Okay, nothing much to complain about."

Jim didn't look up. He just sat there shuffling papers. I made my way to where Jim was sitting, handed him the money and said, "Just one more to go and I get to take the bike."

He didn't look up. He just kept shuffling papers. That's strange, I thought, he's being awfully quiet.

I walked over to the scarlet red, black and chrome Harley- Davidson that I'd been waiting for all this time. It looked so good. I slowly walked around it as I did every time I came here.

Jim said without looking up, "Don't worry, it's exactly the same as it was the last time you saw it. No dings or dents."

I thought about the first time I came to Jim's about a year ago. I had saved some money and decided to start looking around for a Harley-Davidson. I'd wanted one for as long as I could remember. Almost every weekend I would stop at Jim's and check out the bikes. They were either too expensive or didn't appeal to me. Then one Friday, a Marine came in to sell his motorcycle. It was almost brand new. He'd owned it for only a few months and it had less than two thousand miles on the odometer. He was being shipped out and couldn't take it with him. I arrived a couple of hours after Jim had purchased the bike. As soon as I saw it, I knew I had to have it. Jim and I worked out a deal where I would make payments.

I couldn't understand why Jim and Charlie, the counterman, were avoiding me. By this time we would usually be in an all-out discussion about mechanical things. Normally, as soon as I walked in the door the chatter would start. I looked over at Charlie behind the counter and he avoided my eyes. I was beginning to get annoyed. Something was up and I wasn't part of it.

I swung my leg over the seat of the bike and grabbed the handlebar grips. It was almost mine. I sat there looking at Jim, then at Charlie, but neither would return my glance. I gazed out onto the street, imagining myself on the road with my shiny new machine. I sat for a few minutes and was about to get off the bike when Jim walked over to me, holding something. He held out his hand and said, "Here's the keys. You mind getting off the bike?"

"What's going on?"

"Get off the bike so I can roll it outside for you."

"But it's not paid for yet. I still have one more payment to make before it's mine."

"Yeah, I know. But I'll make you a deal. This motorcycle has been sitting here for seven months and not a day goes by without someone coming in here trying to buy it. I tell them it's sold. Some try to talk me into giving them your phone number so they can talk you into selling it to them. I'm getting tired of other people trying to get this machine. Besides, I know how bad you want it."

I sat there with my mouth open.

"You owe just one more payment. I'll keep your Yamaha until you make the payment. With the shape that it's in, I know I can get at least five hundred dollars for it, maybe even a thousand. That's if you don't make the final installment."

I was unable to utter a sound as I looked over at Charlie. Charlie looked back and said, "I knew what was going on and I couldn't look you in the eye and keep a straight face. I had to avoid looking at you so I wouldn't ruin the surprise."

Jim stood there holding out the keys. "Take these keys and get off so I can roll it outside for you."

I still couldn't believe what was happening. I let go of the handlebars and took the keys from Jim's outstretched hand. I slowly stood up and swung my leg off the bike. I was not prepared for this. I knew that if I tried to speak right now it would be gibberish.

"Park your bike in back and I'll roll this out front for you."

I put my Yamaha in the rear lot. I stood there looking at the keys in my hand. I had to walk to the front and keep cool. My knees felt a little rubbery. I'd waited a long time for this moment and it was finally here. It was going to be hard to stay composed.

He had the bike out front by the time I got back. I had never seen it outside the showroom before and it looked even better in the sunlight.

Jim said, "I've got to run through these safety rules. I know you're an experienced rider but it's the law." After he was finished he said, "Did you get all that?"

"Yeah, Jim. I understand."

"You didn't hear a word I said, did you?"

"Yep, I heard every word." I just kept staring at the bike.

"Well then, that's it. Just ride safely and remember if you need any custom parts, come see me."

"Okay," I replied.

I put the key in the ignition and threw my leg over the seat. I hit the throttle a couple of times and turned the key to the "on" position. I hit the start button and the engine started, sputtered and died.

"It hasn't been started in a while," Jim said, "so it might take a couple of tries."

I twisted the throttle a few more times and hit the starter button again. The engine roared to life. I gunned the throttle to keep it running. I'd never ridden an American motorcycle, let alone felt one run. It was awesome to experience the throbbing power and to hear the deep, throaty rumble of the pipes. There was no other feel or sound like it in the world. I sat there for a few minutes to let it warm up. Jim and Charlie were standing outside the door watching.

I'd been riding for many years, but I was afraid to pull away. I felt like every eye in Oceanside was on me. If I made one tiny mistake, everyone in the world would know it. I knew that soon I would have to roll out of the driveway. I slowly let the clutch out and gave the throttle a twist. The bike lurched forward and I guided it down the driveway and onto the street. I figured it was best to turn right, less chance for an accident that way.

Once on the street, I waved to Jim and Charlie, rolled the power on and headed for the freeway. I could see heads turn as I cruised by. There was no describing how the bike felt. I took it easy the first couple of miles on the freeway to get used to my new machine. People passing me were giving the thumbs-up sign as I cruised. This was going to be fun.

Still shaking from the excitement, I twisted the throttle a bit more and the bike sped up. Giving it more throttle, it went faster and faster. I moved over to the left lane and looked down at the speedometer. The needle kept climbing, eighty-five now. Soon I had to move in and out of lanes. At one point, I had to cross from the left lane all the way over to the right lane to pass slower cars which looked like they were standing still. My heart was pounding and it felt like it was going to explode any second. The wind was pushing me back so hard I had trouble holding onto the handlebars. I dodged in and out of lanes to avoid hitting cars in front of me. My eyes were beginning to tear from the fierce wind and it was getting hard to see. Before I knew it, I was going one hundred ten miles an hour. I didn't need a traffic ticket or an accident on this first day, so I let up on the throttle and the bike began to slow down. One hundred, then eighty, then seventy. Soon I was traveling sixty, a nice safe old man's speed. I didn't know which was vibrating more, the bike or me. The adrenaline was flowing.

I was headed toward San Diego, about twenty miles away. Coffee sounded good. I also thought that dinner in Yuma, Arizona, was a nice idea. It was one hundred eighty miles away. The temperature was in the mid-seventies along the coast and I didn't have a care in the world.

I turned off the freeway and onto the Coast Highway, the last major road before the Pacific Ocean. It was Friday and I had nothing to do. I kicked my black engineer boots up on the highway pegs, settled back in the seat and let the road take me. All I could feel was the sun, wind and the throbbing of the American machine beneath me.

After a stop in San Diego, I pointed my machine east and headed toward the mountains, then the desert, on my way to Arizona.

There were a lot of definitions of freedom, and this had to be one of them. . .

It must have been about two in the morning and I'd ridden almost five hundred miles. My body was sore and I was dead tired. But, man, did I feel good. I couldn't believe I went all the way to Yuma and wandered back through every side road I could find. I'd been in the seat almost twelve hours.

I was just outside of Borrego Springs and decided to stop at my special place in the desert. It was a large, flat, oval rock in the middle of nowhere where I would go to meditate and be alone to collect my thoughts and clear out the cobwebs. I had found this place while cruising one night right after I arrived in Borrego. Coming out here helped me get through a lot of the pain of the divorce.

I pulled alongside the rock and slowly reached down to shut the bike off. My whole body was buzzing and most of it was numb from being in the seat so long. I grimaced as I lifted my leg over the seat and limped to the rock. I placed my hands on it and slowly crawled onto its flat surface, lying face up with my arms outstretched and my legs spread-eagle. I lay my head back and relaxed.

Even though I was in pain, I wouldn't have traded away one moment of today. I looked up, the sky was crystal clear and there were a billion stars out. The rock was still warm from the daytime sun and the heat began soaking into my body, easing the pain of my sore muscles. It was dead quiet and the only sounds I could hear were from the little desert creatures scurrying around the sand every now and then.

I started thinking about life in general, then looked straight up and said, "Hey, big guy in the sky, what's the deal? What's it all about? What's the point?"

I remembered some of the traumatic events that happened in my life. John F. Kennedy shot, the Vietnam War, Martin Luther King, Jr. and Bobby Kennedy assassinated, my parents gone. Many scenes kept racing through my mind. Why do men and women come together in relationships, then fall apart? Why did my marriage end when I thought it would last forever? There were too many questions and not enough answers. At times, I felt small and helpless and, other times, I felt on top of the world and there was nothing I couldn't do. I had trouble dealing with questions without answers.

I was on the verge of middle age and most of the people I knew or grew up with were dead. Some from drugs or alcohol, some from accidents, some from natural causes. It seemed that every time a person I knew died, a piece of me died also. There were beginning to be too many pieces missing. I was starting to feel incomplete and felt like I needed to build an emotional wall to protect myself.

I stared at the stars. "Hey, you up there! All I really want to do is live my life in such a way that I won't be afraid to go when the time comes."

Suddenly, I saw a bright flash streak across the heavens. It was an unusually brilliant meteor shooting through the atmosphere. It was probably billions of years old and had traveled billions of miles. In one instant it no longer existed and was now vapor. It had become part of the earth's atmosphere. Right then I realized that nothing stays the same. Not even very old, cold rocks.

I sat up straight. Oh shit, I thought, I completely forgot about meeting Billy Jo, Paul and Diane. I knew Billy Jo would be pissed. I'd also forgotten about Gloria. I hadn't heard from her in a couple of days and I forgot to check to see if she had written yesterday.

It was time to head home so I climbed off the rock and onto the bike. I fired up the engine and the roar of the pipes shattered the stillness. I think I scattered every creature around me.

I rolled slowly down the main street trying to keep the noise down, but that was not easy on this machine. There wasn't a car or a person on the street. I turned onto the station driveway, shut the bike off, pushed it into the garage and stood there admiring it. I still couldn't believe that I had it. Then I remembered the tradition that went with these motorcycles. When a person bought one, they had to spend the first night with it. I didn't know how that started or why, but I figured it would be best to keep with tradition.

I went outside to the van and got my sleeping bag and placed it alongside my bike. Then I went into the back room to check my computer for e-mail. I looked for the little white envelope to appear at the bottom of the screen to signal that I had mail.

No envelope. I wondered why Gloria hadn't written. I'll write tomorrow, too tired to do it now. I returned to my bike, lay down and fell asleep.