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Johnny
I am one of the few guys living and riding in the same area for 31 years. The
day my dad brought home my Honda 70, was the day I became hooked. Since that
summer day in 1969 the roads in my area have been my home. I know them all by
heart.
Each rider has a road that has all the intangibles. Low traffic, right distance,
right scenery, and readily available. For me that road is County Road 57. I ride
it out and back, takes about a hour. I can get to it from my driveway in 3
minutes. It takes me past rolling farmland and pastures, past quiet meadows, and
just the right mileage, 26 one way to be exact. It has been my road for over 30
years. Whenever I need to think or just need a ride you can find me here.
One day, not long after discovering CR 57,( I was 15) I pulled into a old
country store at the far end of the road. The store is right out of any
stereotype you have of a old south store. Screened door, wooden overhang, a few
chairs and a bench. Inside you would find dusty can goods, bread, drink box, and
more chairs scattered around a wood stove.
I walked in, bought a Mt Dew and went outside to sip it on the empty bench. I
noticed the house next door and assumed the proprietors lived there. The house
had a long ramp on the porch, obviously a handicapped individual lived here I
thought.
It was then I spotted him. A young man in his 20s, arms feverishly rotating the
wheels on his wheelchair. He was headed straight for the CB 175 parked under the
shade tree. He coasted to stop, and begin looking over the tiny twin. I jumped
up and went to speak with him. He told me his name was Johnny and he loved
motorcycles. He quizzed me what it felt like to ride, how a guy knows when to
shift gears, and how to bring it to a stop.
We both wanted to know what it must feel like to cross the Great Plains of
Kansas or Texas, go up over the Rockies, or see Big Sur. All things I told him I
would do one day.
Johnny was born paraplegic. He was afflicted from the waist down. His wheel
chair was adorned with decals from every manufacturer. He read all the
magazines, and knew every bike from a distance. He was a virtual CD rom of
specs, weakness and strengths of any bike. He knew all the lingo and always
tried to impress me with his knowledge. "Yeah that Benilli 6 is nice, but
what does a guy do for dealer in South Dakota?" I never argued with him.
When the weather was nice, he would sit in his chair under the tree, and wave at
the occasional cage riding by. Most times I only waved as I passed, knowing if I
stopped I would be late for wherever it was I was going.
He followed my procession of bikes up the CC ladder. 175, 350F, Z-1, Gold Wings
and crotch rockets. He was witness to almost all of them over the years.
Mostly Johnny loved riding stories. When I would take time out to stop he would
hold me hostage till I told him every story of every trip I ever went on. That
did not take long as I had only been on day trips.
He wanted to know about the places I had been, things I had seen. He spent many
hours in a iron lung. The meager living scratched out by his elderly parents
would never permit them the luxury of travel. Taking Johnny anywhere with all
his needed equipment was a major undertaking.
In 1976 I took my first western trip on my brand new Gold Wing. Big Sur, The
Grand Canyon, The Badlands, and the Rockies were all photographed and
documented. Johnny had always been enamored by the Grand Canyon. He dreamed of
one day seeing it. A few months after my return from that trip I rode CR 57 and
stopped in the store to see Johnny. I told him I had just returned from the
Grand Canyon and had a few pics. He sat me down, and wanted to know what the
Grand Canyon was REALLY like. I went on to tell him NO picture does it justice.
He hung on my every word that day.
The years went by, I rode less and less as I was raising my son. Busy coaching
baseball etc. I still managed to stop and see Johnny couple times of year in the
80s.
It was late one fall afternoon, beautiful day. I was riding a crotch rocket at
the time. I was not able to tour so I rode what made sense. It had been many
weeks since I had been on a ride, and over 6 months from the last time I had
stopped to see Johnny.
I idled up to the store and right away things felt different. I walked in and
did not see Johnny. When I quizzed his mother, she told me Johnny had died about
3 months prior. He was just wore out. He had spent over 30 years in that
condition. They went to wake him one morning and he was gone.
I did not feel sad as I threw my leg over my 900 Ninja. Johnny at last could see
the Grand Canyon, and getting to ride ALL the bikes he use to read about.
That day was over 10 years ago. Recently the ST and I were out CR 57. The little
store is boarded up and has been for a long time. The house is empty, and
falling in. I don't know what happened to Johnny's parents, I rode out CR 57 a
few months after that day, and they were gone. Everything was just shut down.
The ST and I ride CR 57 several times a week. Not much has changed the last 30
years. As I ride I often think about what other stories could be told by the
farms and houses I pass, If I just took a little time to stop more.
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