Scooter. That was all the name we ever got from him. But it was enough.
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| "Scooter" |
My riding buddy Steve Winters first noticed Scooter's 1990s vintage Harley-Davidson motorcycle the night before - not because of its style or age or particular beauty - but because of the disassembled fishing rod neatly attached to the chrome cage surrounding its hard-case saddlebags. In all his years of riding, Steve had never seen someone traveling with a fishing pole so cleverly attached.
In the morning, toweling accumulated dew off our bikes, we met the owner of the bike -- and the fishing pole. Scooter. He was rather small, particularly when compared to Steve and me. He was likely in his mid-50s, but maybe a touch older - or even younger. It was hard to tell. His face showed a weariness, not so much of age but of life, with a graying scraggly beard and worn deep set eyes.
Scooter was traveling alone. He did so regularly. He stayed at the little out-of-date motel in the shadow of the Smokey Mountains six or seven times a year. Sometimes fishing. Sometimes taking in the beauty of the mountains. Sometimes just riding.
But always carrying his memories. And always solo.
On that sunny morning full of promise, standing over our motorcycles, we talked of life, and love, and death, and going on even when your heart is ripped out.
Scooter lost his wife 10 years ago in a car accident.
They met at her uncle's general store in rural southeastern Ohio, not far from where Scooter still lives. They were young -- she was only about 13 and he was only a couple of years older. From the time they met, they could talk to each other, connect with each other. They became friends. By the time she was 15, they were together as boyfriend and girlfriend. When she was 20, they were married.
They didn't have any children. They lived on a small farm near where they grew up, and were happy. They both loved to explore the world on their motorcycle. They rode the highways and byways of the eastern United States, including the entire Blue Ridge Parkway.
They had a special routine. Whenever either one drove someplace, that one would always called the other to say "I'm here safe."
So 10 years ago, when Scooter's truck was in the shop, his wife insisted that she drive him to work rather than Scooter taking his motorcycle. She dropped him off, but Scooter never got the call from home that she had arrived safely. He borrowed a co-workers car and set out along the path she would have traveled through the winding roads of southeast Ohio. And he found her.
A deer had run into the path of her car. When she hit it, she lost control and crashed head-on into a tree. "I found the accident," he said, the pain still in his voice. "She was gone."
She was 43. They had been married 23 years, and been together for 28.
Scooter now lives in a trailer in southeast Ohio, still not far from where he grew up - where he and his wife had that small farm. He removed the passenger seat and even the footpegs from the motorcycle they had shared for so many journeys. In its place, he put a home-made luggage rack. No one else will ever ride as his passenger.
And now he rides over the roads of the southeastern United States that for so many years he shared with his wife. Only now he rides by himself. Still, he says that his motorcycle has been his salvation, riding with his thoughts on those winding roads.
Friends have suggested that he should find someone. Not someone to take his late wife's place but a companion, someone to be with him, to have company.
But Scooter just shakes his head. With a gentle touch, he tugs on the chain around his neck. A golden ring dangles from the chain. "I still wear my wedding ring," he says.
Scooter politely declines our invitation to join us in riding the Tail of the Dragon. I take his photo, but he also shakes his head when I offer to send him a copy. "I've got pictures. You keep it."
And he takes off, his fishing pole strapped to the side of his bike, riding solo. The same way he always rides.
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