Hertfelder: Hobo Life

When a dirt rider divides his time between a small apartment
and a large truck, he lives in a permanent state of
impermanency—something like a hobo who specializes in short
trips.

Scattered between where I pay rent and my truck, I have two
of everything except attached plumbing, refrigerator and
telephone. The biggest difference is that the apartment doesn’t
have windshield wipers. In fact, the attached plumbing,
refrigerator, telephone and windshield wipers are the ONLY
things that won’t be in the apartment when I need them in the
truck when I need them in the apartment.

Take goggles. The only reason they go into the apartment is to
be cleaned, re-rainedxed, and to leave and to have a few drops
of baby oil dribbled on the foam filter strips. Last time I went
riding, my eyes got sandblasted two shades lighter because my
number one goggles were back home looped over the toilet
paper and the second pair were still soaking in a Hungry Man
Pot Pie dish in the kitchen sink.

Then there’s shaving cream. You want to use the stuff right
after a hot shower when your whiskers are softened up, the
bathroom is nicely steamed up and you’re humming “I’m in the
nude for love.” Then everything goes down the drain when you
suddenly realize both cans of Barbasol are out in the truck. And
the truck is parked way out in Lot D where all the stay out
laters, heavy drinkers and dirt riders who get home at 2a.m.
have to park because all the good spots have been filled.

Be advised you CAN shave with soapsuds, but only if you have
a high pain threshold and don’t get too nauseous at the sight of
your own blood. Because of my hairstyle, I have a particular
problem with hats or the lack of thereof. The other morning I
walked to Lot D in a sleet storm, winds gusting to hurricane
level, with nothing on my head except melted ice. In the truck I
unearthed caps, lot of caps: A Cagiva, two Huskys, Spectro,
NAPA, Meteor, Six Days of Michigan, Duralube, ADRA Sonoita,
USS Independence CV 62, Leon Dube trail ride and one
touting the Knomes of Freddie Mac, a group I don’t recall
exactly but I think they’re part of the Black Jack Enduro circuit.
Keeping my riding boots in the truck was a problem until I
learned to keep them there all the time. The convincer was the
day I went swimming and the truck ate its fan belt. No problem,
just unload the motorcycle and drive to a gas station for a new
one.

But did you ever try to start a cold 600cc single wearing Ho Chi
Minh sandals? A California rider I once talked to as he was
plucking his eyebrows before the B-to-V told me to just keep all
my riding gear in one bag. This didn’t work out because the bag
weighed close to 90 pounds and slinging it into a truck could
cripple you for life. And that’s just the gear actually worn on the
body; the loose gear for the motorcycle must run close to half a
ton.

The last trail ride I went to was in Texas and I made a list of
things to put in either the truck or the apartment before heading
southwest, a direction that puts the sun more or less directly in
your eyes all afternoon. Two vital items were cat food that
Shirley could parcel out to the beast I live with and munchies for
me to consume on the trip. A trip through a part of the country
where they eat grits, chili, corn dogs and drink Dr. Pepper to
sustain life, such as it is. I deliberately packed the items in
separate paper bags so there would be no mistake, there’s
nothing worse than to come home to than a cat that hasn’t been
fed and had clawed out his frustrations on a London Fog
raincoat which cost more than the transmission in the truck.

Sixteen days later I returned from Texas with as bad a case of
monkey butt as ever know to medical science and with my
elbow joints swollen like softballs because the truck’s power
steering had reverted to manual mode.

I parked after midnight in lot D alongside a Buick sitting there
with its headlights on and locked up tight in a case a thief who
wanted to steal a dead battery happened by. The parking lot
was so narrow I had to crawl past the motorcycle and leave by
the rear door of the van. I’d be lying if I said I did this crawl in
less than 25 minutes. The cat greeted me with its usual snarl as
I read a note Shirley had left: “The cat must be sick, he only ate
three granola bars.”

That’s OK; I didn’t eat ANY of his Tender Vittles.