Wendigo

The little Cree camp in the quiet valley hunkered down in fear. Somewhere out there it was watching them. Eyes that glowed red in the snowy moonlight. A gaunt apparition with limp skin sagging over its emaciated body. It was the worst of all fears. And the Wendigo was hungry.

It was the middle of the starving time. The caribou were gone. The People were consuming the last of the pemmican. The dogs looked warily at their masters. A baby died from lack of mother’s milk. The winds howled through the tundra. Snow was piled deep. The People huddled in their lodges. Spring was far away.

Inside the lodges children played their warrior games. More often than not, the Wendigo was their foe. You can cut off his leg but he will still come for you. If he eats the flesh of a human child, he will be hungry for more. Only great warriors working together can kill one. Many have perished in the attempt.

It is always watching, its eyes piercing the darkness looking for a careless victim. It springs on the unwary, ripping pieces of flesh off even before they are dead. A whole corpse is devoured in one sitting. It is ravenous. The more prey it consumes, the hungrier it gets.

Someone saw a Wendigo trail once. It left no recognizable foot or hoofprints. The beast simply glided through the snow leaving nothing but a wake. After a mile or so the trail suddenly disappeared. Could it fly? Perhaps. Brave men looked up.

The children tired of their games and drifted off to sleep, their dreams filled with images of valiant little boys guarding the camp with their bows and arrows. Oh, the feats they could perform! The councils of the elders stretched far int the night. Finally the teepee fires lay low, their red coals glowing like glaring eyes. Only their hunger reminded the elders of the voracious ogre outside.

A hunter was missing. Lost in the vastness of their frozen world. No one knew what had happened to him. Perhaps his body would wash up to the shore when the ice melted. Maybe his bones would appear at some lonely campsite scattered by the wolves. Few dared to mention what else might have happened to him.

The hunter’s name was Baptiste. He was a Metis, a mixture of Cree and French blood, who spoke the language of the People. He had brought them traps and taught them how to catch the beaver, the ermine and the other furry creatures coveted by the Whites. Each summer he led a trading party to the fort of the Hudson’s Bay Company. There they traded for the goods of the White Man; the smoking guns, the steel arrow points, the knives, the blankets and the strange drink that made men crazy. Baptiste was a friend of the Black Robes, but he never brought them to the camp of the People. That was good because they only brought bad medicine like the disease with the spots that kills. Baptiste was a follower of their religion. He spoke of a spirit called Jesus. Jesus was like Manitou, but more powerful. Baptiste sometimes prayed quietly in the dark edge of the teepee circle, crossing his hand over his chest to show when he was done. Missing for three days, his medicine had clearly failed him.

An expedition was formed to search for Baptiste. The Shamen had cautioned the warriors. “It is out there. Do not go alone. It takes many men to kill one. It will eat the lone hunter and go looking for more. It is never satiated. It is watching as we speak.”

The warriors grunted. They were brave men. One had killed a bear with his knife.  Three scalps hung in the lodge of another. They only feared one thing; the Wendigo.

The next day search began. The hunters tramped in the direction Baptiste had taken. They felt like they were being watched as they trudged through the snow. The winter’s day was bright, refreshing, and short. They made a huge fire when they camped for the night. Men took turns watching for the things they feared while the others slept fretfully. Wolves howled in the distance but the Wendigo only stared silently from the darkness.

The next morning, they found Baptiste. His frozen body lay on a limb where he had climbed to get away from something. It was undisturbed. Ice crystals hung from his beard. His steel gray eyes were frozen open and his mouth gaped in horror. What had driven him to his frozen perch?

The Shaman, his face grizzled from too many hard winters said, “Only Manitou knows. His ways are a mystery.”

They pulled Baptiste down from the tree and loaded him onto a sledge. His limbs protruded at grotesque angles as though he was still clinging to the limb. The men hoped they could get home before darkness fell. They knew they were being watched.

If all went well, they would bury Baptiste during the Spring thaw. No one spoke of what they might have to do with him if the Winter starving season lasted too long. It was their darkest fear. No one wanted to be a Wendigo.

LDT Halloween, October 31, ‘24

Music Box Magic

Music box, music box, take me away,

Let me hear magic each time that you play.

The cylinder turns with gears and with springs,

Tickling the forks as the box sings.

This little box is more than a toy,

This little box brings out the joy.

A tune we all love tinkles from it,

Whatever the mood, it’s always a fit.

It sits on a shelf wound with a key,

Waiting to play for you and for me.

Just open the top to get it to play,

It’ll turn your mood from dark into gay.

Let your heart listen to the tune,

It’ll bring a smile or maybe a swoon.

When your soul is happy just close the top,

Or wind it some more so it won’t stop.

LDT October 19, ’24.

The Magic Music Box

            Anne looked at the little box for the last time. She remembered the day her father had given it to her on her 6th birthday. Oh, what a joy it had been. He had found it in Berlin after the War. It was beautifully crafted from dark-grained wood. The outside was hand-painted with a floral design. The key was gold-plated as were the springs, tines, and cylinder inside. Its beauty was only surpassed by the magical tune that burst forth each time she opened the lid.

            “Make sure you don’t overwind it,” her father cautioned as he showed her how it worked. “You might break the spring.”

            Anne nodded as she swayed gently to the music. It had just become her most treasured possession. She kept it on top of her dresser and played it every day.

            She was 9 years old on that awful day in 1957 when the spring broke. She cried for hours. Then she remembered her father’s admonition, “Don’t overwind it!”  Was it her fault? Had she wound it too tightly? What would her father say? She tearfully placed the magical music box in her drawer, never to hear it play again.

            The years passed and the box remained in countless other dresser drawers. The plain one at he college dorm; the used one she bought for her first apartment; the nice Maple bedroom set she and Rob bought shortly after their marriage. She thought about having the box fixed when she told Rob they were about to be parents. What little girl wouldn’t want a magic music box? Alas, Baby Mark probably wouldn’t get much enjoyment from a little girl’s toy. Neither would Tom who came later. Life went on as the little box remained silently in the drawer.

            Finally, her boys grew up and had kids of their own. Anne loved spoiling little Molly, her first granddaughter. Someday the box would be hers. As Molly’s 6th birthday approached, Anne began to make a plan. She found an old watchmaker who still repaired music boxes.

            “Can you fix it?” she asked anxiously.

            “”Not a problem. It’s just a broken spring. A little cleaning and it will play like new.”

            “Oh ,that’s great. While you are at it, could you check its value? We may need to insure it.”

            “It’s valuable all right. The company that made it was one of the best. I’ll talk to an appraiser friend of mine about it.”

            A week later, Anne got a call from the Watchmaker.

            “I found something interesting inside the box. It’s a picture with some writing on the back. I think you should look at it before I put it back into the box.”

            Anne was intrigued. Perhaps the photograph would offer a clue as to the box’s provenance. It would be a neat little element to add to the mystique of the amazing little artifact.

            At the shop the craftsman sat the box on the counter. Then he carefully laid the tiny picture next to it. Anne couldn’t believe her eyes. It was a little girl about 6 years old with large dark eyes and a thin enigmatic smile. The little girl looked just like Anne did when she was six. Even the school uniform resembled what Anne had worn when she stated First Grade at St Rafael’s Catholic School. Carefully, she turned the picture over.

            Anne gasped. The caption read “Anne Cohen, Mozart Schule, Wein, 1938”

            “Anne? What a coincidence.”” she wondered out loud. Cohen. She must have been Jewish. Schule means school. Wein is Vienna. 1938? Was that the year of the Anschluss, the year Nazi Germany annexed Austria?

            Anne shuddered at the thought of what might have become of little Anne Cohen after the Nazis took over Austria. The Nuremburg Laws, the yellow stars, the roundups, the boxcars, the camps. Oh God, what had happened to this sweet-faced little girl?

            How did the music box in the picture find its way to a second-hand store in Berlin? Confiscation? Maybe some petty Gestapo official stole it from little Anne. Hobnail boots on the cobblestones, a loud knock on the door. “You have 5 minutes.” Poor Anne.

            The grown-up Anne from Des Moines took the box home and pondered what to do next. It wasn’t hers. It never had been. But what to do with it?

            She did her research. Sadly, Cohen was a very common name. The Goethe School was a big help as were various Holocaust survivor groups. She found more records on the Internet. The family had been interned at Sobibor in 1942. None had survived.

            In desperation, Anne posted the picture and what she knew about the Cohen family on Facebook. All her friends reposted it. Their friends did the same. It went viral.

            Three days later, Anne got a direct message. “Anne Cohen was my Great Aunt.”

            Grammy would have to find another gift for little Molly. She carefully rolled the music box in bubble wrap and placed it gently in the box. It was going home.

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Homecoming

9th Marines regimental CP at ther Old French Fort near Danang.

The Ribbons on his chest

The thousand-yard stare

A DD-214

They told him DiDi Mau!*

            *Get the @#%$ out of here!

An airplane, a ship, a bus, and a thumb

Crossing 8 time zones

The World.

No men in black pajamas

with AK’s

No thuds walking closer

No C-Rations with bad cheese

Resuming his cheap civilian ways

Among men with bone spurs

Mothers with answered prayers

Mothers with Gold Stars in the window

Pretty young round-eyed girls

Just like before

Waiting to write their Dear Johns

Riots in the streets

Protests at the gates

Of dead Camelot

Bad habits

Lucky Strikes, beer, a little dope

Fitting in

Job applications

Skills?

Rifleman, KW-7* repairman, potato peeler

            *Sorry, it’s classified.

Desired position?

Something without mud, blood, or the creeping crud

GI Bill, college, home loans

Old men at the Legion

Talking glory, duty, country

Not his war

A bed

With clean sheets and a pillow

Then the demons come….

LDT October,12, ‘24

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May i Take Your Hand?

May I take your hand and open every door?

May I lift you up and tell you that there’s more?

Can I hold a candle to alight our way?

Can we stop a while and our thoughts convey?

Could I be the comfort that you sometimes need?

Could I find a way to help your dreams succeed?

Is there anything that I can do for you?

Is there any way to drive away the blue?

May I take your hand, each and every day?

May I win your heart so you want to stay?

LDT October 5, ‘24

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Laura

Sometimes a song is just too raw to listen to. Laura from 1967 is such a song,

“Laura hold these hands and count my fingers,

               Laura, touch these lips you once desired

               Lay your head upon my chest and hear my heartbeat

               Gently run your fingers through my hair….”

               It was the best breakup song ever. A little harsh at the end, but the tune kept pulsing through my brain. I knew a bit about breakups. Sadness, anger, jealousy, even revenge. Every time the song came on the radio, I sang along. It came from the bottom of a shattered soul and It was gut-wrenching. It crushed me as it hit home. God, I loved that song.

               I first heard it in the winter of 1967. I lived alone in a widow lady’s basement near the college. I spent my days studying History, Economics, and British Lit. Nights were spent in the honky-tonks of Havre. For money, I got by on $100 a month from the VA. It wasn’t much of a life.

            “Laura touch these ears that listened to your wishes

               Most of them, fulfilled and that’s a lot

               Let your soft, gentle hands caress my body….”

            By that time I knew a thing or two about love. Casual infatuation, fleeting ecstasy, eyes that melted anxious hearts. It always ended badly for me. That’s why I loved breakup songs. I cranked the volume up every time Leon Ashley sang, 
“ Laura, see these walls that I built for you

               Laura, see this carpet that I laid

               Laura, count the dresses in your closet

               Note the name upon the checkbook in your bag….”

               Well maybe I hadn’t been that far into any of my failed romances, but they still hurt a bit. There are lots of ways to breakup and there’s a good breakup song to cover every one of them. “Breaking up is hard to do,” but “I hope that the train from Caribou, Maine runs over your new love affair.” You get the picture.

               That winter I had an acquaintance living in the room next to mine. We shared a refrigerator and a bathroom. The rent was cheap. Jim was just out of the Navy. I had a hell of a lot more in common with him than the fresh-faced kids in my Econ 102 class. We had been places. We had done stuff. We told stories. Some of his were true.

               There was one thing different about us. Jim was in love. No, not that casual fling stuff I knew about. He was hopelessly devoted to a young lady named Sarah. I knew who Sarah was. Unlike the women from my side of the tracks, she was an angel from a good family. A damn good looker too.

               Jim had asked Sarah to marry him. After consulting her family, she put him off. He was a lowly meatcutter at the local slaughter house. He had working man hands. Worse yet, they were covered with mercurochrome from all the cuts he got at work. He’d have to show a bit more promise before he won this fancy lady’s hand. Jim doubled down. He worked long hours and saved every penny. He rarely joined me at the local gin joints. He was a serious young man. I had to respect that.

               The one pleasure Jim allowed himself was playing his guitar. Through the thin wall I could hear him well into the night as he crooned the latest country songs. His strumming soothed me as I studied economic curves. His singing wasn’t bad either.

               One night I met Jim coming down the stairs. He looked shaken, stunned, sad.

               “What’s up man?”

               “Sarah broke up with me. Took up with some rancher from down in the Breaks.”

               “It happens,” I consoled him, not having a clue as to how bad he was hurting. His eyes looked a little red. “Maybe sailors do cry,” I thought.

               “It’ll be all right, there’s lots of fish in the sea,” I said still not understanding the depths of his despair. How could I know his pain, never having lost someone whose soul had mingled with mine.

               Jim just shook his head glumly. I hadn’t been much help. We parted and went to our rooms.

               A few minutes later, I heard him strumming his guitar. Then he began to sing.

             “Tell me what he's got that I can't give you

               Must be something I was born without

               You took an awful chance to be with another man….”

               “O.K. He’s working it out,” I thought. “It can’t be any worse than my last breakup. He’ll get over it. Damn fine song though.”

               He strummed along without singing for a while. Then his plaintive voice came through the wall.

            “So tell me what he's got that I ain't got

               Tell me what he’s got that I ain’t got

               Laura, what’s he got that I ain’t got?….”

               “That’s it!” I thought. “The guy is jealous. That’s why he’s singing such a whiny breakup tune.” Then the chorus hit me.

“Laura, see those fancy curtains on the windows

               Touch those satin pillows on your bed

               And if there’s time before I pull this trigger

               Then tell me what he’s got that I ain’t got…”

               “Crap!” I knew he had a gun. Would he use it? Nah. He’s just a dumb-ass country boy like me. No way.  Then he began again, his voice quaking.

            “Sarah, hold these hands and count my fingers

               Sarah, touch these lips you once desired

               Lay your head upon my chest and hear my heartbeat

               Gently run your fingers through my hair….”

               Sarah? That was different. I closed my Econ text and listened.

               “Let your soft gentle hands caress my body

               And then tell me what he’s got that I ain’t got….

            I jumped to my feet and barged through his door before he got to the part about 
“And if there's time before I pull this trigger…”
He was sitting forlornly on his bed with his guitar on his lap. The gun was beside him; cold, heavy, unloved.

               “Get your sorry ass off that rack!” I commanded. “We’re gonna go get drunk!”

               The juke box played a lot of sad old country songs that night. I used every quarter I had to make sure none of them were called Laura.

               EPILOGUE:  Jim and Sarah are real people whose actual names I have long since forgotten. I remember that night every time I hear the song. “Jim” healed faster than I expected. A few weeks after the breakup, he bought a brand-new ’67 Pontiac Firebird. A red one.

LDT October 9, ‘24

               Leon Ashley topped the Billboard Country Chart with Laura in 1967. The song has been covered by many other artists, including Tom Jones, Marty Robbins, and Kenny Rogers. I prefer Ashley’s version. My breakup song was “Thank God and Greyhound You’re Gone.” What song got you through your breakup?

Laura- Leon Ashley- https://youtu.be/DnGQ_2JA1LQ

Empty Campsite

Somewhere in the Dragoons there lies an empty camp,

Up on Soren Pass, it’s a long, long tramp.

Where a miner found some glitter in a vein of quartz,

Digging through the rock, he had a mine of sorts.

We don’t know what he found, nor why he’s not around,

The wind’s the only sound, on this lonesome ground.

The mystery is but how, his camp sits empty now,

He weren’t no big highbrow, is all we can avow.

Did he wander down below, with only candle glow,

A poor lost sourdough, who met his final woe?

Is he buried in a stope, or somewhere down the slope?

There ain’t no use to mope, for him there is no hope.

The ashes have gone cold, lost in days of old,

The story must be told, for those who lust for gold.

So maybe shed a tear, ‘cuz he isn’t here,

The cost of gold was dear. back in yesteryear.

LDT September 25, ‘24

2050

            Coltrane stopped and pivoted as he reached the steel door. The digital timer next to the little observation window ticked down. Eight seconds. He had plenty of time before the shock collar began buzzing. He held his wrist up to the scanner. He didn’t like the chip, but what could he do? He had once spent 30 days in the hole for prying it out with a broken piece of circuit board. The reimplantation had put it behind the tendons of his wrist.

            The door opened automatically. He had 3 seconds to get inside. No shocks tonight. He stepped in as the door swing shut. It closed with a clunk, then the lock motors whirred as the bolts engaged. Home sweet home.

            It had been a long, tedious day at his workstation. A creative man, Coltrane had found ways to make his job more interesting. His assignment was to monitor the state media consumption of a block of citizens. They were required to read the daily official bulletins. Each article had a minimum reading time. Missing an article, or spending too little time reading it caused an alert. Too many alerts could result in re-education.

            The system was old and Coltrane had found ways to thwart it. No matter what his clients did, they never got more than a warning. Meanwhile, his alternate persona was busy hacking the system. He made sure his tormentors in the guard force got scheduled for re-education. Sometimes he planted damaging information in their personal communications. He didn’t worry that getting caught meant certain death. Lisa would be fine. She had access to millions in untraceable digital currency. Where did it come from? Don’t ask. The Directors had stolen it from people like him anyway.

            His tiny cell included a combination stainless-steel commode and washstand. His bunk was a metal rack suspended by chains. The top bunk was empty now. He’d had cellmates over the years. Some collaborated with the regime and got released. Three of them had been called out at Six AM. Later, the guards came and collected their meager belongings. They would suffer no more. The worst roommate had been Frank. He was a snitch. He only stayed 3 nights. Coltrane had warned the other inmates about him.

            He was now in the 20th year of his 20-year-to-life sentence. No parole hearing was scheduled. In 2029, he had been a minor bureaucrat in the Economic Statistics Analysis Division. He had prided himself in his accurate reports. They helped the government spot and fix problems. All that had changed when the new regime came to power.

            Early in 2030, Coltrane noticed a dip in some leading economic indicators. He gathered the data and submitted his reports and charts to his boss, Dr Benbow. Soon he was summoned to Benbow’s office.

            “Your report is flawed;” Benbow snarled. “Take it back and double-check your sources.”

            Crestfallen, Coltrane retreated to his office. His reports had been checked and double-checked. They showed the regime’s policies weren’t working. Abruptly his computer monitor lit up. A message from an outlying prefecture. Subject: Revised Report. The numbers were better. Then another message, and another. He looked at each one carefully. Eight thousand housing starts in Madison Township in February. Interesting. A few keyboard clicks told him that there were only 6,853 households there. What was going on?

            Alarmed, he brought the revised figures to Dr. Benbow. “The numbers are different Sir, but something is off.”

            Benbow grabbed the new report. His face brightened as he scanned the figures and charts. “Well done my boy. Now take the afternoon off. I’ll forward these new numbers to the Bureau of Information.”

            “Sir! The damn numbers are wrong. Someone is cooking the books!”

            “You have been working too hard. Take a little siesta. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

            Coltrane never saw Benbow again. At 9 AM the next day, he was escorted out of the building by security. He barely had time to grab Lisa’s picture from his desk. Things would get worse, much worse.

            Coltrane soon learned he was not likely to get a new job. Too old, under-qualified, over-qualified. Or was it his mixed race, his immigrant parents, or his failure to convert to the State religion?  He couldn’t know. Then the hammer dropped.

            He was summoned to the headquarters of the Citizen Police. This new group of officers were former militia members. They earned their jobs by helping the regime gain power. They didn’t play nice.

            He was escorted to a dimly lit room furnished with only one chair.

            “What do you think of your new government?” he was asked by the interrogator.

            “It’s OK. Some teething problems, but they will get it together,” he responded hopefully.

            “Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Resistance?”

            That was a shocker, but his answer was a firm, “No!”

            “You wrote this check to the opposition!” the man yelled flashing the blue paper in front of his face.

            “Oh God!” Coltrane thought. “That damned check!” Lisa had told him not to write it. Now the authorities had it. At least it hadn’t been written on their joint account. He was going to prison, but maybe Lisa would be spared.

            “Do you admit that this is your check with your signature?”

            “Yes.” There was no use in denying it.

            “In the name of the Supreme Leader, I am placing you under arrest for sedition!”

            Coltrane’s trial was a joke. The judge was an appointee of the regime. His friends were so cowed that none would testify. A frightened co-worker offered hearsay evidence. The prosecution held all the cards. He was guilty.

            Coltrane washed up and sat on the bunk. Lights out was sounded on the intercom. He took one last look at the camera that watched his every move. He remained poker-faced. Too much of a facial expression could put him in the hole. He stripped to his pink underwear and laid on the hard bunk. He dreamed of 2029.

            Orwell had been right. He just got the year wrong.

LDT September 11, ‘24

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Desert Race

THE MASS START OF A DESERT RACE IS A CACHOPHONY OF CHAOS.

TeThe line of bikes stretches for hundreds of yards. How many? Hundreds, maybe thousands. One of the greatest spectacles in racing is about to begin. Men, kids, even women are astride a kaleidoscope of colorful machines. Bright jerseys and worn leathers topped by every variety of crash helmet ever produced. They wait, silent, tense, their anxious breath fogging the lenses of their goggles.

            Each rider has a foot poised at the kick-starter. An open hand covers the clutch lever. Fingers flex at the throttle. The engines have gone silent. All talk has ceased. The riders scan the horizon. They have already picked their lines for the first 50 yards. After that they will read the terrain on the fly.

            Off in the distance the smoke bomb is lit. Riders suck in their breath as a tiny wisp of black smoke appears. It gets bigger. The bomb is five miles off. It tells them where they will pick up the marked trail. Officials scan the line as the starter raises his pistol. Nerves make stomachs churn. Riders look left and right. Will the novice on the right try to take their line?

            Boom! The gun goes off.

            Riders stomp furiously at their kick starters. Engines fire. Throttles are twisted, gears engaged, clutches released. They are off, handlebars clashing. A few are left in the dust, their loaded-up machines wont start. They must control their excitement to clear the excess fuel. No one wins a desert race at the start.

            Riders dodge rocks and pucker bushes while seeking better lines. A rock sends someone flying. The faster riders on the bigger bikes have shot out front. A few riders are down. A bike has died. Already. Each bike spews a rooster tail of dust behind it. Those who follow too closely get pelted by tiny bits of sand and rock. The noise and the dust are horrendous. The race becomes a cacophony of chaos. The assembledge has turned into a jumbled mass of motorcycles, each trying to avoid other riders and the hazards of the trail. The dicing begins. Passes are made. The field begins to string out.

            The riders pass by the bomb. It is a pile of old tires. They make a smoky fire. There the riders pick up the trail. They know Las Vegas is out there somewhere. It’s just 120 miles away. The trail is marked by red arrows on white cardboard squares. Straight, right, left. The arrow that points down means danger. The rider must figure out what kind. A drop-off, a bed of rocks, a canyon. Rider beware!

            An ancient Triumph desert sled wallows in a sand wash while a kid on a Hodaka skims by on top of the sand. More crashes, more broken bikes. The sight of spectators spells danger. They only congregate where riders crash. The guy pointing the fancy camera at the riders wants to sell them a picture. A Jesus Freak holds up a sign. John 3:16. Something to think about. Later, of course. There’s a race to run.

            There is a steady climb up the face of some mountains. The trail gets narrower. There are fewer riders to pass. The pack has sorted itself out. You won’t catch the hot shoes in front and the slow-pokes won’t catch you. You pass only broken bikes and downed riders. The injuries aren’t serious, so you keep going. The sweep crew will be by soon.

            There are checkpoints at various spots along the course. Each one has its own unique mark for the tank cards. Riders who miss the checkpoints are lost. No one cuts the course. The alternative routes are all dozens of miles longer.

            Bikes quit for a variety of reasons. A flat front tire will get the rider to the next pit stop. Without a spare tube and tire irons a flat on the rear ends the race. Broken chains are fixed with spare links. A pair of vice grips serves as a shifter. The steep hills can fry a clutch. Parts fall off. Engines expire due to seized bearings and pistons. Ignitions fail. Plugs foul. The fuel filter gets blocked. A rock holes a crankcase. Sometimes it gets fixed with duct tape. Too many broken spokes cause a bike to hop breaking more spokes. Broken frames and suspensions are rare. Dirt bikes are tough. Some of their riders aren’t.

            Beyond the crest of the mountains the trail enters a narrow boulder strewn canyon. Riders pick their way carefully. A broken toe can end their day. The canyon goes on forever. The guys on big heavy bikes struggle. The zippy little trail bikes gain some positions.

            The mouth of the canyon reveals a grand vista. That’s Vegas 50 miles away. The speed increases. For a while the trail follows the interstate. People gawk from their cars. The riders cross under the freeway, then back again. More passes are made. More bikes die. The riders who are left in the race all know their stuff.

            A pit stop comes up. Riders scan the crowd looking for familiar faces or their numbered gas cans. They skid to a stop. Those with pit crews guzzle Gatorade while their friends and wives refuel them. Others search for gas cans. All are off in a flash.

            The next challenge isn’t an obstacle at all. At the state line there is a dry lakebed. It is 5 miles long. It is more suited to a Bonneville streamliner than a dirt bike. The larger machines regain their advantage flashing by the smaller, bikes that passed them in the canyon. No one has a speedometer, but it is flat out across the lake. The big bore bikes top 80. The little bikes have their throttles pegged. Some bikes are jetted too lean. Their white hot pistons seize, ending their run. The smarter riders feather their throttles as bigger bikes flash by. They are in a different class, so it really doesn’t matter.

            The finish line is at the outskirts of Vegas. The bikes are funneled into a narrow corridor so there are no final passes. A course worker takes each scorecard. They are stacked on a metal pole. The first card is the overall winner. The class winers may not know they won until they read next week’s “Cycle News.” Trophies will be mailed. Those who finished have conquered the desert. Regardless of position, they are winners.

            Their eyes and nostrils burning from the dust, the exhausted riders wait for word on their companions. The race isn’t over until all are accounted for. It’s nearly dark as the last rider comes in. He has a big, grimy smile on his face. The chase crew works into the night to get everyone out safely. A helicopter picks up an injured rider who had to be carried out of the canyon. There’s another race next weekend at Lompoc.

LDT September 8, ’24

            EPILOGUE

            The Days of mass starts in the desert are long over. The last running of the Barstow to Vegas race was in 1974. There were 3200 competitors in 2 waves. The race was not held again due to environmental considerations. The remaining desert races are mostly held in Nevada, Arizona, and Mexico. These races use staggered starts, no more than 4 riders at a time. Finishing order is determined by time on the course. These races are not nearly as exciting as the mass starts of the old days.

            I was fortunate to run in the 1973 Baker to Vegas race which used 2/3 of the previous year’s Barstow to Vegas course. Pictured is the Hodaka Super Rat I rode that day. The large trophy in the center is from that race.xt.

I rode this Hodaka Super Rat in the 1973 Baker to Vegas Race. The large trophy in the center is from my class win.

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