REV IT UP, SMOKEY By
Larry Floyd
Jeff moved over into the left lane of the four-lane highway as we got towards the outskirts of town. Dutifully, I moved over in standard motorcycle trail formation, with Mike Burke, who was directly behind me, following. I closed distance to become almost abreast with a white pickup truck in the right lane. I say “white” because that was likely the original color, now dingy with Indiana dirt, and punctuated with scratches, dents, and numerous scars – the country patina characteristic of years of backroads experience. I hesitated to move up on Jeff’s lead because the driver of the truck was repeatedly revving the engine for some unknown reason, with a corresponding howl of the motor and puffs of black diesel smoke which peaked my attention and heightened my baseline level of caution.
The Hoosier Beemer BMW Motorcycle Rally had been a very nice gathering of two wheeled travelers who assembled this year in the Fall to share stories, explore the surrounding area, and enjoy the camaraderie of indigenous motorcycle junkies. The rally, which is held in South Vernon, Indiana, is but a mere 300 miles from Saint Louis, pretty much all on US 50 highway, about a 6-hour ride, minus stops. Jeff, Mike, and I have all been to this rally before. There are a group of interesting characters who typically attend, as was the case again this weekend. We endured rain early in the morning on Saturday, but skies soon cleared off, inviting us to take a nice group ride down to the banks of the Ohio River, around and back. There were several roads closed due to construction which necessitated some creative work-arounds, and a change in lunch stops, but spirits were high and complaints nonexistent. The rule of riding is, “if you complain, you get to lead.” After a good rally evening meal of chicken and pulled pork, we assembled our circle of Kermit Chairs, drank a few brews from the coolers, and swapped road stories, some which have been heard before, but all quite appropriate and interesting nonetheless. We then retired to our respective tents and warm sleeping bags.
Sunday morning dawned to cool temperatures but clear skies. We stuffed the camping gear into travel bags, had a cup of rally coffee, and said our goodbyes, anticipating a comfortable, leisurely trip home. Within a few miles we entered Seymour, which has been undergoing road construction probably since the turn of the last century. We patiently muddled along, dodging traffic cones and proceeding haltingly past hard-hat workers with “Stop” and “Proceed with Caution” signs, turning the highway into something akin to locks and dams on a canal.
Past Seymour 50 Highway narrowed down to two lanes; but, traffic on Sunday morning before church starting up time was light. We rolled into Brownstown where the road widened to four lanes through the commercial district, picking up some corresponding traffic, including our rev happy pickup driver.
As we approached the smoking end of the white pickup, which was in the right lane with at least one car ahead of it limiting forward progress, Jeff moved to the left lane, behind a car to the left of the pickup. As we proceeded from block to block, Jeff moved up, first parallel, then slightly ahead of the white pickup. I followed Jeff’s lane change, but stayed back a bit, figuring the repeated revving of the truck engine denoted impatience on the part of the driver, and I did not want to get squashed should he decide to make a sudden lane shift. I assumed the driver was a “he” but I could not see, as the cab pillar was blocking my view. My guess was a rev happy redneck. I immediately tried to wash that thought from my brain, as it might be construed as derogatory by today’s values and I do not want to be labelled as narrow minded. Let’s just say my impression was that the truck was being piloted by a “rev happy rural American of some unknown gender.” Mike, whose riding position provided a better view through the back window of the truck, later told me the driver was bouncing around in the cab. He, too, was wary of the situation.
As we neared the edge of town, the four-lane highway narrowed down to two lanes. I was not sure if the merge would dictate that the right lane ended, or the left lane. In any case, a scrunch was coming and I was curious to see how the truck driver would react. As it turned out, there was a very orderly lane collapse, with the car in front of Jeff far enough in front to merge to the right, and Jeff moving easily into the space in front of the pickup. I hung back, making no effort to run up and squeeze into Jeff’s wake. My plan was to stay behind the pickup, with Mike behind, and then assess my options once we were out of town traffic. The queue on the way out of town was now one or two cars in front, Jeff’s GS next, the still revving pickup, then me on my 700GS, and Mike on his GS.
As soon as the lineup rolled out of town, the pickup driver nailed the throttle and pulled out into the oncoming lane, belching out diesel smoke and fishtailing as the tires broke loose from the sudden acceleration. I have to admit, I was not at all surprised. I assumed that some type of maneuver such as this one would occur sooner or later. There was no double yellow, so pulling out to pass seemed to be a legal option, although the execution of the maneuver was a bit abrupt. I could now see Jeff directly ahead in the West bound lane, and the cloud of pickup exhaust next to him in the oncoming East bound lane. I could also see two cars several lengths ahead of Jeff. What I could not see, however, was an oncoming East bound car. Then, the brake lights on the car ahead of Jeff suddenly lit up. Apparently, the second car ahead of Jeff had stopped to make a left-hand turn, and the car directly ahead of Jeff was braking.
Now we have a dilemma. The pickup is accelerating like a bat out of hell facing oncoming traffic, with Jeff occupying the lane space to his right, and the two cars straight ahead of Jeff stopped to make a left hand turn. If the truck continues to accelerate, he passes the stopped cars just about the time that oncoming traffic arrives at the same spot. If he swerves right, he has to either smack into or cut off Jeff, and then come to a screeching halt behind the stopped cars.
Fortunately, Jeff has situational awareness and has slowed to allow for some space. The pickup truck driver decides to swerve right, just barely missing Jeff, and then slam on his brakes. The truck again fishtails onto and off of the right shoulder of the road, kicking up gravel, tires smoking and screeching all the way. It looks very much like a rear end smash is coming, but the truck sharply then veers sharply left, crosses the oncoming lane and runs off the side of the road into a field about knee high in weeds. In the process, a power line pole is barely missed. I am thinking the show is pretty much over, but no. The truck continues to plow through the field at a 45 degree angle to us, leaving a dual tire track of smashed weeds to demarcate the errant path. I think it is possible, even probable, that the driver was still inexplicably on the accelerator. After a good 30 yards or so, the front of the truck suddenly dropped a few feet, as the front wheels went down into the drainage ditch bordering the road which intersected the highway, the very road that created the intersefigured so prominently in the events over the last 15 or 20 seconds. The truck was nose down, finally stopped dead, stuck face front in a ditch with a few puffs of smoke rising from the grille.
There was a brief pause, with a collective gasp from the multitude of observers, and then the driver’s door swung open. Out jumped a rather tall thin man with long, stringy black hair and a thick beard. I say “jumped” because it is the best descriptor. Not only did he jump out of the now stationary truck, he jumped up and down, waving his arms around, yelling and screaming.
I looked ahead at the back of Jeff’s helmet. He was the ride leader, and we would follow his actions whatever those might be. I whispered into my helmet visor, “don’t stop, he is fine, other people are stopping, let’s just keep going, don’t get involved”. He put down both feet and looked over at the still raving lunatic jumping around by the now smoking truck in the ditch. I whispered louder into my helmet, “don’t do it, please don’t do it.” The two cars ahead of Jeff had now pulled over on the shoulder and people were getting out. Jeff looked forward, clicked his GS into gear, and slowly accelerated away from the scene. Mike and I dutifully, and gratefully followed. The thin, scraggy rev happy rural American continued to jump, wave, and yell.
With all of that behind us, the road was pretty much ours. A few minutes later, we saw a State Patrol car headed East towards Brownstown. Otherwise, it was very quiet. About 20 miles down the road we pulled over in Garland, Indiana, where there is a Bob Evans that serves as a convenient breakfast stop for this trip. We have a great story to share when the Kermit chairs circle up at the next rally.