A Face Full Of Wind

About the Book

Roy continued his mad dash north. Tonight he was the Ichabod Crane of the cycle world. As if the headless horseman was in hot pursuit. Or worse, the devil himself chasing a man who had somehow come into possession of a “piece of truth” which could give some sense to a mad cap world of time and space which could dispel the shadows on the wall of the cave and lead to freedom.

The sixties and seventies were long since gone. The eighties rolled by with relative ease of the spinning wheels into the nineties and the night continued dark. The lights of the driveways to the estates on the river flashed by one by one. Each a sentinel post to wealth.

The white line stretched away on the macadam, infinite in distance, held to time and place by the will of the rider and the grasp of Jo’s arms around his waist. Roy looked in the rear view mirror. In the distance but still there was the glow of the red light bars.

Jo had quit telling him to stop the flight. It was useless. She knew he wouldn’t stop. Ahead Roy could see the flashing lights of an oncoming police car. He pulled the cycle to a quick stop in front of a drive-in theater. On the screen, a figure, fuzzy and flat got off his horse and entered a saloon. They weren’t selling tickets. The booth was closed. It didn’t make any difference anyway. He wasn’t buying any. Straight into the entrance leaving only a swirl of dust to mark his passage. A quick turn to the left past the front aisle, between two cars of neckers. He pulled up short and killed the engine and lights.

It was a splendid plan, but it didn’t work. Roy sat there. Jo still gripped him around the waist. At this moment the screen was silent. Over the silence Roy could hear the motor on the bike starting to cool, a slight cracking sound as the pipes went from hot yellow to blue.

He sat there thinking. He turned to Jo, “Get off. Get yourself a coke from that machine at the concession stand. Blend in.”

“Damn it, Roy. What am I supposed to do?”

“Wait, I’ll be back.”

She got off. She was still standing there when the floodlights on the screen came on.

Roy started the bike. He knew what was coming.

A sheriff’s patrol car blocked the entrance. Two state patrol officers and a sheriff’s deputy came in the entrance.

Christ, he thought. They’re taking this way too seriously. It must be contempt of cop. He started slowly to move between the rows of cars toward the back of the theater.

Jo was nowhere in sight. This game was up. The cops started to close him in. The patrol car moved in his direction. He knew they were going to try and knock him off the bike. This time he poured on the gas, down the row and up the next. There was a fence around the drive-in made of corrugated metal. It was old and in poor repair. On the other side was a grassy strip and the Scioto River Road. It wasn’t a cave and there weren’t any shadows on the wall but on the other side was freedom.

He came flying down the row between the last of the cars. At the last minute he pulled the Kawasaki up and hit the fence with a full wheelie. The fence went down like papier-mâché. An eight-foot section went flat. A cloud of dust rose around him and the sweet night air rushed in to greet him. He sped north at eighty miles an hour. Behind him was bedlam. He looked back. They came out in a rush. He could see them light up. The black and white in the lead. Goddamn, what’s with these guys?

The mist from the river rolled over the road outlining a swatch of light from the beam of Roy’s headlight. The beam of the light seemed to dance, going up and down with the contours of the road, then with a mind of its own it bounced from side to side. What had been mist turned to fog. He slowed the cycle. He no longer feared pursuit

About the Author

This book is the culmination of a life long affair with the motorcycle. The author has had thirty years of motorcycling experience, long before it became as popular as it is today. He has written plays; many short stories and poetry; three novels, small press publications, two still in print. He is currently working on the second part of VIGNETTES IN ZEN, the result of fifteen years of study. The characters in A FACE FULL OF WIND are tightly drawn in a composite sense, meant to display the mindset of a small part of the motorcycling fraternity. The author resides in a rural section of Ohio.