BY
DAVE HARROLD
VIVECA SMITH PUBLISHING
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales, events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Dave Harrold
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Viveca Smith Publishing.
www.vivecasmithpublishing.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012935925
ISBN: 978-0-9740551-4-5 (hardback) |
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ISBN: 978-0-9740551-5-2 (epub) |
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ISBN: 978-0-9740551-6-9 (epdf) |
1st edition
To Judy and to the husbands of the Crafty Chicks
I NEED TO GIVE UP DRUGS. I’ve started dreaming a lot or maybe it’s a nightmare, I don’t know, because these are real stories, and I’m dreaming all of them again, in living color, or blood, as the case may be.
I’m in Central America, a few years back. A couple of shady guys have hired me to crew chief a plane with Orbie, a pilot I’d worked with in the past. We’re flying 50 feet above the trees in the Nicaraguan jungle. My job is to push the boxes carrying guns, ammo, and medical supplies out the back of the plane when we reach a clearing. I was pushing a big box out the door when I slipped on a spilled diet coke some idiot had left on the deck. I started sliding behind the box toward the door. I was grabbing for anything to keep me from falling out, but out I went. I had a harness on, and the harness held, but I didn’t know for how long.
I was dragged along at 150 mph, holding onto the deck of the plane for dear life. The wind was so strong I couldn’t even yell or breathe. Orbie saw me and immediately put the plane on autopilot. He made his way to the back of the plane, trying not to slide out himself. He didn’t even have on a harness. But Orbie flew helicopters in Vietnam, flying into battle zones to rescue the wounded. He can deal with tough situations, and it helps that he’s just to the left of crazy. He grabbed the tether and pulled with all his strength and finally managed to get me up onto the deck, where I was able to pull myself to safety. We sat there for one second, before he rushed back and took the plane off autopilot. This began a lifelong relationship of drugs, women, booze, and, I might add, excitement.
We had about 50 minutes of flying time back to our base. I’m not allowed to tell where it is. Orbie and I just sat there and never spoke the entire 50 minutes. Boy, I’ll tell you what—falling out of the airplane or any near-death experience for that matter—makes you think. Next time a couple of shady guys offer me a lot of money for a job in Nicaragua, I might think twice.
The plane touched down and Orbie rolled it to our parking space, which was really tight. The planes on each side of us had moved over just to try and bother us. Orbie just pulled the plane in anyway. Whenever we get back from a job, he always says, “Well, let’s go to the house.” He says that even if we’re sleeping in tents next to the runway. On this trip we weren’t. We were on the motorcycles and headed off to town for maybe a massage and some herbal refreshment and a few beers. As usual, we were broke, but we had paid our bill at the local cantina, so we had credit. As we came to the outskirts of town, four guys were sitting in a jeep—like they were just waiting for us. They were all wearing army uniforms. Orbie and I looked at each other, and we knew these guys were not in the army. They were bandits. They saw us coming and jumped right out with their guns drawn.
“Oh, hell, Orbie, I don’t know what these guys want, but we’d better get out of here!”
So Orbie and I turned the throttles wide open. We must have been going 70 mph as we blasted into town. The town was really busy at this time of day. It was rush hour, so we had to slow down to about 10 mph. The guys in the army uniforms were close behind us in their beat-to-shit jeep, but they had to slow down too. They were having to weave through people just like we were, but we were faster because we were on the motorcycles. Orbie was in the lead, and he led us down a street that was a dead end. A lady at the end of the street on the left had just opened her garage door. We pulled the bikes in, and Orbie grabbed her, while I closed the door. We watched as the jeep drove slowly past. Orbie let the woman go as soon as the jeep was gone.
“What the hell, Orbie?” she said. “You scared me to death!”
“Sorry, Rhonda,” he replied. “I didn’t have time to explain. We had some bandits after us.”
Rhonda was a bartender in a cantina Orbie and I frequented. I didn’t know Orbie knew where she lived.
“Can we hang out here for a while?” he asked.
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” she replied.
We stayed about an hour, and that’s about all we could handle. She opened the door, and we were gone. We turned onto the main street of town, and there they were, bothering somebody else. So Orbie looked at me, and I nodded, and we drove by real slow, so they would leave those people alone and follow us. And here they came in their piece of shit jeep, after us again. Then Orbie and I decided to haul ass, thinking the jeep would never keep up. Once we were out of town, we picked up speed and really started hauling butt, but we couldn’t shake them.
We turned onto a road that was all dirt with potholes. We were making some headway, but the jeep was still behind us. Suddenly the road dead-ended, and we had a choice—the uncleared jungle or the side of a cliff. The jeep was within 20 yards, and we had to decide. I looked at the side of the mountain. It wasn’t a straight drop, but it was pretty steep.
“Orbie, what do you think?” I asked.
“Well, it’s better than a jungle with no road,” he replied.
So over the edge we went, down through the brush, swerving around the trees, jumping over rocks, half-sliding, half-riding with these guys shooting at us. “Aw, hell,” I thought to myself. “I’m really in trouble this time!” We rode it out for about a 100 yards, until we rolled into a pasture with about four cows and a road out of there. I looked up and saw the guys in the jeep watching in disbelief. I flipped them the bird, and we roared away.
“I’ve always stepped through the door. It’s hasn’t always been good, but I’ve stepped through it anyway.”
Rock Pounder
LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT ROCK Pounder. I’m mad as hell. People are starting to push me around because they think I’m old. They don’t know who I am. They don’t know I’ve helped start three revolutions—and I’ve personally been in charge of one. I’ve ordered countless men into battle and fought many myself, and I’ve supplied money and guns to people across the globe. I’ve made love to pretty women all over the world, including two princesses and a billionaire drug lord, who was also a woman, by the way.
I look at life, and I feel like I have at least one more big job in me, before I retire to my place in Mexico. The United States pays me $10,000 a year to keep my eyes open as I travel around. But right now nothing’s going on, and I’m looking for some action. There is no action right now. Some guys have asked me to ride with them around the world on our motorcycles. It sounds good to me.
I’m in Texas for the time being. My home is Dallas because this is where my daughter lives with my first ex-wife, Jenny. Jenny and I didn’t make it as a married couple. My wanderlust and questionable career were more than she could take. I think the last straw with Jenny was when I told her I had to be in Rwanda for 4 months and probably couldn’t call. When I came back, she had taken our daughter Crissy and moved across town. Jenny finally married a boring accountant who is home for dinner every night. I guess that made her happy, and he’s been a good stepfather to Crissy, so it was ok with me.
It’s another hot day in Dallas, about 106, and my swimming pool feels good, even though the water is 92 degrees. I’m just starting to relax when the doorbell rings. Consuela, the housekeeper, has gone to the store, so I get out, wrap a towel around my waist, and walk to the door, dripping water all over the marble. Standing at my door are two guys in suits. One, J.W., I have known from my days as an agent at the CIA. The other I have never seen before, but he reminds me of James Bond. The greetings are warm and friendly. You know they’re up to something if they’re being that nice. I invite them into the living room but don’t ask them to sit down.
The first words out of J.W.’s mouth were, “Pounder, you look like you’ve gained 25 pounds. How many years has it been? Ten? Maybe more?”
“No, man, I saw you at the company picnic about 8 years ago,” I replied. “You still had that young wife. I heard that didn’t last too long. She dumped your ass for a younger guy.”
“Yeah, the bitch ran off with a younger guy, and he doesn’t even have any money.”
“So what the hell are you doing here, J.W.?” I asked.
“Rock,” said J.W., “We’ve heard you’re traveling around the world on your motorcycle, and we think it has something to do with your boss. Whenever you travel, we think he’s up to something, and we want to know what it is. Right now, we’re hearing about a computer program that has to do with thermonuclear energy, and the CIA wants it. We’ve heard your boss has it in his hot, sweaty hands, and he wants a lot of money for it. We think you can help us get it at a discount.”
“What does a computer program have to do with me?” I asked, “And who says he’s my boss?” He is my boss, but it’s none of their business. No one is supposed to know that. My boss is world famous. His name is Manfred, or call him the Fat Man. In any event, he is one tough businessman. I know exactly what information they want, and he wants $10 million for it. It has nothing to do with me. I’m going on vacation. No work. Period.
“Rock,” said J.W., “we know he’s your boss, and we don’t plan on paying over $5 million.” At that point, the guy I didn’t know who reminded me of James Bond started getting pushy. He kept moving in on me and pointing his finger and telling me what I was going to do. This was really starting to piss me off.
“Who do you think you are, talking to me that way? Do you understand who I am? I’m Rock Pounder, and I’ve had more adventures in one day than you’ve had in your entire life. Nobody pushes me around, not the CIA or anybody else!” At this point I was getting pissed.
“Look, Mr. Pounder,” he said, “get a better price, or we just might just take the program away and pay your boss nothing.”
By now, I’d really had enough of these guys and their bullshit.
“Hey, James Bond,” I said, “if you keep getting pushy, I’m going to kick your ass up between your shoulder blades.”
Things were getting heated when the doorbell rang again, and that sort of defused things. My daughter Crissy was standing there. She had forgotten her key again. She looked real good, and this stopped everything in its tracks.
“J.W., James,” I said, “This is my daughter Crissy.” They shook her hand politely, then excused themselves and left. Dumb bastards!
“Here’s the mail, Dad,” Crissy said, as she handed it to me. “There’s a letter from your boss on the top, marked Special Delivery.”
A letter from the Fat Man! What does he want? I opened it, and pulled out a check for $7,000. Oh, yeah, $7,000! I liked the check, but this can’t be good. It’s never good when the Fat Man gives you money. He wants a pound of flesh, and right now I’m not willing to give it to him. Especially if it has to do with the information the CIA is looking for.
I read the letter.
“Rock,
I need you in Macau next week. This check is an advance of the $18,000 you will receive when the job is complete. M.”
I took a sticky pad and wrote “not interested” on it, stuck it to the check, and handed it to Crissy.
“Crissy, would you please put that check in another envelope and send it back to him at the return address? Thanks, hon.”
Although her mother didn’t approve of my lifestyle, my jobs have kept Crissy in the best private schools Dallas has to offer, and she just finished her first year of college at Southern Methodist University. Crissy doesn’t even remember when Jenny and I were married, and she’s accustomed to my lifestyle. She knows I’ve worked around her life as much as possible. She’s a great kid. It’s hard to believe I rescued her from the jungle when she was a baby, but that’s another story.
As for the Fat Man, he doesn’t know I’m going around the world on my motorcycle, and I’m not going to let him know. This is a vacation, not work.
I head over to the computer to finish the article I’m working on for the Men’s Review magazine. I write articles about some of the more interesting experiences I have in my travels, and I don’t mean business. Writing has become a second career for me, and I’m also working on a book about my life as an adventure rider. My publisher lives here in Dallas, and we sometimes have differences of opinion on what I can and can’t say. She says she wants the book to be “elevated to a higher level.” I want the real world. She thinks this will be a coffee table book, and I have other ideas in mind. There’s another problem with my publisher. She thinks this whole book is her idea, but I’ve had an ulterior motive all along. She lives in a gated neighborhood in Dallas, and her neighbors are the Hashimoto brothers. I’ve been keeping an eye on them for years, for the CIA and for Manfred. Yes, it’s complicated, but I work for both of them. The Hashimoto brothers deal in industrial espionage, only no one has been able to prove it. The CIA wants to arrest them, and Manfred wants them out of his way. I’ve been keeping a file on them that may come in handy some day.
When I discuss the book with my publisher, she wants me to focus on the different cultures I’ve visited and the landmarks and landscapes I’ve seen. She sees it all in glossy color photographs, displayed in an oversized book that will be more like a decoration in someone’s living room. She says things like, “Rock, take a picture of your motorcycle next to a Mongolian yurt and talk about the cultural implications of their nomadic existence.” It gives me a headache just to think of it. I want to talk about when I explored the great Amazon and hunted poisonous spiders in the South American jungles. Or maybe when I mined for gold in Panama and hid from rebels in Colombia. I could even talk about when I raced motorcycles for a living. The real story is much more interesting.
If my publisher knew I had planted cameras in her trees to spy on the Hashimotos, she might not want to do a book at all. But these are some really bad characters who need to be stopped. They use some of their profits from industrial spying to finance the pirates in Somalia who hijack oil tankers. They might seem to be nice neighbors. But make no mistake—the Hashimoto brothers will cut your balls off for a dollar. If these guys find out I’ve bugged their house and placed cameras in the trees in their backyard, they are really going to be pissed off. I can handle difficult situations though. It’s just the life that I lead, and I have to say, it’s always an adventure. I’ve been in bath houses from Kuala Lumpur to Tokyo and gambled at every famous casino around the world. I’ve made a fortune and I’ve lost a fortune. My name is spoken in the shadows from Morocco to Macau. And twice I’ve been on the cover of the Men’s Review.
CRISSY WENT HOME AFTER GETTING SUMMER clothes she had left in her closet, and I gave Consuela the night off. I was just starting to pack, still pissed at the CIA guys, when there was another knock on the door. I looked out the window, half expecting to see J.W. and James Bond. Oh, hell, it was Tiffany, my second ex-wife. That was even worse! Her red Mercedes convertible was parked at the curb. How did she know I was in town? I avoided her as much as possible. She was nothing but trouble!
I opened the door. “Tiffany, what do you want from me? How did you know I was in town? I have no money. I have no Viagra. What do you want from me today?” She was looking good. She had on a very short denim mini-skirt, tanned legs, and a low-cut blouse. Her big blond hair was blowing in the breeze.
“Rock, I heard you were leaving to go around the world, and I just wanted to come over and see how you were and see if there is anything you can do to help me financially. I got a new tattoo on my back, and it was $500. Valerie did the tattoo, and I told her I didn’t have any money, and you would pay for it. She said that was fine, because you promised to give her motorcycle lessons.”
Hell. “Tiffany, you want a margarita? Come on in, and we’ll enjoy the evening by the pool. I’ll give you the $500, but that’s the last of the money you get, and you’ll have to earn it. I’m out of here day after tomorrow. I’ll be flying to San Francisco to meet up with some of the other guys.”
“Rock, I was expecting to earn it. Do you need your lawn mowed or your windows washed?”
Tiffany was more than I expected, absolutely the best way a man could spend the night. Until, yes, until, early in the morning, I was holding her close and trying to remember why we got divorced in the first place. Then she whispered, “Rock, I need $5,000 more this month.”
Ah, hell! Boy, she played this just right.
“Rock, I want to get my eyelids done and maybe a tummy tuck, if the money goes far enough. Baby, you and I have done things people won’t even talk about, enjoying every minute. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
She came just short of being a prostitute. I said I’d give her the money, telling myself it was the last time—but I knew full well this was not the end—of the money thing or of me and Tif. I got up a few hours later and swam while Tiffany lay out in the sun, working on her permanent tan. She looked great in her white bikini, but by then, I’d had about enough. We went inside, and I took a shower while she dressed.
“Ok, Tif,” I said, “it’s twelve o clock. I’ve got things to do. I’m leaving in the morning, and I have to pack. Why don’t you hit the road?”
“I’m just leaving. Thanks for the money, Rock,” she said, as she put the check in her purse. “Love ya, babe. Have fun on your trip, and I’ll see you when you get back!” She walked out the door, and cruised away in her shiny Mercedes. I was glad to see her go.
I spent the rest of the day packing and getting ready to leave. By 9:00, I was beat to shit, and I needed a good night’s sleep. Tiffany had worn me out. For once, I was happy to go to bed alone, or at least without Tiffany.
WELL, IT WAS FINALLY the big day, and I was on my way to the airport to get the hell out of town. I like Dallas, Texas, but I had been home a month now, and that was about all I could stand. My home is big and requires a lot of care, but Consuela will keep it running smoothly while I’m gone. Her husband Mario will take care of the yard and my other motorcycles, the Harley, the Goldwing, and the BMW. My Kawasaki motorcycle was shipped to South Korea about 3 weeks ago. I’m looking forward to cruising around Russia, Mongolia, and all of Europe. I have 10 weeks with no commitments, no CIA, no Manfred, and especially, no Tiffany! I’ll be traveling with seven guys, none of whom I’ve met. We’re sharing a container for the motorcycles from Oakland, California, to Seoul, South Korea. For the next few months, it will be nothing but motorcycles and adventure.
On my way out, I stopped by Orbie’s house. We’ve been best friends ever since he saved my life in Nicaragua. He was outside mowing his lawn.
“Orbie, this is your last chance! Just get a ticket and come with me. We’ll buy a motorcycle in South Korea. Just throw a few clothes in a duffel bag, and let’s get out of here. I know you have a passport ready to go.”
“Rock, I can’t get away for 3 months. But you never know, I may just show up in Amsterdam. Stay out of trouble, and if I don’t come to Amsterdam, I’ll see you when you get back.”
Stay out of trouble! Orbie knows that’s one thing I’ve never been able to do. I made one more stop—to visit my parents. My mother is 88, and my father is 92, but you would think they were 20 years younger. They live in a retirement community in Dallas. They were waiting for me in the lobby. My mother kisses me on the cheek.
“Be careful, sweetie,” she said, “and call if you get a chance. I’ve got to go to my water aerobics class now.”
My dad shook my hand. “Son, if you need money, don’t call me,” he said. “Otherwise, have a lot of fun, and I’ll see you when you get back.”
Well, now I’m finally off to the airport, ready to leave Texas behind me for a while. I board the plane for San Francisco where I spend the night, before meeting up with several members of the group. I close my eyes and think about the night before with Tiffany.
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING I MET two of the seven adventure riders at the airport in San Francisco. Dan and Lukas had arrived from Canada earlier that morning. Lukas is from Austria, but he had traveled from Canada with Dan. You could feel the excitement as we boarded the plane to South Korea. The day went downhill after that. Dan and Lukas each had an aisle seat several rows in front of me. I had a window seat, and the middle seat was already taken—by a woman who must have weighed almost three hundred pounds!
Oh, great! Why did I have to end up sitting next to the fat chick on a 12-hour flight? I smiled politely as I wedged myself into my seat and fastened the seatbelt. I’m 6' 3" and 210 pounds myself. It was an almost impossible situation! Her arm kept hanging over my armrest, and her leg kept sliding underneath it. She had to be 3 or 4 inches into my seat. It was tough sitting next to her. I got up and went to the bathroom at least four times, just to keep my circulation going. Getting to move at all was a real treat. We visited for a while, and it helped to pass the time. Her name was Susan, and she was an English teacher in South Korea. I finally fell asleep leaning against her, and then her fat was like a pillow. She didn’t even try to move me over. I woke up, and she had put up the armrest. I was very cozy snuggled into all the layers of her body. She smiled at me when I woke up.
“It’s really kind of nice, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Yes, it is,” I replied. “I probably slept better than the men sitting next to a skinny chick.” Then I asked her, just because I was curious, “Have you always been fat? I had a girlfriend once who was always on a diet, and she said she was just born that way.”
She smiled and said, “Yes, I have, and it’s never hurt me with the men, either. At least there haven’t been any complaints, and, by the way, I didn’t hear you complaining when you were sleeping on my shoulder.”
By the time the plane finally landed, Susan and I were good friends. We exchanged business cards—mine just says Motorcycle Rider with an e-mail address—and I promised to call her the next time my journeys brought me to Seoul. By then, I’d been on the plane for 12 hours, and I was ready to move. Do you know what a relief it is to get out of the seat, stand up, and not be crowded into about 8 inches of space? Nothing like it. Man, it felt good to get off the plane! As I was getting my luggage, I noticed that she and Dan were having a lively conversation. I stepped onto the down escalator and noticed Susan and Dan still talking as they got on the escalator behind me. Not only that, he had stacked her carry-on on top of his suitcase. Lukas was behind them. I was looking around for the rest of the group.
We had agreed to meet at the airport on Sunday night and figure out where to go from there. As the four of us were coming down, I looked up and knew immediately who the other adventure riders were. They were all wearing Levis, boots, and motorcycle shirts. They really stood out next to all the South Korean businessmen in their suits. There was Will, from England, who was immediately complaining about whatever—the food, the flight, the airport. Then there was Carlos from Chile, Diego from Argentina, and finally, Lance from Boston. He had signed on at the last minute. He looked different from the other guys. He wore tight Levis, no belt, a pressed, collared long-sleeved shirt with a white T-shirt underneath it, both tucked in, and perfect hair. I thought of us as the Magnificent Seven. Seven adventure riders ready to take on Siberia and Mongolia—all the way up to Amsterdam. Our tents were packed, and we were traveling with no GPS. I could hardly wait!
We gathered at the exit to board a shuttle for the train station that would take us to Seoul. Before we got on, Dan said, “Hey, guys, I’m going to go to dinner with Susan. Lukas, call me and let me know where you’re staying. I’ll meet up with you later.” Then they got into a taxi together and drove away. We all looked at each other.
“I hope he makes it to the ferry!” Lance said.
This will be my fourth trip into South Korea, and I still think about two very unhappy women that I left here—one 3 years ago, and Julie, 7 years ago. I had met Julie in Ireland in 2002, and she wanted to travel with me. She knew how to pay her way, if you know what I mean. Her idea of fun was drinking and getting drunk one night, fighting the next, and making up the third night. The making up was great. The rest was a bummer.
I rode the train into the city—it had been 2 days since I had had a chance to get high. I would have liked to look around and find something to smoke, but the penalties were stiff for possession of pot. The Koreans don’t like it, and the last thing I wanted was to end up in a South Korean jail, instead of on a motorcycle riding across Siberia. I would have to do without for a while.
We found a cheap motel—$8 a night per person. It was in a dark, dingy alley that reminded me of Macau 40 years ago. That’s one place and time I wouldn’t want to revisit. We didn’t care about the dinginess of the motel, though. All we needed was a place to sleep. By the time we got in that night, no one would know or care what the room looked like.
MY FIRST NIGHT IN Seoul, South Korea, looked like it was going to be a good one. We found a very out-of-the-way strip club with totally nude women wrapping their bodies around a pole. I watched as the glitter of their breasts shone in the light of the bar. I think I was going to be in love. The haze of the smoke and all the alcohol we were drinking blurred my vision and my thinking. Someone touched my shoulder. I turned around, and the most beautiful woman in all of Korea was standing real close and telling me that for $200 she could be mine for tonight. I’m 59 years old, and my heart can’t take a lot of this, but I would die with a smile on my face. I told her I was a poor man paying for two ex-wives, so I’d better pass. However, I also told her I was Rock Pounder, and I hated for her to miss the best. If she wanted to step up in class and try the best, I would look for her the next time I was in South Korea. Then all of us decided to head out of the titty bar and walk around town.
Diego said, “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we go get a tattoo?”
Everybody said, “Yeah!” so off we went. Well, it took about 15 minutes to find a tattoo parlor. I was the first to step up. I decided to put an X through my ex-wife Tiffany’s name that had been tattooed on my shoulder since our honeymoon. Carlos got a sailing ship on his arm. Lukas got his three kids on his shoulder. Well, I already have one girlfriend and two ex-wives tattooed on my left shoulder and a Goldwing on my right. I also have an American Bald Eagle on my right leg. I got the eagle free by winning a bet on who could drink who under the table, with straight shots of Tequila. I drank 12 shots. I was going to say I won, but with my hangover the next day I don’t think I did—but the eagle was free.
The next morning, we rounded up our luggage and headed to a bus terminal. We boarded a bus for Sock Cho, about 70 miles away. The city was built around the harbor, and the views were great. We had to wait 2 days for the ferry, so we checked into another hotel and that night we went to another titty bar. We slept late the next day, and then we unloaded our motorcycles from the container. We all worked on our motorcycles for 2 or 3 hours, making sure they were running correctly, changing batteries—everything we needed to do for the long ride across Siberia. Dan wasn’t there to work on his motorcycle, so Eric worked on the bike for him to make sure it would run. We were all starting to worry about whether or not Dan would make the ferry.
Finally, the big day was here, but where was Dan? Was he going to make it? He would have to ride his bike onto the ferry. At the last minute a taxi pulled up, and Dan jumped out, completely flustered.
“I made it! I thought for sure you guys would already be gone,” he exclaimed.
“What the hell took so long?” Lance asked him. “The ferry wouldn’t have waited.”
“Well, guys,” he said, “I had to stop by a doctor for a shot of penicillin. Susan is a really nice lady, but I still ended up with a dose of the clap.”
We rode the motorcycles up the gangplank onto the ferry. To our surprise, the ferry was almost empty. It held 250 people, and only about 50 were on board. Because it was an overnight trip, we had planned to pitch our tents on the deck, but there was so much empty space, we all had rooms.
I walked into the men’s restroom and noticed a man who appeared to be Russian standing at the sink. We looked at each other and nodded but didn’t speak. He had very short blond hair, blue eyes, and a jagged scar above his left eye. He had a look of the military about him.
Later, I ran into him again in the cafeteria line looking at a row of unappetizing food. “Oh, man, this is really bad,” he said to me. I noticed he spoke in English.
“It does look bad,” I said. “It looks like it’s left over from last week. I think I’ll just go to the gift shop and get some ice cream and a candy bar. You’re welcome to come with me.”
“Sounds good to me,” he said.
“Hey, where are you headed?” I asked him.
“Vladivostok,” he replied. “I was in South Korea on business. What about you?”
“I’m with this big group of adventure riders. We’re getting off with the motorcycles before then. We’re traveling all the way to Amsterdam on our bikes.” I wanted to ask him how he got the scar, but I didn’t.
He seemed friendly enough, but something about him made me a little uneasy. “Oh, well,” I thought, “I don’t know why I’m looking for trouble around every corner. It’s hard to get away from that way of thinking. I’m on vacation, and he’s probably just a regular guy headed back to his job and family.”
Dark clouds started to build up, and the captain announced we would be riding through a storm and suggested we all return to our rooms. The seas were dark, and lightning was starting to flash around us. White waves crashed against the ferry. The gods are getting even, I thought to myself. If it rains like this the whole time, it’s going to be a bad, friggin’ deal. The thunder crashed again, and in a flash of lightning I saw the Russian, standing outside in the rain, staring at me. Is that a gun in his hand? I thought. When the lightning flashed again, he was gone. What am I thinking? He was probably just holding another candy bar and heading back to shelter. He probably thought I was staring at him. I’m on vacation, not on a job. I need to remember that. There was no danger here. The storm cleared, but then the seas and sky were covered by a heavy fog. We couldn’t see anything, but the captain said we were close to shore. In the distance, I heard a dog howling. By the time the fog lifted, we were 6 hours late.
It was 9 P.M. when the ferry finally docked. By the time we unloaded our motorcycles, the customs agents were off work. We had to hire other agents to come in to fill out the endless paperwork. They didn’t finish until 1 in the morning. It was tedious, but at the same time there was excitement in the air. We did it! We got to Russia! In the morning we would begin our ride through six thousand miles of Siberia. Our motorcycles were locked in the impound area until we could be cleared in the morning, and we were locked in with them. The impound area was secured by armed guards. The other guys all pitched their tents and climbed in. I had never taken the time to figure out how to put my tent together, so I left it flat and just crawled into it. I was too tired to care. The air was heavy with a damp mist, but nothing bothered me. I fell into a sound sleep.
They let us out of the impound area at 6 in the morning, and we all needed gas. Within half an hour, we were gassed and ready to go—ready to take on whatever Siberia had in store. The Mag Seven were on the road—60 degrees, bright sun, and blue skies. Then something happened that seemed to happen a lot. We got lost, and this was only the beginning of being lost. We took a wrong road that dead-ended up in the mountains. But that’s what happens when you’re an adventure rider with no GPS. We turned ourselves around and headed out again.
By 9 in the morning, the Mag Seven were hungry and looking for a place to eat. We found a nice truck stop, and Lance, Dan, Will, and I were eating eggs and toast and coffee when we heard some motorcycle engines start up. What the hell? We looked out the window and realized the other three motorcycles were gone!
“Son of a bitch, they left!” I said. “I wonder what’s going on? Dan, what did you say to those guys to make them so mad?”
“Hey, screw you. You probably said something.”
We didn’t know what had happened. All we could see was the dust they were kicking up behind them. Carlos, Diego, and Lukas rode on and didn’t even say goodbye! I don’t know what their problem was. I’d never seen anything like it on a group trip. So much for the Magnificent Seven. That didn’t last long. We were already down to the Fantastic Four.
“To hell with them!” Lance said. “Let’s hit the road.”
I hadn’t worried about traveling across Siberia with seven other guys. I didn’t expect it to be down to four after the first day. Well, we should be ok, as long as we don’t lose anymore. So Will, Lance, Dan, and I rode on into Vladivostok. We looked for about half an hour and found a nice hotel. We checked in, and Dan and Will were headed down to the pool. Lance and I thought the bar sounded better.
“Any problems seem to fall by the wayside when you’re on the open road.”
Rock Pounder
MY SECOND NIGHT IN RUSSIA WAS good—a hotel, hot running water, and a great restaurant. It was going to be a wonderful night—Lance and I were out of the motorcycle clothes, into sandals and shorts, and headed to the restaurant for a beer. Two of the prettiest women I’d ever seen were sitting at the bar, a blond and a brunette, and of course, that’s right where Lance was headed. I think Lance is in love. This boy sees a skirt, and he’s after it. If you had to pay for that, it would cost at least $200 an hour. That Lance doesn’t waste much time. After about 30 minutes, he and the brunette—her name is Cookie, what kind of a Russian name is that?—were on the patio having a drink. My new blond friend, Darleen, is digging for a business card. I’m thinking, how did I get this lucky this early in the trip? When she handed me the business card, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Written on the front: CALL ME. MANFRED
Manfred! How did this guy find me? So much for staying under the radar! I guess I’m easy to follow. I’ve worked for him or his daughter for 30-something years. Manfred and his daughter are people who arrange things, like shipments of various kinds. I’ve been one of their carriers for longer than I can remember. Nobody was supposed to know that, but apparently the CIA does. The young lady then handed me a phone. It was Manfred. No surprise there. He couldn’t even wait for me to call him.
“How the hell did you find me, Manfred?” I asked, with more than an edge of annoyance in my voice. This was supposed to be a fun trip, after all.
“Oh, Rock, I always keep up with my star employees,” he said, with the same tinge of sarcasm he’s always had.
“Ok, no more bullshit. What do you want, and how much does it pay? Do I get a company car, and how much paid vacation do I get?”
Manfred had no sense humor. “Do the job right this time. Darleen will bring you up to speed,” and he hung up.
Darleen and I were headed to her room to go over the job, and I was thinking, maybe Manfred threw in a little bonus like, say, maybe, Darleen. No such luck! She didn’t seem to be offering anything. So I thought, “What the hell.”
“Darleen, what are the chances of you and me tonight?”
Her response was good. “Only if someone pays, and it’s $200 per hour.”
“Well,” I said, “A guy’s gotta try.”
She understood and said any other time—maybe. She gave me a box about 5 × 9 × 1 and a business card.
“You’re going to a town about 150 miles south of Ulaanbaatar, the capital of Mongolia. When you get there, call this number, and we’ll tell you where to go next. Manfred says it’s your usual rate.”
This puts it smack dab in the middle of the Gobi desert. Oh, well, it pays a $1,000 a day. Lance and the other guys were letting me plan the route for Mongolia, and it was not too far off the beaten path, or in the case of Mongolia, the dirt road. The truth is, I don’t need the thousand a day, but I like the adventure, and the extra money is always nice. I just wasn’t expecting to work while I was on vacation.
WELL, TODAY STARTED JUST LIKE IT does in every big city in the world. You get lost trying to get out of town. After about 20 minutes of wandering around, we found the right road and headed to Khabarovsk, about 650 due north into Siberia. I was just thinking about why we do this, why we take these long trips. I guess it’s because you like to go where there’s no help, where you’re totally self-sufficient, where it’s just you, the motorcycle, and the elements. There’s no motorcycle shop, maybe no gas stations or motels, just pure adventure. I guess that’s why we go, and we don’t just go around the block on the motorcycle too much.
The road was made for 70 mph on a bike. We must be in the farm belt of Russia, one hundred miles of all cornfields and nothing else. We wondered what this road held in store; would there be gas, food, some place to sleep? Will the motorcycle run for six thousand miles across Siberia? These are the questions that go through your mind. Between thinking about all these things and riding the bike, you stay busy. Lance worried about gas and where we could get it. He wanted to stop every hundred miles. The bikes were all Kawasaki KLRs and we would get about 230 miles per tankful. Each bike got about 40 miles per gallon. It took us about 2 days to convince Lance to try for 200 miles, and he finally liked the idea. Today we did 350 miles, all farmland. I thought I was in Nebraska. All of a sudden—flashback—I’m being paid $1,000 a day to carry one small box. I wonder who wants the box and what’s in it—so then I wonder who’s after me or the box. Where do I start looking for the bad guys? Oh, man, what a way to screw up a vacation. Oh, well, here I am. Nothing has gone wrong yet. Let’s just make the best of it.
The sky was bright blue, the sun was shining, and I found myself daydreaming as I rode along. I was thinking about a time about 25 years ago, under the bright blue sky in the Congo. You ever know what it’s like to be tracked down? That’s what the CIA was doing to me. Picture this, if you will. I’m sitting on a beach in Lisbon, Portugal, with two of the most beautiful ladies you’ve ever seen on each side of me—and, by the way, they all go topless around here. I think these two girls kept me around just to rub oil all over their beautiful, brown bodies. But I was in my mid-thirties at the time, and I want to tell you, the Rock looked pretty good back then. So, there I was a happy man, relaxed, enjoying myself, when trouble came walking right up to me. The CIA man is standing there looking at me, and he’s trying to look like a tourist. He’s got some brown khaki pants on with a pink Ralph Lauren shirt. The CIA man wants me to escort a beauty queen from Mozambique on a goodwill tour for the Peace Corp. We’d be flying from Rabat in Morocco to Zimbabwe.
At 8 o’clock the next morning there’s a knock on my door. I open the door, and here is a beautiful, six-foot tall woman standing there, her ebony skin just shining in the artificial light. This was the lady I was escorting to Zimbabwe, and her name was Imani. What a beautiful name for a beautiful woman. So down to the airport we go, where the CIA has already rented us a plane, a pilot, and a guide. The flight is uneventful, until somewhere in the middle of the Congo there is a small explosion. We look outside, and the engine is on fire. We just look at each other, too afraid to say anything. The pilot immediately starts to take the plane down where he can land safely in the middle of the savanna. I see the ground coming up way too fast, and the last thing I remember was the plane hitting the ground hard. After about 15 minutes, I came to and realized I was still alive! How good was this? Next to me was Imani, and she was alive, too. We both had cuts and bruises, but the pilot and our guide are both dead. We are so screwed. We are in the middle of Africa, in a crashed airplane, with two dead bodies. The best we can hope for is that our emergency transmitter is broadcasting, and they are able to find us in a day or so. We climb over the dead pilot and guide to get out of the plane. It is clear we were in the middle of nowhere. We manage to pull open a door, and we rummage around for supplies and a first aid kit. We patch each other up as best as we can, and then we decide what to do for the night.
“Imani,” I said, “We’re going to have to sleep in the plane, dead bodies or not. We won’t be safe from wild animals outside.”
“Rock,” she replied, “you’re not thinking clearly. The wild animals will smell the bodies, and they’ll get into the plane through the broken windows. Let’s get the bodies out, and we will sleep in the plane. We’ll have to hope the animals will be satisfied with the pilot and the guide.”