In Praise of Leather

Part 4, the exciting conclusion

I spent Thursday reading my novel and enjoying the friendliness and hospitality of the kind host, Brent Ferris, who brought me lunch leftovers from the group that was having a conference that day. Towards dinner-time Mary and Dave, who'd made the lodge reservations, arrived from Maine, followed by newlyweds Fitz and Helen and then Pete and Sue. Each couple had a vintage sidecar in tow. We spent Friday, Saturday, and Sunday at the track near Shubenacadie. My disappointment at ruining the opportunity to finally debut in Sam Stoney's new sidecar rig was short-lived as his engine blew up after only one practice lap making it a moot point.

The weekend was lots of fun. I made many friends and saw some beautiful and not-so beautiful motorcycles being ridden aggressively as I'm sure He had intended. David and Mary took me under their wing, driving me between the lodge and the track and taking me back to New Glasgow to look at the remains of the bike. Pete and Sue had a very good race and won a plaque. Tim from Vermont, who regularly races a sidecar rig with his 15-year-old son Zack, was there also with a broken left collarbone. We exchanged tips on sleeping and keeping the pain down. By Saturday my sad story had gotten around. While working in one of the turns as a marshall (in other words a flag-waver), I overheard the other two fellas talking about the a poor Yankee who'd had an accident. One said to the other that he'd heard ten different versions of the story and he believed the true story to be that I'd merely lost the bike I'd been towing behind my car. I waited until they'd finished before setting them straight. But what impressed me most about the weekend was the kindness and generosity of the organizers of the event. After taking a nap in the rather desolate infield I came back to the pits where everyone told me that the officials were looking for me. Oh great, I thought, maybe traces of Monday night's "cigarette" were found in Wednesday's urine. So I went to find Martin Singleton, Marly McKinnon, and their staff who, it turned out, merely wanted to make sure I had a place to stay and something to wear. I guess they hadn't yet been told that not only did I have a clean room in a lodge in the beautiful woods but that I was also sporting the classiest slacks ever seen in the dusty pits of the Atlantic Motorsports Park. With the red tag hanging out.

Michael Olmstead of South Boston gave me ride back to Cambridge on Monday, paying my way on the ferry. I slept most of the way. We got across the border without having to show the mangled remains of my documents. I had less than $2 in my pocket when I got home.

On the table next to the flowers the neighbors had bought me was a box. The oil hose for the Guzzi had arrived!

The End.