Kris listened to Paul and Mike chatting and joking over coffee, their laughter as incessant as the birds that had squawked all night long. He smiled along with them, it was peaceful enough. Better than the screams of his village when the communists would come for re-education.
A walk through some rock formations that reminded him of home.
They started up their beamers, Kris listened to the superior hum of Paul’s in line four. Oh well, the two cylinder boxer of his R1200 was good enough for a Russian tractor, it was good enough for him.
They weren’t sure where they would get to today. Maybe Topahe, maybe Hawthorne. They would definitely pass through Area 51 in Rachel, Nevada. “Rachel is a good name for a place,” said Kris, “Girls names are good for towns. In Bulgaria the capital city is Beryl”.
Area 51 was one of those fun little American things. Only Americans would make a remote army installation into a tourist attraction. In the old country people tried to avoid remote government installations.
In US money come from ceiling Kris stands in front of modern American truck
A nice lunch of hamburgers and French fries, Kris could never get enough of hamburgers, so much better than the Bulgarian food of his youth, which was mostly a porridge made from dirt and spider milk.
Paul had an allergy attack and was clearly suffering. Kris thought that being British, Paul would be stronger. In Bulgaria, children with allergies were fed to wolves.
They rode on through the endless desert. Kris liked riding, the noise of the wind and the tyres on the road drowned out the sound of the tanks and the screams of his family dinners as a child. Kris’s back tyre was now completely bald and showing wire. The American and The Britt were appalled but Kris laughed, “In Bulgaria, tyres are made of straw and shell casings,” he said.
In Bulgaria this guy would be married, have 19 children and working in the mines.
They rode on through the desert, through open range. Kris was amazed that they let the hamburgers walk free in America.
Paul’s allergy attack was getting worse. Paul had some tissue paper shoved into his helmet to catch the snot that ran like a river from his nostril. Kris was impressed by Paul’s ingenuity, “this is good” he said to himself.
That evening, they arrived in Hawthorne and pulled into a hotel. Paul was in a hurry to find a pharmacy. He rode off and got a bit lost. A quick u-turn on a double yellow line earned him a siren from a cop that came out of nowhere. In order to show him his papers (at least some things stay the same) Paul had to remove all his gear from the bike to retrieve his registration from under the seat. “Woah there son, that is a big knife you have there,” says the rozza, “You just move real slow around that thing and we won’t have a problem”. Paul did move slow and no ticket was given. American cops are pussies.
They all showered up and went out for dinner. Kris had a hamburger.
The perfect place for a gearbox reset.