En Route to NOLA: Prejudice and Life Lessons

Despite the apocolyptic forecast and the complete lack of sleep I got the night prior; I was dead-set on making the journey from Austin to New Orleans by nightfall. It was October 31st and there was no way I’d miss whatever New Orleanians do on Halloween night, regardless of the 15 inches of expected rainfall and tornado warnings.

A few hours into the ride, 50 miles past Houston, still 5 hours out of New Orleans; the rain began to fall in earnest. Harder than anything I have ever experience. It was awe-inspiring and it was horror-inducing. A certain dream-like quality of the rain got my imagination going; the conflation of rainfall and semi-truck spray made me feel like I was swimming in merky water with a pod of orcas. Not the murderous why-do-you-keep-me-in-this-tank variety, but the kind that might accidentally kill you from neglegence of their shear size and power.

I was musing about this when the engine suddenly cut out at 75 mph, in the left lane of a 10 lane interstate. With no other choice, I pulled onto the inside shoulder - lest some sleepy-eyed truck driver obliterate me.

Mechanically, I know exactly what had just occurred. I’d even been warned about it. That very same vacuum hose that melted shut in Arizona (which was subsequently replaced) had been sucking up ambient moisture in the air until water eventually crawled up the hose and filled the carburater.

So there I was again: stuck on the shoulder of an interstate, bracing against the battering of rain and truck spray. I smoked a cigarette and prayed that the heat of the engine would evaporate enough of the water for the bike to start and get off the highway. After 30 minutes, the bike hesitantly cooperated and made it to the next exit, where it promptly stuttered and died. I got off the saddle and pushed the bike a couple hundred yards to a gas station. At least a foot of water was standing on the road.

Finally out of the rain under the gas station awning, I felt safe and dry enough to assess the situation. The good news was that I could remove the hose, blow out the water, and tape the bottom shut. The redundant snorkel hose splitting off the vacuum hose and routed under the seat would be able to draw dry air just fine. All I needed to do is drain the water out of the carburater and get on my way. Theoretically this should be a 10 minute fix.

The bad news was that the screw to drain the carb is totally stripped. I knew this because I stripped it myself. In Arizona. A week prior.

I called my mechanic-/sage-friend Sean and agreed that I needed to either locate a tap to remove the stripped drain screw or dis-assemble the carburater - a task which intimidated me since I purchased the bike. Without the means to go find a tap, I resolved to proceed with the latter option. To be clear, this is not a Mary Oliver ‘I’m kinda miserable but the world is so grand and beautiful’ experience; it’s an experience firmly located in the a FML category.

It was right at the moment when I had decided to take on the carburater-deconstruction task that a man behind me shouted over the rain “hey man, you need any help?”

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Troy, a 46-year old motorcycle mechanic, had a pretty grizzled appearance. With long hair, dirty clothes, and weary eyes he shouted in his deeply-drawled southern accent. Troy’s copilot, Johnnie, was about the same demeanor but with an extra 10 or 20 years. Johnnie was waving a container in a paper bag (which I presumed was not Snapple) and was approximately three-halves drunk.

It’s a terrible storm to be riding in. A damn tornado nearly tipped my trailer over last night!

Yea, this weather is pretty miserable. I’m in a bit of a jam here: I need to drain my carb but the drain screw is stripped. I need a tap.

Well shit, I got a whole set of taps back at the shop. Do you want me to go get ‘em?

Yes, oh man, that would be incredible.

Alright, I’ll be back in just a minute.

With some doubt that Troy would remember and follow through with this offer, I continued preparing for my task. I was surprised then, that about 10 minutes later Troy returned with tools, sans his inebriated comrade. He quickly identified the correct sized tap and got to work on the screw. It was difficult to gain leverage, so we loosened the fasteners holding the carb in place and rotated it. That did it — with enough purchase on the screw we opened the drain and watched water and gas pour out of the carb. In another 5 minutes we had put everything back in order and got the bike started.

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In the 15 or so minutes we had been working together, I learned that Troy was a recent graduate of an AA program with a degree in instrument engineering and, having difficulty finding employment in his field, was considering opening up his own motorcycle shop. In that same 15 minutes, Troy had managed to rub against all of my liberal / socially-conscious / late-twenties-Seattlite sensibilities. He spoke of his disdain for ‘niggardly work’, enthusiastically shared his love of Stergis and ‘having good fun with young ladies’, and, upon hearing about my trip, expressed excitement for my opportunity to ‘experience Latin women.’

Having exchanged information and waved goodbye to Troy, I packed the bike and geared up. I had only burned a couple hours — I could still get to New Orleans by 7 or 8.

You can imagine my frustration, then, when the idling engine died sitting there at the gas station.

I spent the following 3 hours out in the rain, staring at the bike and pondering what the hell was going on. Having been convinced that Troy was not a man I wanted to have further dealings with, I had decided not to reach out to him.

It was at about 6pm that I reached the end of my rope. Eating fried chicken in the gas station, I was suddenly so tired I felt like crawling into a corner of the store, assuming the fetal position, and crying myself to sleep. I took a deep breath, pulled my phone out, and called Troy. Without any hestitation he told me he’d be happy to help and directled me to his shop about a half-mile away.

I pushed the bike on the road (no sidewalks in this part of Texas) and sure enough, found his place without any difficulty, just as he’d described: 2 men smoking in the rain, 3 trucks and a trailer in various states of disrepair in the muddy front lawn, and a free-standing aluminum-sided shop.

With rain pouring in through the holes in the roof, I carefully found a place to get out of my gear and spread out the pages of my service manual. Johnnie was playing the part of the incoherent backseat-mechanic. Troy and I walked through the problem and thought of every possible cause. Troy patiently listened and kindly responded to Johnnie’s babble until Johnnie said “well I’m drunk and ought to get to sleep” and walked upstairs.

The exhaust smelled rich and the spark plug was black (the telltale signs that the engine is running fuel-heavy), but no air-fuel adjustments had been made on the carb and the choke was not thrown on the handlebar control. We pulled the tank off to get a better look. After only a few minutes Troy discovered that the choke cable was pinched - it must have twisted against the frame when we had been fussing with it back at the gas station.

Relieved and anxious to get back on the road, I thanked Troy profusely and offered to buy a flat of whatever he drinks before pushing on.

At this point he squared up to me, looked me in the eyes, and said, “we all have to take care of each other.”

Indeed, Troy. Indeed.

Epilogue:

I made it an hour down the road before my better judgement caught up to me. 5 hours riding in the dark, on a night notorious for drunk driving, into a town notorious for drinking, in heavy rain: not a good idea. I pulled off at a motel in Beaumont, TX and crashed like I had just finished a marathon.