This is Richard. No photos of Bear survived the story!

This past Sunday my friend Bear calls and asks me what the hell I have planned for the next few days. Simple enough question really and simple enough answer. "Not much more than any other normal work day", I tell him. Not that he would give a rat's buttocks anyway but.....

"Good! Were going to drive over to Cedar Key on Monday morning. So be ready and I'll swing by and pick you up around 0600 hrs." Then there's this click as the phone goes dead. Funny thing about Bear, he never really waits for you to think things over and maybe that's just as well. Had I but known the adventure that lay ahead I probably would have had second thoughts. But that's all past history now and there is damn little I can think of that I could have done that would have changed any of it. Possibly moving to Tasmania [Careful! - Ed] or some God forsaken island in the South China Sea. But other than that my fate was sealed the moment the phone rang and I answered it. Bear would have it no other way. If I could I would have voted myself off the island and pissed on my own torch!

But Monday dawned clear and muggy as always in Florida during the summer months. The doldrums of August have set in and at least there are no active hurricanes roaring across the Atlantic and taking a bead on Cape Canaveral. Well there is one out there someplace but who knows where it's heading or when. I try not to worry too much about those things until it's damn near to late to do anything about them.

Both the sun and my Mother in law were up and about as Bear pulls his old Dodge truck into the driveway. Mariann sleeps on for another half-hour. I should have kissed her good bye as a trip with Bear to anywhere is sort of like going Alligator hunting with a pocketknife. But I climb in the front seat and Bear heads the truck out towards RT. 95 and then the Beeline Expressway west! I tighten the seat belt and try to relax.

Now Bear is all bright and cheerful and looks for all the world like the illegitimate son of Santa Claus if nothing else. Well possibly his evil twin but hey, that's just the way he looks. Never judge a man by his appearance as "mom" always told me. Then again my mother told me a lot of things that I haven't figured out yet. My friend Bear is just another of life's great mysteries. I look a little more closely and notice that he's wearing another of those damnable tee shirts that he is so fond of. This one is for the "PIRATE Motorcycle Company" and it says "Made in Milwaukee" on it. Jeez! Where does he find these things? Later I learn that Pirate was made back in the 1914 era and only for three years. The last Tee shirt he had worn was for a Pierce Arrow for God's sake. The picture of the bike on it looked like a bad night in a Bangkok hooker bar at the hands of a deranged plumber with a welding torch and way too much 3 1/2-inch diameter pipe available! I also strongly suspect he was coming down off a very nasty crystal meth binge. Pierce Arrow had made motorcycles? Apparently the plumber did also. The hookers? Anyone's guess.

Bear asks me "How you feeling today Richard? You look like you might have had a tough night". My response is simply that "I'm not used to these early hour runs to the border and still you haven't told me what in hell it is we're going to look at. I mean what kind of big bike is it and how old and what shape is it in?"

Bear just smiled a bit and said. "I talked to the guy last night, he said the bike was old and big and that he'd gotten it as a gift from a gentleman he had met in the service during W.W.II. He told me that it was in running condition and I could actually take it for a ride. Now ain't that something?"

I muttered into my seat belt something about mad dogs and Englishmen but then it wasn't midday just yet. But damn it was getting hotter by the mile. Bears old Dodge was humming along quietly. Ticking off mile after mile and seemingly none the worse for the 48 years of use and abuse it had suffered at the hands of Lord only knows how many owners. Bear had acquired it and done a complete frame up restoration and replaced the aged six with a more modern, albeit ubiquitous 318 V-8 he probably ripped out of a State vehicle at an auction at one time or another.

We poked on down the Beeline through Orlando,  "The City Beautiful" and headed on, stopping to paying tolls as we went, me always digging into my pocket for extra change. We hit the Florida Turnpike and drive on to RT.75 all the while Bear maintains the speed limit to within a fraction of a mile per hour. Needless to say we are being passed by every other vehicle on the road. I could swear a guy on a Puch 125 blasted by us at one point. Clouds of blue white smoke pouring from what looked for all the world to be an exhaust system created out of old aluminum folding lawn furniture.

Bear hands me a road map and says to let him know when we reach the Ocala/ Williston exit or US-27 North. We'd been riding for hours now and the traffic had thinned out. Bear was getting a little giddy I noticed, but thankfully he wasn't troubled by gas pains. That thought had crossed my mind more than a few times and the cab of his truck was a horrible place to die. Visions of that rider back in March outside of Daytona, slumped in the saddle of his Goldwing flashed through my head. Bears old truck does have Air conditioning but it didn't come from the factory like that. Way too old. It does however still have one of those old dash mounted fans, the metal ones that create a small vortex when switched on. I think Bear uses it to clean out the trash when it gets too deep. Visions of discarded boiled peanut shells and old Cuban cigar wrappers and the occasional petrified cheese sandwich flying around the cab like a dust devil fill my head for a second.

"Jeeez Bear, What kind of bike is it anyway?" I ask once again as the suspense was killing me! "What's wrong with your old Panhead? Giving you problems or what?" I seem to keep repeating myself, a lot! Bear just keeps on driving and ignores my whimpering. Then about fifteen minutes later and right out of the blue he starts talking.

"Don't really know Richard, All he would tell me was that to him it was just as good as new and he wouldn't sell it for anything less than what it was worth when new. Honest, that's all I know. Nothing wrong with my Panhead either. Just thought that I might need another ride for those nice warm sunny winter days and ..." he trailed on off into some Latin quotes that sounded a bit too much like a "High Mass". Then Bear concentrated once more on keeping the speedometer pinned at 55 mph.

We reached the turnoff and Bear pointed the Dodge towards points unknown. US-27 became US-27 N and finally we turned onto SR-24. We were on the home stretch to Cedar Key at last. At least I hoped that's where we were going, as I hadn't noticed any signs telling us we were headed west. But I figured that when the front bumper touched salt water he'd stop anyway.

Finally we pull into Cedar Key and Bear decides that maybe we should stop for gas, have something to eat and call the bike's owner and let him know that we're in town. I agree and we find a gas station and fill up the truck. Bear also fills a five-gallon gas can he carried along just in case the damn bike needed to be tested out and he hated to siphon from his Dodge. I secretly think he had tasted a bit too much lead in the old gas when he was younger. I keep that thought to myself however.

With the tanks topped off we look for good place to eat. Bear spots a sign that says, "We serve the best fried mullet in the world!" Oh imagine my joy! Bear will have plenty of time to digest a meal of fried fish and I'll have the pleasure of enjoying him venting off the excess all the way home!

We walk into the homey little country type eatery and sit down at a booth. The waitress, owner, and whatever else she is comes over and asks what we'd like. "You boys are new in town aren't you?" she asks politely enough. Boys? What? Where? Between Bear and I our combined ages would more than likely shove old Methuselah out of the Guinness book of world records. Bears just nods and takes the menu from her. I reply that we are indeed new to Cedar Key and that we are looking or a certain gentleman and I kick Bear in the leg under the table as I don't have a clue as to what the guy's name is. Bear looks at me and then the woman and replies, "George Wilkins. Know where he lives?" He also kicks me back hard enough for me to be incapable of speech and tears are forming in the corners of my eyes. I suspect that there might be wood splinters from the table sticking into me from the force of his boot. Well that and the fact that the condiments on the table all jumped into the air and rearranged themselves neatly in the process.

I start holding my breath to ease the pain and the waitress asks me "You OK, you don't look too good. Want a beer or something?" I just shake my head and say nothing. I really cannot talk. She then returns her gaze to Bear and continues. "Sure I know George, He comes in here all the time and has been ever since I can remember. I've owned this place for going on thirty-five years now and I can't recall a time when George wasn't here. Why you looking for him anyway?" she asks.

By now I can at least breath again without sobbing and the pain is just a dull ache that will possibly last for more than two weeks. "Motorcycle" I gasp and apparently I can't really breathe right.

"Oh she says, you mean George senior!" Bear looks up with renewed interest. "You mean there's more than one George Wilkins?" he says. "The guy I talked to back on the other coast was named George Wilkins and he told me that his father was named George as well". Bear lets this all sink in as she takes our order.

"Damn Richard! Looks like the whole family is part of the Forman clan or something! You know, all the kids are named George?"

"Well if that's the case then I pity any daughters that they might have!" is the best I can come up with as the pain is now subsiding enough that I can once more feel my entire right leg. It's being slowly replaced by that horrible nasty feeling you get when you've been sitting on the crapper reading the newspaper too long and get interested in a good article. All tingly and hurts like hell when you stand on it. But at least this lets me know it's still attached to my body. Somehow I almost wish that it were not.

Bear ignores my suffering and the woman brings our order. "OK now, The double order of fried mullet is yours I believe," she says as she places the biggest damn pile of battered fish and fries I've ever seen in my life in front of Bear. I get the one remaining plate of food which is about the only thing my damn doctor will let me eat. The dreaded diet plate! Yummy! I get fresh tomatoes and some sort of greens that I can't recognize at first and a ton of fruit. Also a side of cottage cheese that I know better than to eat. First rule of cardiac medicine. If it tastes good, you are not allowed to eat it!

The waitress then explains how to find George senior, the one with the motorcycles. Seems that George Jr. doesn't ride and he's out on his fishing boat all day anyhow. "Just go on towards the water, turn left when you hit sand and follow the main road up past the "speed trap" and then turn left onto the dirt road. Can't miss the speed trap. The Sheriffs deputy is always sitting there waiting anyway. Just turn off the road right after you pass him and the police FWD. Well that's if he doesn't stop you first and try to write you a ticket" she smiles and walks off.

I look over at Bear stuffing mullet down his throat and there's a fish tail sticking out of his mouth. It wiggles a bit as he asks me, "Think his name might be George by any chance?" Bear returns to the imaginary river where he catches his prey and scoops another piece of mullet towards his face. God! But I've been watching way too much Discovery Channel or something. Bear has batter and fish scales stuck in his beard! The sight is horrible.

So with meal finished we start to get up to leave and the waitress brings us our bill. Bear pulls out a wad of cash that would choke a mule and peels off a twenty. "Here you go he says, keep the change. Thanks for the directions as well". Bear then starts to walk out of the restaurant and I'm still sliding out of the booth. I stand and my right leg gives out like a pole-axed cow! Bear picks me up off the floor and half carries, half drags me to the truck. People are now watching all this as though the circus was in town and it was a free ride night. "Thanks, Bear" is about all I can say as I climb into the truck once again and rub the hell out what I thought was my good leg. "No problemo Richard", and Bear starts the old Dodge and we head out to find one of the George's. Hopefully the one with the motorcycle for sale.

Bear decided that we didn't really need to call him as in small towns like this word spreads faster than crap through a goose. Seems that he was right as he normally is. People were waving at us as we drove down towards the beach, took the correct turn and headed on looking for the Sheriff's car. It didn't take us long to find it either. Rather it didn't take him long to find us. Lights flash and sirens wail and we are pulled over by deputy dog in person. Bear mutters something I don't quite understand and waits while Barney Fife pulls down his shades and saunters up to the truck.

"License and registration please" and Bear is almost used to that. But on his bike, not in his Dodge. He hands the deputy the documents requested and asks him "What the hell were we doing wrong anyway?" The deputy says nothing but walks back to his car to check and see if there are any outstanding wants or warrants and runs the tag number through the DMV. He pauses and checks the bed of Bear's truck. Nothing in there but some chains, a few extra strong nylon tie down straps, assorted bungee chord tie downs and a tarp. Bear and I wait while he tries to see if we are escaped animal molesters, daughter rapers or father rapers or even worse, Outlaw biker mullet rustlers!

None of the above turns out to be correct but that doesn't stop old Barney. He pulls out his ticket book and starts writing Bear up. "You know you were speeding back there don't you?" More of a statement than a question I suspect. Bear doesn't blink but takes the ticket signs his name and that's all she wrote. Barney admonishes Bear to keep it down while he's in town or he'll give us a few nights free accommodations compliments of the county. He also asks, "What's with all the gear in the back?" Bear says "Just the normal stuff that I use in my work, Construction stuff you know?" Barney thinks about this for a second and lets us leave. Then we are free at last to see where in hell old George lives.

Bear says nothing else to the cop, just checks traffic, the non-existent traffic, and pulls out into the road once again. I look at him suspiciously as I know that Bear is not going to let this one go without some sort of revenge. I've seen it before and I'll see it again I just wonder why it's always with me. He was once cited for violation of Section 567, article 332. Stomping a police car. Now had he been sober enough to have removed the antenna first he just might have gotten away scott free. But the officer in the car was able to call for backup. Proving once again that nobody is perfect! He literally and figuratively stomped the roof of a police car down flat to the level of the seat backs just by jumping up and down on it for quarter of an hour. He had the able assistance of another guy who was just as large and pissed as he was I'll admit to that. But nevertheless that was back in his younger days before he was civilized and well educated.

Bear I suspect is descended from a long line of cannibals and more than likely the remaining members of the Donner party. He would have thought that Alfred Packer got a raw deal in court as well. I keep these thoughts to myself. I'm also ever so grateful that Bear hadn't told the cop that the chains were for weight to hold the tarp when he sinks the body of the next person who pisses him off. Not that it was the truth, but it makes for a good story nonetheless.

"Hey Bear" I ask, "What was the ticket for anyway?" He just hands it to me without saying a thing. I read it and it's for speeding of all things. "What the hell? You couldn't have been speeding, you never speed." I read the ticket and it says 24 in a 20-mph zone. Now that's laughable really. Bear just snorts and says "Not to worry Richard, they always do that to out of towners. Figure I'll just pay it and that will be the end of it. Fill the county coffers you know? But I've got a surprise for that one. I'll be back and we'll see what the judge has to say about it. Well unless I think of something better anyway. The little piss ant!"

Something tells me that he already has. I wonder what section and article "Mooning of a law enforcement officer" violates? I hope that I never find out. Visions of the chain and the police car from American Graffiti fill my head and the detached rear axle and rear end of a county deputy sheriff's vehicle is food for thought. The Police car going on screeching and throwing sparks for another two hundred feet after the axle stops at the end of the chain? Maybe it's more than just a scene from a movie? Maybe someone, somewhere actually did that. Maybe even more than once. Bear drives on in silence planning his revenge and I know that I'll be a part of it in one way or another. It's just inevitable and one of those cosmic things that happen in my life.

"Hey Richard! Bear yells, there it is, that's the address" and he pulls the old Dodge into the dirt driveway and heads toward the house at the end of the drive. The Bear, the Dodge and I have arrived in Cedar Key! And all at the same approximate time thankfully.

[Continues...]