Night of the Strawberries

I ground my teeth as my GS1200 jittered and shook over the washboard surface of the dirt farm road. I rose to my feet, standing on the foot pegs so I could use my legs as additional shock absorbers. For the last seventy miles I'd spent more time standing than sitting.

I'd left San Jose, California, on May eighth, the day of my thirty-third birthday, three months and ten days after signing the papers selling my company. I'd been on the road since, living a dream I'd had for years. Over the past five months I'd visited thirty-nine of the forty-eight contiguous states. Mississippi, the state whose roads were currently beating the shit out of me and my motorcycle, being the thirty-ninth. I had the rest of Mississippi, Louisiana, Arkansas, Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Colorado, Utah, New Mexico, and Arizona to go before I returned home.

I'd ridden over twenty thousand miles on the back of my trusty iron steed. From the beginning of my trip, I'd made it a point to avoid interstates as much as possible, sticking to back roads, gravel and dirt roads such as this one, and occasionally, almost no road at all. I slept in a tent five nights out of seven, stopping in motels only when I needed to do laundry or was so grimy that a sponge batch was no longer an option. I was going where I wanted, when I wanted, and I didn't—

I felt the front wheel washing out into the deep, slippery dust as it began to follow a rut. I twisted the throttle hard, trying to lighten the front end and power out of it, but it was too late. I went down in a tumble of arms and legs as the bike pitched me from the saddle. It wasn't the first time the bike had put me on the ground, and I'd probably hit the dirt at least a few more times before I reached California.

"Fuck..." I muttered as waited a moment, lying where I fell to give any pain time to start as I did a quick mental inventory of myself to make sure I wasn't injured.

When I realized there was no serious discomfort, I groaned to my feet and began slapping dust off myself, breathing hard from the heat and the adrenaline rush of crashing my bike. I was only doing about thirty miles per hour over the rough, dusty road, so my tumble hadn't been violent. My BMW was well protected with crash bars all around, and I was wearing full riding armor, so the fall hadn't hurt—much—but now I had to pick that heavy bitch up again.

"Getting really tired of falling off..." I grumbled to no one as turned to the bike.

With my gear on the bike, the motorcycle weighed around eight hundred pounds. When I started on this trip, I either had to unload the bike or enlist the help of others, if someone was around, to help me get the bike up after I crashed. Now, after five months and more falls than I cared to remember, I could muscle the loaded bike upright alone if the ground wasn't muddy. Today, the road was anything but muddy.

I settled to my knees beside the bike and grabbed two of the crash guards as I placed my chest against the seat. Driving hard with my legs, I powered myself into the seat, battling to my feet as the bike slowly rose. Once, rather than offer to help, some joker commented how it looked like I was fucking my bike as I muscled it upright. I didn't care. Let the asshole throw his back out while trying to dead lift a bike. Besides, short of an Olympic power lifter, there was no way a lone guy was going to lift my loaded bike any other way. Panting from my effort, I pushed the stand down and eased the bike to a rest.

"Yeah!" I roared in victory as I threw my hands in the air. In the past five months I'd leaned down and muscled up, not the least reason being because I kept having to pick this heavy bastard up.

I quickly checked the bike over and adjusted my gear before I thumbed it into life. It started easily, and with a little hop, I slid my leg between the tank bag and the bed roll strapped to the rear seat. With a hard pannier on each side, plus another one on the rear, my bedroll and tent on the rear seat, and the large tank bag with my map in front of me, I was wedged into the saddle with little room to spare.

I kicked the bike into gear and started off again. My family and friends said I was nuts for taking this trip, and doubly nuts for doing it alone. I didn't care. I was going to do it, and since nobody wanted to ride with me, I was doing it solo. I'd poured nearly ten years of my life into starting a company that allowed business to track customer's buying habits and make predictive inventory recommendations. It had been wildly successful, so much so, a venture capital firm made me an offer I couldn't refuse. They'd wanted me stay on, they'd begged me to stay with the company, but with eighty million dollars in my checking account, I was done. I wanted to live a little and see the country. I'd never been outside California until I left on this trip, and now I was a better man for it.

My girlfriend at the time said if I left she wouldn't be there when I returned. She'd been shocked when I offered to help her pack her shit. I was doing this whether she wanted me to or not, and I hadn't regretted my decision for an instant. I hadn't even wondered if she'd carry out her threat because I didn't give a shit one way or the other. I hadn't realized how much my life had become about bullshit until it was just me and my motorcycle on the road.

I chattered along the rough road, the bike dancing over the bumps and ruts, navigating by map because Bitching Betty, the woman that lived inside my GPS, wouldn't allow me take roads like these. Avoiding major roads allowed me to see America without commerce ruining the views. I loved the seemingly infinite miles of fields, forests, and lakes, abandoned or ramshackle houses, derelict buildings, and rusting equipment. This was the real America, not all the fake bullshitery of California.

It was hotter than seven hells as I rattled along, slowly eating the miles. I hadn't seen another car or truck in the past hour, but I didn't care. My next stop was a wide spot in the road called Hohenlinden. I'd need gas by then and I hoped they had a filling station. I had a two-gallon can of gas on the bike in case I ran out, but with no cell reception I had no way to find my next fuel stop until I saw it for myself. There were a lot of places marked on my map that, except being marked on a map, you'd never know were there. I hoped Hohenlinden wasn't another one of those. The next town was Montevista, but that would push my bike to the limit of its range, and if Montevista didn't have gas, or cell reception so I could find a station, I was going to be in trouble.

I'd learned that lesson early in my trip when I got stuck in the middle of nowhere, ran out of gas, and used damn near every drop of my emergency reserve. I hadn't had to walk, but if the gas station had been another three or four of miles, I'd have probably walked a couple of them. That hadn't been funny and it took weeks to get the puckers out of the seat from my ass being clenched so tight.

The roughness of the road increased and I rose on the pegs. After a moment I realized something wasn't right with the bike and I glanced around, watching the road as it passed beneath my tires. The BMW normally rode pretty well, but it was beating the shit out of me even though the road didn't look any worse now than it had for the past ten or fifteen miles. I rode for another mile or so, trying to determine if the problem was the bike or the road, before I stopped. I decided it was bike.

I could see for miles in both directions, and since there was no dust cloud from an approaching vehicle, I stopped in the middle of the road. With another little hop, I dismounted. I noticed immediately the bike was sitting low in the ass, and it took me only a moment to find the problem. The rear monoshock had failed. There was oil caked dust all over the rear of the bike and there was almost no gap in the coils on the spring. I pulled my helmet off before crouching to take a closer look. Poking at the shock with my finger, it didn't take long before I realized I was fucked. I carried a tire repair kit, extra oil, and spare bulbs and fuses, along with a basic tool kit, but I didn't have a spare shock. Of all the things I worried about breaking on the trip, a shock was close to the bottom of the list.

"Well... shit," I grumbled as I stood and looked around. There was nothing as far as I could see except fields of cotton.

I debated my quandary. Did I push the bike off to the side of the road and walk in the heat, or did I ride and risk damaging the bike further? Without a rear suspension, riding over these rough roads I could easily break the bike's back by snapping the frame. Pursing my lips tight, I hopped my leg over the seat. I'd just have to ride slow.

I crept along in second gear, groaning in mechanical sympathy with ever crashing bang as I hobbled my bike along. Every couple of miles I stopped and checked my cell phone for a signal, but I might as well have been on the moon for all the service that was available.

Ahead of me was a small grove of trees standing tall in the surrounding fields. I decided to pull off there to drink some water and cool off a little. Moving so slowly, I was baking in the hot, Mississippi sun, and I didn't need to add dehydration to my problems. As I approached the trees, I could see the roof of a structure, and I had to resist the urge to speed up. The roof appeared to be a barn, but where there was a barn maybe there was a house, and where there was a house there was probably a phone.

I pulled into the wide dirt drive, stopping well back from the small house, and killed the engine. I was preparing to dismount when a woman stepped out of the house and waited on the porch. I removed my helmet immediately and parked it on the mirror. I didn't want to scare her.

"Hello!" I called as I stepped off the motorcycle but remained standing beside it. "I'm hoping you can help me!"

The woman watched me a moment and then seemed to make a decision. "What can I do for you?"

I unzipped my armored jacket as I slowly approached. "My motorcycle is broken and I'm wondering if I can use your phone. I'll be happy to pay for any charges."

"It seemed to be running okay when you stopped."

She was nervous about the stranger in her yard, so I halted my approach. I was close enough now that I could see her better. She was probably ten years older than me, but she was still stunningly beautiful. She was wearing a slightly old-fashioned, light blue dress decorated with small white polka dots, opened at the collar enough that I could see a touch of cleavage, with a matching narrow belt around her waist that caused the light and breezy fabric it to hug her hips in a most appealing way. I hadn't been with a woman since I left California, and—

I forced my thoughts back to the matter at hand. "Yes," I agreed with a nod. "The engine's fine. I broke a shock. I just need to use your phone to..." To what, I wondered. There probably wasn't a BMW motorcycle dealer around the corner. "To try to find a replacement part," I finished.

She continued to watch me for a moment before she smiled as she jerked her head and opened the door in invitation. "Sure. Come on in."

I smiled as I approached. "Thank you. Sorry to bother you, but I've got no signal on my cell."

Her smile spread. "I know. We don't even have a cell phone because there's no service around here until you get up near Calhoun City, and that's forty-five, fifty minutes away," she said as I stepped into the blessed coolness of her house.

"Mamma... the—"

The young woman stopped when she noticed the stranger in her house. The woman, like her mother, was stunningly beautiful with her round face, light brown hair, and large dark eyes. There was no mistaking the family resemblance, and I was certain I was looking at 'Mamma' twenty years younger. I thought it quaint the daughter was wearing a dress similar in style to her mother's, though the daughter's dress had a line of dark buttons down the front, and the polka dots had been replaced by tiny flowers. To complete the resemblance, both women had a bright bow attached to a ribbon tied in their shoulder length hair.

"Margie, this is..." Mamma began.

Taking the hint, I extended my hand in greeting. "Daniel. Daniel Harrington. My friends call me Dan."

Margie smiled as she stepped forward and took my hand. "Nice to meet you, Dan. Margie Whenn. It's actually Margaret, but nobody calls me that."

"Nice to meet you Margie."

"Helen," Mamma said as I turned to her.

"Nice to meet you, Ms. Whenn. Thank you again for helping me out."

"It's Helen, please. The phone is right in here," she said, gesturing to the corner of the room.

The phone was sitting on a small table beside a wingback chair covered in a dark brown fabric with tiny white flowers dotting its surface. Helen and Margie's home was small but neat, full of furniture and fixtures that wouldn't look out of place in my grandmother's house. The house smelled slightly musty, as I suspected many old houses did, and I guessed the home had been in Helen's, or her husband's, family for generations. I glanced at Helen's ring finger, but there was no wedding band.

I settled into the chair. Like the rest of the house, it looked old but well cared for. I wouldn't have been surprised if the phone had been an old wall mounted crank phone, but it was a relatively modern piece... if you could call this five-pound lump of indestructible plastic that everyone had when the telephone company provided a phone, modern. At least it was a push button and not a rotary dial. I picked up the handset and then paused before placing it back in the cradle. I had no idea what to do. It wasn't like I'd memorized all phone numbers I might need for the trip. I pulled my cell from my pocket, but I still didn't have a signal.

"Do you have a phone book?"

"Under the phone," Helen said as she pointed.

I looked at the lower shelf of the table and picked up the inch-thick book. It was dated 2008. My heart sinking, I prayed any number I found hadn't been changed in the past ten years. I began flipping pages as Margie and Helen discussed something about strawberries. There wasn't a listing for motorcycles, much less one for BMW. I slowly closed the book, stymied. When I didn't pick up the phone, the woman paused in their conversation and looked at me.

"Problem?" Helen asked.

"Yeah. I can't find a listing." I chewed on my bottom lip a moment. "How far did you way it was to Raccoon City?"

The women laughed. "Calhoun City. About thirty miles," Helen replied.

I chewed my lip again, tasting the dust from my fall earlier, and then rose. Thirty miles was a long way on a busted bike. "Okay. Thank you so much for your help."

"What are you going to do?" Margie asked.

I shrugged. "Try to get there."

"How? I thought you said your motorcycle is broken," Helen asked.

"It is, but maybe it'll make it."

"And if it doesn't?" Helen pressed.

I shrugged again. "I'll figure something out."

The women glanced at each other as I started for the door. "Dan, wait a second," Helen said. "Margie, I'm going to run Dan up to Calhoun City. Stay here and finish what you were doing."

"Okay," Margie said, but didn't look pleased she was being left home to work while her mother chauffeured me around.

"You're sure you don't mind?" I asked, hoping she didn't.

"Not at all. We're between seasons at the moment, so I can get away long enough for this."

"Thank you, thank you very much! I'll pay for the gas."

Helen waved off the offer. "We'll be back in a couple of hours or so," she said over her shoulder to Margie.

I followed Helen out and around the house to the barn. Parked inside, beside an ancient but well-preserved John Deere tractor, was an amazing old Chevy pickup. "Oh, wow!" I breathed. "We're going in that?"

"It's the only thing there is."

"What year is it?" I asked as I walked around to the passenger side.

"It's a thirty-six. It belonged to my husband."

"You're married?" I asked, making sure there wasn't even a hint of disappointment in my voice.

"Not for a long time now."

Her husband must restore old cars because the truck was absolutely mint and was probably worth a small fortune. It was painted a deep green with black fenders, the paint glistening like it was new. Painted on the doors was a large strawberry with Whenn Strawberry Farm in white letters forming a circle around the fruit.

I crawled into the truck and shut the door as Helen stepped on the starter, causing the truck to whir into life. I was grinning like an idiot as she shifted the truck into reverse and it growled backwards out of the barn.

"So you raise strawberries?" I asked as we rattled down the road, the wind blowing through the open windows ruffling our hair. She smiled at me and I could feel my cock twitch. Helen would be supremely fuckable in any case, but after five months?

"Yeah. My husband's family started the farm around the turn of the century, and we've been raising them since."

I wondered why she was still working the farm if it belonged to her husband, but it was none of my business. "How many acres?"

"About thirty."

"Is that a lot?"

She smiled. "Considering we plant over five thousand plants per acre, and it's just me and Margie most of the time, yeah, that's plenty."

"You do it all yourself?"

She nodded. "We hire pickers for the harvest, but the rest we do mostly ourselves."

That explained why Helen and her daughter were so fit and sun kissed. "Is strawberry farming profitable?"

"Enough. We sell our berries to a regional grocery chain. We gross about a 150,000 per acre—"

She paused as I whistled. 150,000, times thirty, was 4.5 million dollars. Not bad money for a bunch of berries. "I'm surprised there's all this cotton around if strawberries pay so well."

"It sounds like a lot doesn't it?" she said with a smile. "Unlike cotton, strawberries are labor intensive. That's why we only have thirty acres, plus you have to factor in buying the plants every year, equipment costs, fertilizer and bedding, and all the other stuff, not to mention the big one, the cost of labor for the harvest. We hire about three hundred people for a month or so to help with our picking. We do okay, but we're not getting rich. If our land wasn't paid for, we'd barely make enough to live on."

I nodded. "I'm surprised I haven't seen your picture on the cover of a magazine somewhere."

"Why would you?"

"Two women, running such a large operation on their own... That's the type of stuff that gets their faces on the covers of business magazines."

She smiled at me as she shrugged. "And what do you do beside ride your motorcycle?"

I spent the next twenty minutes talking about selling my business and traveling the country. I was waxing poetic about wanting to camp on the rim of the Grand Canyon when my phone dinged. I removed the device from my pocket and glanced at it.

"I have a signal!"

Helen continued on before pulling into a parking lot of a grocery store as I swiped and tapped. It didn't take long to realize the nearest shock for my bike was probably in Memphis, Tennessee, almost three hours away. It was just past three, on a Saturday, and a heavy weight settled into my stomach. According to the dealer's website they'd closed three hours earlier, and wouldn't open again until Tuesday at nine. I quickly checked all the dealers in the surrounding states, but according to their websites, they were open the same hours as the Memphis location, more or less, and none claimed to still be open. In desperation I dialed the Memphis location anyway. As I expected, nobody answered except the robo-voice that said they were closed. I sighed heavily as I ended my call.