Motorcycle Mike
Ever since I was a little girl, I would spend two weeks of the summer with my grandparents in Kentucky. I turned twenty-one this year, and I decided to rent a motorcycle for the drive and take in some of the sights of the country.
I performed a lot of research and decided to rent an Eaglerider bike. The one I chose had shiny black fenders,
a silver and black frame, and a black leather seat with the Eaglerider logo. It also had two black saddlebags on both sides of the bike. When I drove along the road, my hair flying behind me, and the wind in my face I felt magnificent. The scenery around me took my breath away and for the hundredth time, I patted myself on the back for making this choice.
Five days later I roared on Highway 51, made a left turn and a couple of blocks later, pulled into my grandparents’ driveway. Like most of the days, they were sitting together on their porch swing. They watched as I climbed off the bike, pulled the helmet from my head, and shook out my curly red hair. As I climbed the stairs to their front porch, I said, “Hey grandpa, hey grandma.”
“Well, look at you.” grandpa said. “I wondered if you were going to show up for vacation. It’s been a few years since we saw you. I’m surprised to see you driving a motorcycle.”
“I know. Isn’t it wonderful? I’m having such a good time and seeing sites that are so beautiful. And to think, I would have missed out on so much of this beautiful country.”
“Bring your bags in and take them to your old room,” Grandma said. “I’m making fried chicken for dinner.”
I went to my room, unpacked my meager belongings, and took them downstairs to wash them, then joined my grandpa on the front porch.
“I heard an old wives tale some years ago about a headless fella riding a motorcycle taking revenge on a motorcycle gang.” I smiled to myself and sat on one of the chairs facing him, eagerly waiting for him to begin again. Grandpa always told the best of stories. When I was a teenager, he told stories that kept me up at night. He smiled at me, leaned back in the swing, and began again.
Mike and Delany were taking a road trip across the United States and stopped for supper at the Kelima Club Saloon and Dance Hall on Highway 51. They were sitting at a table enjoying dinner and a bottle of wine. The town had a hotel, and they rented a room to rest for the night. In the middle of the meal, a commotion outside indicated a motorcycle gang was also going to pay a visit to the Kelima Club.
The Piranhas motorcycle gang came pouring into the club, strutting around enjoying the sight of the occupants trying to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible. Mike and Delany kept eating their dinner and talking about what they were going to see tomorrow. Their disinterest in the gang caught the attention of one of the gang members who hastened to motion to their leader, Blackstone. “Well, well, what do we have here?” Blackstone said. “We have strangers in our little bar. Is that your little tricycle outside?”
Mike made the mistake of looking the leader in the eye. Blackstone walked over to the table, his boots making chink, chink noises from his spurs as he moved, and said, “Hello pretty lady. Do you think your old man would take exception if you and I had a little dance?”
Delany looked at Blackstone’s six-foot frame covered in leather and tattoos, shook her head, and looked at Mike, pleading with her eyes. Mike replied, “I don’t think it’s a good idea. We’re pretty tired from riding today. We were just on our way to our room.”
“Do you think you are too good for me?” Blackstone turned and faced the gang. “Hey fellas, these two folks believe they are above the likes of me.” He gave the table a shove, turned, and strode to his group who yelled words of obscenities. After Blackstone had returned to his group, the bartender snuck to Mike’s table and said, “Dinner is on the house tonight. I think if you leave now you will save yourself the trouble.”
Mike nodded his thanks. They rose from their chairs and cautiously walked to the door. Blackstone stood at the bar with a whiskey in his hand watching their movement. He drank the liquid in one gulp and motioned his buddies to follow. Mike and Delany quickly climbed on their bike and drove away.
Blackstone and a few of his members followed. They flanked Mike and Delany on either side, driving a little too close for Mike’s taste. His wife held his torso so tight; he could feel her shaking. Up ahead the road had a sharp bend, and the riders dropped back. Blackstone nudged the rear tire a couple of times and Mike lost control of the bike. He and Delany went over the side of the road. The drop was steep, and when they hit a rock, Delany was thrown from her seat. When she landed, she broke her neck. Mike, still on the bike, ran into a barbed wire fence. This stopped the bike and engaged Mike in the wire. It wrapped around his neck, slashing the skin, with only a small piece of his neck holding his head in place.
The Piranhas gang stopped their bikes and saw the couple tumble down the hill. After the couple. Blackstone shrugged and motioned for his buddies to go back to the bar.
The next morning there were emergency vehicles and police at the scene. They determined the accident happened because the driver went too fast around the bend and couldn’t gain control. While they were placing the deceased in body bags, a misty figure looking like Mike stood and watched from the trees as his beloved Delany was placed in one of those bags. He looked up into the morning sky and swore he would get revenge for her death.
Weeks later the folks in town noticed a motorcycle riding along Highway 51. This bike would drive by several times a day. On one such day, the Piranhas gang again stopped at the Kelima Club. The mysterious biker parked in the lot and proceeded to go into the bar. He wore clothing similar to the Piranhas wardrobe. When the door opened, the Piranhas turned to see who came into their turf. They narrowed their eyes as the man walked up to the bar and ordered a whiskey. How dare he wear their logos!
Blackstone strode over to where the man stood. “Who are you and what are you doing wearing our garb?” The stranger ignored him and asked for another whiskey. This time, Blackstone grabbed the man by the front of his shirt to face him. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” Blackstone said. Instead of answering, the stranger threw the whiskey into Blackstone’s face and turned to leave the bar. Before Blackstone could react, the front door closed after the man.
Blackstone heard a motorcycle rev outside. He quickly left the bar and went to chase the stranger. When Blackstone was riding on Highway 51, the stranger had turned around and was coming his way. In his left hand, he held a length of barbed wire, swinging it like a lasso. He swerved close to Blackstone and Blackstone did a double take, as the driver no longer had a head. While the bikes were astride, the stranger swung his arm and the barbed wire wrapped around Blackstone’s neck. As the bikes passed, he gave a yank on the wire pulling Blackstone from the motorcycle. A trail of blood followed the dragging body as the barbed wire chewed its way through the flesh of Blackstone’s neck. The headless rider dropped the wire, and the gang’s leader rolled around the road. His head and neck were meaty clumps of flesh. The head moved away from the body. The gang members came out of the bar and to their horror found their leader in two pieces on the road. The second in command picked up the head with the barbed wire wrapped around the dripping neck. The stranger had disappeared.
The next night, the Piranhas once more stopped at the Kelima Club seeking revenge for their leader. Again, the stranger walked into the bar and ordered a whiskey. Rosco, the new leader of the gang, walked over to the stranger. He went to grab the stranger by his front shirt, but the man was faster and threw the drink in his face. Rosco sputtered, “You have just won yourself a ticket to a brawl.” Rosco took a swing at the stranger, and his fist went right through his jaw. Rosco stared in disbelief. In the meantime, the stranger headed for the front door and left the bar. Rosco motioned for two other members to follow him outside. They heard the start of a bike and drove away. The three Piranhas pursued on their bikes. When they reached the bend, the strange had changed direction and drove straight for them. In his left hand, he swung barbed wire like a lasso.
Rosco took a pistol out of his pocket and fired it at the stranger. “What the hell,” Rosco said as the man kept heading straight for him. When they were almost side-by-side, Rosco eyes widened in fear as the stranger no longer had a head. By this time, the stranger tossed the barbed wire and caught Rosco in the neck, yanking him off his bike. The bike spun out, and Rosco rolled along the road. The barbed wire rubbed through the soft tissue of the throat and partially removed Rosco’s head.
The gang members following him turned around in fright and kept driving until their motorcycles ran out of gas.
To this day, gang members no longer visit the Kelima Club saloon. The headless stranger often rides Highway 51 looking for the men who claimed his wife’s life.
“What do you think of my story?” Grandpa asked.
“Did you just tell me that one because I rode a motorcycle here?”
“No, of course not. You just reminded me of the story. Let’s see what’s taking Grandma so long with dinner.” He rose out of the swing and put his arm around my shoulders, and we walked into the house.
I had a lovely two weeks with my grandparents and all too soon, I had to leave. We said our tearful goodbyes and I promised to come back next year. I climbed onto my bike and
headed toward Highway 51. Another motorcycle was coming from the
opposite direction, and I swear he had no head. In his left hand, it
looked like he held a lasso. My heart started pounding thinking I would
be the next headless victim. The other person was getting closer.
Sweat began to drip down my back, and my hands were clammy. I
pulled over to the side of the road and removed my helmet. When we
were close, I waved my hand in what I hoped to be a friendly
acknowledgment. The other driver dropped his left arm and drove past.
In relief, I turned around to look at him. He had disappeared.
