sludgo’s Mile Markers

The Riding Shotgun project has been an interesting one for me, to say the least, and as I picked up the e-phone to chat with the seventh subject of the series I couldn’t help but recall what a certain Mr. Gump had to say about that box of chocolates. Thus far in the project, whenever I’ve connected with any of the RS subjects, I’ve never known what I was going to get, and @hardtuned was no different. A handsome, youngish guy with chiseled features and a slender athletic build, he greeted me with a broad smile and an enthusiasm that was contagious. And when he began my ride-along by offering me a “ten-second tour” of his garage and its eclectic occupants, I knew I was in for another fascinating journey.

Recently I did something that all my life I swore I’d never do. Had been offered many chances to do it before but always gamely resisted, white-knuckling through any and all temptations like a champ. However, over the past few years I’ve found myself growing weaker of body and spirit and mind while the deadly-sweet melody of one particular siren’s song only grew louder and more seductive and last week I finally gave up and gave in. I know there are those who’ll think less of me because of it, people who’ll look askance at me when I walk into the room and whisper and hiss and snicker about me when I walk back out but, oh well. It is what it is. Or was what it was, I suppose. There’s no taking it back now and before rumors started to fly I figured I’d better get ahead of any scandal and admit it outright, admit that I’d gone over to the Dark Side and for the first time ever had my car professionally detailed rather than washing it by hand myself. I hope you were all sitting down.

This last Saturday evening I met my youngest at the rib place over by the mall. We’ve made it a regular date ever since he moved out of the McBungalow however many years ago. I enjoy seeing him and think he enjoys seeing his dear ol’ dad, but I know full well that in light of his instant-ramen-level cooking skills what he likely enjoys most is having a decent meal once a week, especially if I’m springing for it. No matter. I don’t mind. It’s become a highlight of my week. I always buy a couple of scratch-off tickets for us—the five dollar kind—and we sit in our favorite booth scratching away, hoping to win big bucks as we chat about this and that and nosh on our racks of baby backs and stacks of sweet Vidalia beer-battered onion rings before washing everything down with a Long Island iced tea for me and a Dr. Pepper for the kiddo. It’s a good time. Like I said, a highlight of my week.

A week ago I was in the TT and rolled up next to a biker sitting at a stoplight. Three in the afternoon and hotter than blazes here in mid-August southeast Idaho. He was riding solo on a late-model Fat Boy—black on black. Was wearing what Hog riders all seem to wear: an unbuttoned leather vest over a tattered black t-shirt, leather chaps over worn and torn black jeans and a set of scuffed and scarred steel-toed boots. No helmet, of course, just a do-rag, but I saw a beanie-cap strapped to his rear pillion rack—in case he had to go to Oregon, I supposed. His face was mostly hidden by a bristly salt-and-pepper grandpa beard and his eyes were shielded by mirrored wrap-around Terminator shades. His skin looked thick and weathered and was deeply tanned, so deep it took a moment for me to see his arms were slathered shoulder-to-wrist with an ornate selection of tattoos. Flames and skulls and dragons and tombstones inscribed with initials and dates and symbols I didn’t recognize. He noticed me noticing him and gave me a big tobacco-stained snaggle-toothed grin then flashed me the peace sign. I flashed him one back and the light went green and he twisted the throttle and dropped the clutch and roared off to parts unknown. And as I watched him disappear into the shimmering horizon, somewhere inside my head Steppenwolf suddenly started to play.

Riding Shotgun is a new series from sludgo featuring interviews with notable members of the BaT community. Last month we published his first interview with Cobrahandler, and this week he has talked to ValiantJim, winner of the 2024 Cognoscenti Award and prominent member of the BaT MOPAR mob. He had a lot to say, only some of it about Valiants!
sludgo can take it from here:

This is Part Two of a three-part series. Click the link to read Part One.
It had been a glorious NoDak autumn Saturday morning for twelve-year-old me. I’d woken to a gorgeous orange-red sunrise and the cool prairie breeze drifting across my face as it blew through my opened window. All the birds outside were merrily greeting the day in song, all the robins and wrens and sparrows and meadowlarks and mourning doves, even the peacocks and ducks and geese and swans calling out from over at the Deaf School pond. I’d jumped out of bed and into my routine early, stripping off my pajamas and putting on my weekend duds before pouring myself a heaping bowlful of Lucky Charms then parking out on the living room couch to watch cartoons on our big thirty-six inch color console RCA. Four hours later—after Bugs Bunny and the Road Runner and the Jetsons and Scooby-Doo and Josie and the Pussycats and Archie and then Fat Albert—it was noontime and the Lucky Charms were long gone and I was hungry again so I’d decided to hop on my StingRay and ride across town to Grandma Lettie’s to see if she’d make me one of her world-famous fried bologna and Miracle-Whip sandwiches but when I got there she wasn’t home. Figured I’d wait for her a bit and headed out to her backyard to climb Big Olie, the giant oak she’d planted as a sapling fifty years ago when she first bought the house, but as I walked up to Olie’s trunk, I glanced across the way at Old Man Granger’s place and noticed something interesting—the walk-in door to his garage was ever-so-slightly ajar. Hm.