Written by Cranky Frankie years ago. Ha, seemed semi corny (pun intended) at the time. In today's world,talk of carbon credits,etc., it does NOT seem so far fetched.
Anyway, a good read on a cold winter night _________________ ENJOY.
BMW Pleasure Credits:James was just about ready to leave for the farm. It wasn't cold out, but he
took his leather jacket anyway, because this was the third Thursday of the
month. Life in Aurora, Kansas in this Year of the Alliance 2069 didn't offer
much to look forward to, when you really thought about it, except for the
third Thursday of the month, thought James. But this was more than most had.
"Going out tonight, James?" his mom asked, as she always did.
"Yeah Mom, going down to Doc's farm to help with the loading and stuff."
"Well, you be careful, and don't drive too fast."
What a joke that was, James knew.
Since 2042, when the Free World Alliance had finally outlawed the use of any
kind of petroleum products, "driving fast" had been a thing that only the
pilots of the inter-city air cushion monorails did. While the death of the
Internal Combustion Engine surely was a blessing for the measly remains of the
Earth's ozone layer, a whole culture of cars, bikes, speed, grease, and
assorted folklore had been wiped out. At least until James found out about
Doc...
Had it been three years ago? Time went fast when you worked, went to school,
and put in the required community service hours. That chance meeting with
Dave in the school library, hanging around the old bike and motor repair books,
when he should have been studying for that Introduction to Socialist
Capitalism exam, seemed like only yesterday.
"Hey man, you like the old stuff too, huh?" said Dave.
"You know it, pal, I just wish I'd been around to hear and seed this stuff,
the bikes especially, they're beautiful."
"Tell you what," Dave whispered, "there's this old farm ‘bout 50 kilometers
south on 189, this guy Doc owns it, I think you'd like to meet him." And that
had changed everything.
James put on the leather and got in the old Ford, after unplugging it first.
It was an oldie but goodie, a ‘54 XTZ290, with 300 amps starting power, a
top speed of 91 kilometers per hour, and batteries that would let it run almost
12 hours between charges. He put it in gear and headed out, briefly
wondering if he should take the bike instead.
The bike was a used Honda, a '63 Titanium Strut that was OK for short hops, like out to Kara's and back, but
its' tiny batteries only allowed a top speed of 75kph, and they needed charging
every 3 hours. That's why it was great for going to Kara's for their weekly
"study" session; three hours was just enough time to get everything charged
that needed to be charged, grinned James.
When he finally got to Doc's, the whole crowd was there as usual. He plugged
in the car at the charging coral and headed to the barn. The site of all the
tiny cars and bikes plugged into the power outlets kind of reminded him of
his old kids western story books, where the leather-vested cowboys would tie
up their horses at the water trough and swagger into the saloon. James thought
again about that first meeting with Doc...
"Yeah?" the old man grunted as he stood guard at he door, tired but piercing
eyes glaring at the young kid with the Universal Honda Motor Co. t-shirt on,
emblazoned with the newest bike craze, the 85 amp Mediterranean Coast.
"Un, hi, my name is James, and I'm a friend of Dave's and he told me..."
"Come on in, son," said Doc, "and where'd you get that ugly t-shirt!"
And that's how it had started, with Doc giving James a virtual history
lesson of cars, motors, but above, all, bikes. It was knowledge more important
to
James than anything he was learning in college, even his favorite class,
Introduction to Conserving Resources through Regression Analysis.
The scope of the operation, after all, would even make his professors gasp
with amazement. Here was this old farmer out in the boonies, still growing and
harvesting like in the old days, when almost all food products were created
hydroponically. No one made any money farming, and the few who did mainly
survived on the novelty of their product. People would buy anything, even a
lumpy ear of Doc's corn, when you could just as easily get a perfectly made
artificial one in any store at half the price. But that was the beauty of it.
Everyone thought he was just an old eccentric who liked to farm, but they had no
idea of the regeneration-ionization distillation processor (Doc called it a
"still") that he had created to turn the old corn ears into fuel!
James stood in amazement as he first glanced at the bikes in the barn, the
chill in his spine always new as if glancing at them for the first time. He
loved them all, of course, but his favorite was the Norton. It was black and
gold, made in 1974(!), and looked fast even standing still. The elegant
simplicity of its lines, each part having a unique purpose, with none of the
plastic, lexan, and polycarbonate materials of the later designs. To James, the
Norton was "absolutely orbital", as the popular saying went. And HE would get
to ride it!
That was the deal - when you had paid your dues by gathering the
corn, learning about and then operating the "still", and apprenticed by
performing various maintenance activities on the ancient beasts, Doc would
finally let you ride.
He was ready. While Dave had already started the 2025 8 cylinder Honda GL
2500, James checked over the Norton one more time. He "freed" the clutch,
"tickled" the carbs, and, "whilst" holding the throttle slightly open, used his
whole body weight to kick the big twin into breathing, shaking, rumbling life!
It was unbelievable! He followed Doc, Dave, and the other riders through the
carefully laid out path in the woods behind the barns, and he was happy. Truly
happy, as only one who has ridden an "English Lady", as Doc referred to the
Norton, could be.
When it was over and the bikes had been carefully put away, they would all
gather in the big old red barn and tell stories for a little while, mostly Doc
and the older guys telling the kids what it was like in the old days.
"Would you believe," said Doc, "that every now and then the Editor of the
old Norton News magazine would have to plead in his column for the members to
send in stories and pictures, and for the non-members who just scarfed a
friends copy to pay their dues and join the club?"
Everyone gasped, especially James, who said "With a bike like the Commando,
you would think that people would be sending in all kinds of stuff, like
tips, memories of interesting rides, or just pictures of these beautiful bikes
with a pretty sunset or mountain in the background."
All agreed that the old saying was true, "you don't know what you got ‘till
it's gone."
When James left it was dark out, the full moon illuminating the night in a
surreal glow. As the Ford hummed along he was still thinking about the ride on
the Norton, when he saw the flashing lights on the video display monitor
picked up by the rear facing camera. He pulled over and waited, it had been a
while since he last had gotten stopped. He certainly wasn't speeding!
"Good evening, officer, is something wrong?" he said, the light from the
trooper's neon flashlight making him wince.
"We've had reports of hydrocarbon emissions in this area, son, and we've
been warning everyone in the area and asking folks to contact us if they see
anything suspicious. You haven't seen anything, have you, James?"
The trooper already knew James' name, age, and probably when he last ate,
from the Ford's auto-id monitor box, standard equipment on all vehicles
manufactured after July 1st, 2051.
"No officer, I just got off work and I haven't seen a thing."
The light shone down now.
"Say, what's that stuff on your hands, and what's that smell on you?"
The grease from the bikes was hard to wash off, and the corn oil distillate
had a unique aroma, but James was ready, adrenaline flowing now, barely
allowing him to stay calm.
"Oh, the farm where I work part time has this old hay baler that's always
breaking down. Had to fix the master link tonight, and this old grease sure is
hard to wash off. Smells like the dickens, too ("Jees," thought James, "got
to stop using Doc's corny old expressions!").
The trooper still stared at James, and those few seconds seemed to last
forever.
"Get home safe, son, and remember, anything to do with petroleum products or
combustion engines is an Alliance Level One Offense, punishable by a severe
loss of BMW pleasure credits. You be sure and call us now if you see
something."
The trooper walked back to his car, James's heart still pounding as the
ominous vehicle pulled away. James waited a bit, then continued on his way,
taking a full breath of the cool night air (the Air Breathability Index had
beenbunusually low lately) and wished for the good old days that he had never seen
