Dave!

There was not a doubt in my mind. Dave Levingston and I were never going to get along. Fifty years ago there was no way we’d become best friends. Back in our college years Ohio University had two schools of photography, as different as night and day. I was in OU’s Fine Arts College, me an “artsy-fartsy” guy, if you will, a rock and tree photographer. Dave on the other hand was in the School of Communication and was what I referred to as a “No-Account-Photojournalist.” To say there was animosity between the two schools would be stating it mildly, at least from my perspective. There wasn’t so much a turf war, we simply ignored them, and them, us.

Yet by chance, with changes in the university, there Dave and I were, in the same classroom on one perilous day, sitting side by side. By chance, in a matter of speaking, Dave pushed me to the front of the classroom. No need going into the details, it was what amounted to a turning point in my life. In no time we were friends, then not much later, best friends, to this day.

Dave and Ken at the Fat Boy’s Pork Palace near Brandywine, WV. Found on US Rt. 33, until it closed, Fat Boys either sent you on your way over the Allegheny Mountains into Virginia, or welcomed you on the West Virginia side with a fine meal, the highway and the meals, both favorites for the two riders.

The middle years of our lives were one motorcycling adventure after another. Decades ago, after our jaunt down the Natchez Trace, we’d made our way into Mississippi on Dave’s personal quest to find the South’s finest bowl of gumbo. I’d spotted a place just off the main highway; it called to both of us. It was a dumpy place with a dining area of only two or three tables. It was there Dave violated one of the few rules forming the basis of his life: Never dine where both food and fish bait were sold.

The place was nondescript, a cubby hole, nothing of note to give it any semblance of a personality. What we saw inside was much like we’d seen from the street, neglect, the discolored walls, its rough demeanor, unwelcoming. It was a local hangout, a place neither of our wives would ever consider darkening its doorway, perish the thought. To those inside, what Dave and I thought in that moment was of no significance. They could care less, our opinion.

Dave and his Connie on US Rt. 50 in eastern West Virginia. Over Ken’s decades of riding, other than Lombard Street in San Francisco, he had never seen a stretch quite like this. The highway has since been straightened, robbing riders of an exciting run up or down the hill.

Food was ordered through one of two irregular holes cut in their back wall, not far from the other where the same was done for fish bait. One dared not look back into the kitchen in fear of what you might see, but soon, a huge Styrofoam cup appeared, hot to the touch. It was our dinner.

Watching us had been another man, a local constable of some sort, seated at one of the tables, holding court, he in his police attire. Without so much of even a hello, in the richest Southern dialect to be found anywhere, he asked, “Watsh you boyz gonna drink wit tat thar gumbo?”

Dave and Ken’s cycles parked in front of the Log Cabin Café in Silver Gate, Montana. This photograph appeared in Rider magazine, with a story Ken wrote where the restaurant was featured.. Ken would learn that for years, other motorcyclists would arrange their own cycles in the same configuration for their own pictures when they stopped for a meal.

Dave and I were lost in regards to his question, not so much answering, but gesturing in a way revealing our uncertainty. With what you can only call a neutral expression, he went on to share with us our only choice, “root beer!” Who were we to disagree with anyone wearing a uniform of the law. Root beer it was, and it will forever be. Dave and I managed to get our dinner-to-be to a beautiful city park, and with the Gulf of Mexico as our backdrop, both of us went about feasting on gumbo never again in our lives to be duplicated. We talk about that dinner to this day, it one of the grandest feasts of our time together on the road.

Together, Dave and I have plied our talents in pursuit of photographs since day one. On our rides together there was an understanding that when one of us found something special to aim our camera, the other would stay to assist or to look for their own pictures.

On one of my day rides I found something special, a beautiful stretch of highway, almost perfect, it requiring only the inclusion of two motorcycles. I called Dave, telling him of my find, it only half an hour’s ride from his home. He begged off once, then again the next day, until on my call the third day he couldn’t hold me off, finally relenting, we agreeing to do the photograph the following morning.

That special stretch of highway, to be photographed properly required a longer lens, and with the two of us riding together, a remote trigger, something I’d jury-rigged with the radio controls from a model airplane kit. To this day it’s one of my favorite photographs of the two of us, and the only time when we ever rode side by side. Sometimes artistic license requires bending your rules a bit. I would learn the next day that while we were gone, Dave’s wife went into labor with Esther, their first child.

In addition to our photography, our other common interest was motorcycles. In no time we became riding buddies. Together we’ve shared tens of thousands of miles, Dave enduring decades of my abuse. All of this was well before I owned my RT, way back when we both had full heads of hair.

Over the years we’ve shared our life histories. Dave told me about his youth and of his dreams growing up. He told me of the many nights he’d lie awake, reading in the sporting magazines about Ely, Minnesota and the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. For Dave it held an almost mythical quality. It was a place we needed to share. We made it the beginning of one of our long trips together.

We arrived in the small town of Ely late one evening in the rain, not a big deal. We set our sites on the next morning, riding through town, Dave absorbing every square inch. To our left and right were the canoe outfitters, it seemed by the dozens, ready to set you free for 3 or 5 or 7 or 10 days, even beyond 21 days to explore the wild.

All Dave needed to fulfill his life-long dream was a short time on the water, nothing more. We found a restaurant and settled in for our morning meal. In time our waitress stopped by, with Dave asking where he could rent a canoe – for an hour.

Believe me, no one goes to Ely with such a simple request. We could almost see the young woman recoil, so strange was Dave’s question. She had no answer herself, but turned to the booth behind ours, asking the somewhat elderly man sitting there if he knew of such a place.

The man appeared rough hewn, a bit grizzled, perfect for where we were. He turned to give us a peek, in a second sizing us up, telling us, no, telling Dave, “If you’ll follow me seven miles, I’ll get you to an island where you can take out my canoe.” When we arrived at the island there was a sign telling us his place was called “The Razor’s Edge.” Our new friend, John Juranitch, unlocked the gate, pointed over a short bridge to his canoe, and told us when we were finished to return it, and when leaving to lock the gate. Then he was gone. We later learned he owned a local business, known nationwide as The Razor’s Edge where he manufactured equipment for sharpening knives.

That morning, on the water with Dave, I learned the “J” stroke, and came to understand why it was so important for Dave to have his few minutes on their water. We could have been there for only an hour, but maybe much longer, Dave’s life dream had come to now be a memory. After we’d parked the canoe as we had found it and had written a warm note for its owner, we found ourselves stopped, back at the main highway. I asked Dave where he wanted to go, he telling me in no uncertain terms, he didn’t care, we could go anywhere – and we did.

Dave, a cautious rider with a penchant for always obeying the speed limit, to whom I’d often wanted to give a slight nudge to get him moving along a bit quicker, once led me on a race down eastern Arizona’s Devil’s Highway, the old US Route 666, now US Route 191, a place he’d heard of, it one of America’s finest motorcycling highways with me barely able to keep him in view. On another ride, stopped in northern Utah in the middle of nowhere for photographs, after days of riding, our last showers long behind us, a car filled with teenagers went roaring by, one of the boisterous boys, his body half hanging out a car window, fist raised, yelling at us, “Mötley Crüe!” in obvious reference to our distressed stinky demeanor.

There was one morning long ago, over our annual Columbus Day weekend ride, after a run through a cold and rainy West Virginia day and an equally miserable night of wet camping, we awoke to a brisk bright sunny morning, with the ride from our campsite to the main highway unlike any other. Beneath us was no semblance of any roadway surface, only the glistening of a million sunlit yellow and red leaves beneath us, many taking flight as Dave raced over them, the road filled with magic as to make Dorothy’s yellow brick road to Oz pale in comparison. At the remarkable nature of what Dave and I witnessed, at our first stop Dave turned to me and said, “That’s why we ride!” To this day, those brief miles, so magical were those few minutes, they remain the most extraordinary experience of my nearly six decades of riding.

Years before, or maybe later, late into a long hot day, riding into Coon Rapids, Iowa we happened upon the small town’s municipal swimming pool. The lady-in-charge, the only person there, took one look at us, and seeing our look of desperation allowed us to take a quick dip, despite Dave’s warning we might leave a “ring around her pool.” Memories such as we shared there you never forget.

One wonders, in my remaining years will I be able to revisit any of the far away places where Dave and I have enjoyed our favorite meals. On top of my list, Dave’s too, is the Log Cabin Cafe in Silver Gate, Montana, only a stone’s throw from the northeast entrance to Yellowstone National Park. Inside was an antique British phone booth, it being the centerpiece for a visiting horde of Japanese tourists, flocking to get a picture with it. I couldn’t resist, jumping in, offering to take pictures, soon with a table full of cameras in front of me.

That day, our first time there, sitting off to one side was a Harley rider from Cleveland, his white-as-snow beard tied in intervals, his way to keep it from blowing over his miles and miles of riding. It was there I saw the most beautiful waitress I’d ever seen, and still is to this day.

That day the cosmos came together. There was true magic in that log building. When Dave and I left everyone inside came out to give us a proper send-off and to wish us well. One woman, warning us about the ride over the coming Beartooth Pass, told us, “Whatever you do, watch out for the Port ‘o Johns up there. They’re as cold as you will ever find. EEEIIIIOOOOWWWWW!”

Years later Dave would stop there with his family in tow, pointing to a copy of the story I wrote, published in Rider Magazine, on display under glass near their cash register, telling the person behind the counter, “I’m Dave!” For the remainder of their stay Dave and his family were treated as though royalty. On my last visit there only a few years ago I saw the old phone booth was gone, but everything else thankfully was much the same. The trout dinner they served me was the finest I’ve ever eaten.

Dave and I had a knack for finding special places to eat, some with a dining experience not to be duplicated.. For years there was fine eating in a huge log building, the Chimney Corner in Redhouse, Maryland, a tiny dot on the map where US Routes 50 and 219 cross. It was a classic, but on my last ride through the area, it than a church, serving a different need.

Decades and decades ago when Dave and I were in our prime, we stopped at a Rhode Island gas station, filling up. A few pumps ahead of us was another man, doing the same to his bike. At some point he removed his helmet, revealing to me he was an old man, his thinning gray hair and the lines in his face showing the effects of many miles. I turned to Dave, getting his attention, motioning ahead to where the gentleman was standing, telling Dave, “It’s me!” All those years ago I could see myself, still riding, well into my own old age. It was me. It is me! Today I am that old man.

Years later, I was out with Dave again. We were on our way home from somewhere south. This ride would be memorable for another reason. I’d decided this was to be my last ride on the old 750, our final hurrah together. There was almost nothing on the bike that wasn’t worn out. The rear brake drum had worn to the point it wouldn’t take a further adjustment. Any combination of mechanics had worked their various magic to keep the carburetors working, with at that point just enough success to keep the motor running well enough, most of the time. The wiring harness was as brittle as uncooked spaghetti. The wheels, the rear the third on the bike, showed rust from the inside out, the four mufflers, the third or fourth set on the bike, the same. Still, at highway speeds that bike never wavered. There was a beautiful sound its engine made in its power curve I’ll never forget. My RT has a somewhat similar tone. I listen for it every time I’m on the road, hearing it only when the conditions are perfect.

The paramount problem with the 750, emerging just days before we were to leave was a bad gasket at the base of the engine’s cylinders. Each and every time the crankshaft turned over a tiny gusher of oil would squirt out, making a mess of things. Before my remedy, the poor bike would leave a Honda Valdez reminder of everywhere we’d been.

Any proper repair would require removing the engine, something impossible at that late date, and quite frankly, unwarranted for a bike on its last legs. I wrapped a bath towel around the cylinders, securing it in place with a bungee cord, and off we went, adding oil as was necessary. The towel acted something like a 20W-50 wonder-bra. When it got dark, I simply removed and replaced it with a clean towel. It wasn’t pretty, but it worked.

We were on our way home, when near Milledgeville, Georgia I casually slipped off the road. The odometer was about to turn over for the third time. I needed a picture. With that photograph, an era of my life was coming to an end. I knew the gravity of what I was doing. That bike had witnessed everything important in my adult life, from my college years well into middle age. The Honda knew the bottom side of every woman important in my life, of Cindy, and our son, Kevin. Dave was there to get his own pictures. He understood. To this day, with due respect for my Beemer which I’ve ridden for only six years, that old bike is the only machine I’ve owned I believe had a heart and a soul.

I was barely able to keep it together, until finally, pictures done, we were again on our way, but by then there were tears running down my face. When I got home I removed the speedometer, it stopped with the 99999.9 still there, it only a few feet away as I type these words. What a great bike. That great motorcycle is now a part of the collection at the AMA Hall of Fame Museum in Pickerington, Ohio, forever warm and dry, where it will outlive me.

Dave and I have found great meals at the Purple Palace in York Beach, Maine, and for too short a period of time there was really fine eating at Fat Boy’s Pork Palace near Brandywine, West Virginia, run by a retired US Navy cook, it alone enough to make West Virginia a destination. One day it was there, the next gone, and still truly missed.

On that last ride home on the 750, late on our final day on the road, Dave and I stopped. It was tradition for us. Always, there was a handshake, and Dave would always add words to the effect, “Ken, another great ride!” then we’d put our bikes in gear and off we’d go. On that ride home we came to a point along the highway where I’d continue straight, Dave slipping to the left for home an hour away from mine. To this day I can still see him easing on his way, in the near darkness, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I was at peace. There were changes ahead. For the next fifteen years I’d ride my Connie, a ‘95 Kawasaki Concours, and now my ‘05 RT. Ahhh, the RT, now just as special as was the old 750. Dave knew a change of his own was coming and decided his years of motorcycling were behind him, moving on.

After years, many years of his asking, just last week I finally relented, taking off in his car for a day drive back towards our old college stomping grounds. Not that I’d admit it to him, but there was some comfort to be found in an air conditioned car on a hot and steamy day.

Here’s to best friends.