Jody and the Gazebo

State Highway 2 starts in Everett, Washington and travels all the way across the country until it runs into Lake Superior in Wisconsin.  Marty, Rachel, Dennis and I rode that route in its entirety in 2003 when we went back to Harley’s 100^th Anniversary in Milwaukee.  It’s one of my favorite ride memories, and roads, both for the camaraderie of those good people on that trip and the encounters we had on the way.  Ask Rachel about the rabbits at Devil’s Lake, that keeps growing larger, and Dennis about the Hot Sexx.

A particular favorite part of that road is the stretch along the east shore of the Columbia River up from Wenatchee.  It starts out as Highway 97 combined with 2 up past Lincoln Rock to Orondo, where 2 turns off and goes up the canyon to Waterville, where the high plains start.  It’s that section of road up the hill that prompts this story, which is based on a tale by Ron about our mutual friend Jody.

Now Jody was a true character, who’s Pappy was a pistol, a son of a gun who was raised in Waterville by a sympathetic aunt.  Bunny and I had ridden to Glacier Park with Jody on his Kawasaki H1 two stroke 500cc triple back in the late ‘70s, so we knew him well.  He was one of those helpless types who always meant well, and started every project with the best of intentions, but something always came up, or happened, and it was just one of those things, you know?

He had been stabbed in a bar fight while out drinking in Auburn with his father and brother, and it somehow severed a nerve in his left side that would not allow him to upshift with his foot, so he rigged up a rod through an aluminum tab with a grommet under the tank that came up in front of his left knee.  When he wanted to shift, he would pull in the clutch with his left hand, reach over with his right and pull up or push down on the rod, which had a knob stolen off a drill press at work on the end of it.  He rode that thing all the way to Montana with us and back.  We learned to make him ride in back up the passes, because of the blue smoke.

The first night out we stopped in Waterville and camped out in the yard of his saintly Aunt, who regarded us with the air of someone who is inwardly whimpering, and only allowed us into the house to use the bathroom.  While there, Jody went to a bar to have a few beers while the rest of us slept, where he got into a fight, and somebody stole his leather saddlebags off his bike that had all his clothes and tools in them.  The next day he found some castoffs at Aunties, wrapped them in a garbage bag and off we went.  He was that kind of guy.  In Salmon, Idaho, we had incredible steaks for dinner in a tavern in town, and he sent a $5 tip back to the chef in appreciation.  Later, he had to borrow money from us to get home, but we expected that.

So anyway, as the story goes, Ron was giving Jody a ride home to Waterville one day to rest up at his Aunt’s house after his latest adventure went awry.  As you recall, Highway 2 goes up a pretty steep hill on the way, with a sharp bend near the top after which you can see the town up ahead.  As Ron and Jody came around the bend, Jody said, “See that gazebo up there?  I built that.”  “That looks nice”, said Ron, and continued to drive.  After a few seconds Ron said, “Jody, that gazebo looks crooked!  You can see it from here!”  “I know”, said Jody, “but it’s not my fault.  My level was off.”

So the next time you ride up the hill from Orondo to Waterville, look for that crooked gazebo on the side of the hill if it still exists.  It’s a monument to a home town boy who never did make good, but always made us smile, if only in disbelief.  :-{)}