The Ghost of Robert Johnson

Words and Photos By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)  


So there I was, dancing on the grave of Robert Johnson, peeling my clothes off like some ecstatic medicine-man. Thousands of angry fire-ants—an army from hell—filling me with deadly poison.

Rewind 48 hours. Memphis, Tennessee. 706 Union Avenue. Sun Studios. The historic corner Sam Phillips, Carl Perkins, Jerry Lee Lewis and Elvis Presley turned R&B into Rock and Roll. Surrounded by vintage microphones and empty guitar stands, I felt the bliss a Christian feels on Easter and loitered as long as possible, inhaling the moldy, but rarified air. A Sun Anthology purchased at the counter became the soundtrack for loping through the Mississippi Delta in a rented Ford Mustang.

I was following journalist Peter Egan in a “Search for Robert Johnson” and photographing his adventure. Yes, that Robert Johnson–the black hustler who sold his soul at the crossroads to play guitar like the devil. And, yes, that Peter Egan. The patron-saint of motorcycle journalism. He was on a shiny new Triumph Bonneville, and I wasn’t. Motorcycles don’t have radios or roofs however, and I counted my blessings when the rain came. Wipers slapping time to “Mystery Train,” “Bear Cat,” “Born to Lose,” “Ooby Dooby” and “Great Balls of Fire.”

Grey, two-lane blacktop unfurling through a flat, cotton-blanketed horizon. Crop-dusters briefly interrupting the hypnotic landscape. Hot gumbo and cold beers. Fried catfish and hungry mosquitos. Tombstones and honky-tonks. Beale Street, Clarksdale, Rosedale and Highway 61. Sunrise coffees and late nights on the dark side of town. Daydreaming in the land of cotton. Of crossroad blues and the ghost of Robert Johnson.

 

Ants In My Pants by Skeeter Jackson

Falling in Love with a Triumph Bonneville

By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)  


You get used to it after awhile. The looks, the smiles, furtive glances, longing stares. Everywhere I go, women, men, children and old folks, too. At stoplights, in parking lots or chasing me down the highway to follow close beside, faces pressed against the window like giddy schoolgirls. Yeah, it’s tough sometimes, but I try not to let the adoration go to my head. Afterall, it’s the bike not the rider they’re falling in love with.

“That’s a really nice bike. I mean a reeeeeeeeeealy nice bike.” I hear repeatedly, verbatim, from a wide variety of friends and strangers all day long. People who usually shy away from bikes are magically drawn to the 2006 Triumph Bonneville. And staying true to its British pedigree, it receives winks and nods from purists, too. Thanks to Brando, McQueen and Arthur Fonzarelli, the Bonnie’s silhouette is burned forever in our collective consciousness and triggers idyllic notions of biker fantasies.

Legs wrap around the small tank naturally, back straight, hands at shoulder width, a soft seat with room for three and enough power from the oil-cooled 790cc Twin to stay (slightly) ahead of traffic. A full tank carries me a tick over 100 miles before hitting reserve.

Fit and finish are immaculate, but as attractive as this bike is cosmetically, under her skin a thousand parts are happily chugging away in perfect union. Featherweight clutch action and a nicely meshed gearbox keep the party going. Idle to redline, smooth as butter and quiet as a mouse. The perfect accomplice for a friend’s ranch-style wedding in the Santa Ynez Valley, 200 miles away.

I get out of town early Friday and hit the 101 just before lunch-hour. Blasting through Ventura, Oxnard and Santa Barbara, I exit to find some elbow room on the casual two-lane of Highway 154. Ah, freedom at last! A detour on 246 carries me through hills of gold and manicured wine country. The Bonneville is a fine commuter, but really shows her legs in this open country and it’s hard not to fall for her easy nature. Or, maybe there’s just love in the air.

At the wedding later that day the groom arrives on horseback, his bride in a horse-drawn carriage. After a moving hilltop ceremony, dinner brings emotional speeches, stirring toasts, prime rib and dancing ’til midnight. Strangers become friends, friends become lovers, lovers become serious.

The morning after, I was back in the saddle, just me and the Bonnie, beating down the highway, enjoying those furtive glances.