An amusing, true story from near the end of the Vietnam war.
"It ain't over until the fat lady sings" - A Proverb
It's 1971, and the Vietnam War is winding down. American involvement has been declining for a few years, but I am still a captive, caught up in the trouble of the times.
You see, these days, our "free country" maintains a "selective" policy of compulsory military service, and I am "one of the chosen." I was one of the "lucky" ones chosen in the first draft lottery conducted by the United States Selective Service System.
Because I have moral objections to serving in the United States Army, I'm performing what is euphemistically called "Alternate Service." Translated, of course, an "Alternative Service Program" is NewSpeak for "Unpaid Slave Labor."
Camarillo State Mental Hospital
By Stephen Schafer CC0, via Wikimedia Commons
I work as a "volunteer" at Camarillo State Hospital,
where I'm provided with room and board and, (via a local charitable organization), a magnificent stipend of $50 per month. As if $50 could cover my expenses! So, I also scrub toilets at night to pay my bills.
The hospital administrator has promised to hire me when the next job posting opens up.
Well, I recently had a revelation about how organizations work. I found out through the grapevine that a position has opened. I also found out that the position has been given to the admin's nephew. Blatantly, literally, the very definition of nepotism!
As you might imagine,
I find this development somewhat upsetting. Seeking relief, I write to the Selective Service Board about the situation.
In their infinite wisdom, Selective Service tells me I'm to be reassigned to a Northern California post with the Conservation Corps. Their slogan is (I kid you not) "Hard work, low pay, miserable conditions ... and more!"
In the Corps, I am to clear brush and blaze trails six days per week, and to be on call 24/7 to fight forest fires. I'll be living in barracks and will be paid the princely sum of $50 per month.
Can you say "Out of the frying pan, into the fire?" As a young man whose peers are freely moving on with their lives, marrying, continuing their education, or starting lucrative careers, this somehow strikes me as just a tad inequitable. It is certainly more than I can tolerate, and so I come to a decision.
1970 Honda CL100
By Steve Henderson CC BY-SA 2.5, via Wikipedia
I choose to resist my enslavement.
Fortunately, I own a trusty Honda CL100 sport motorcycle. The time has come for me to, as they say, "blow this pop stand!"
I pack up or otherwise dispose of all my worldly goods. I load my Honda to the gills. Let's see, I've got a tent strapped to one side in back, and an army-surplus bag of stuff riding on the front fender. My sleeping bag is folded and fastened to the saddle for extra padding. I'm wearing a backpack full of gear, there's a duffle bag bungeed to the seat behind me, and a pillow case filled with clothes in front of me on the gas tank.
My lightweight Honda CL100 is now burdened to the point where it looks like a bike five times its actual size. That's a good thing, because 100 cc's is not freeway legal.
Bidding farewell to my coworkers, I depart for New Hampshire. My plan, if you can call it that, is to kiss my mother goodbye and flee to Canada to escape the wrathful coercion of the U.S. federal government.
I set out, heading north.
My indirect path takes me to Clear Lake County, where I spend about a week camping with friends. Steve has built a catamaran from scrap aircraft aluminum wing-tip tanks. We fashion a mast from a junkyard TV antenna, and a sail from a roll of plastic sheeting. Steve, Linda, and I spend some delightful hours sailing out on Clear Lake.
Eventually I must move on, so I head up through Tahoe and on to Reno, Nevada. After spending one night at the Reno home of a sympathetic Lutheran pastor, I drive the 500-plus miles in blistering heat across the desert to Salt Lake. Wind-burned, shaken to the point my teeth are loose, and utterly exhausted, I collapse for the night in the grass beside the freeway leading into Salt Lake City.
The next morning,
I continue on through the city, then up into the mountains, where I work my way along Route 40. As I'm coming to a major bend in the road, I see a country store at the corner. Realizing that I'm low on gas, I pull off the road and head toward the pumps.
Country Store With Gas Pumps
Photo courtesy of David Mark and http://pixabay.com
The door to the Country Store bursts open,
propelled by a woman who appears to have never missed a meal in her life. She runs towards me, waving her arms wildly and screaming at the top of her lungs, "Get away from the pumps! Get away from the pumps! You're on fire!"
I turn and look back. Sure enough, the tent strapped to the back of my Honda is in flames!
Just at that moment, I've coasted to a full stop directly in front of the gasoline pumps and their prominent "No Smoking" signs. The fat lady is about to have a stroke. Her eyes are as wide as saucers, her lips are moving, but no sound is coming out.
Jumping off my bike,
I push it forward as quickly as I can, away from the gas pumps. I lay it down on its side. There is only one option at hand. I grab my sleeping bag and, with considerable effort, use it to beat out the flames.
Now that the crisis is past, I turn to find that the proprietress has gone back into her store. I'm thankful that she must have a strong heart.
Because it's made for off-road action, the Honda CL100 has a swept-up muffler. Although it has a heat-shield, I had unfortunately strapped the tent a little too close. The tent fabric came in contact with the muffler, overheated, and caught fire.
Upon inspection, I conclude that my tent is beyond help. I retire it to a trash heap right there at the country store, fill my tank with gas, and continue my journey eastward, thanking the Good LORD that the damage has not been worse.
That night, my feet get a little colder than usual because of the new holes in the bottom of my sleeping bag.
FIN
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