The Hiss and Squeal of Fun

It was a steamy summer day at the Garage. Fans running at high speed roared and stirred dust on the shop floor while the blistering sun outside and dry August breeze kicked up tiny dust devils in the driveway. Some of Gramps' old customers sat around the shop on the benches Frank and Gramps had fashioned from vehicle seats and old pickup beds. Gramps was long gone now, but a few of his old cohorts were still spry enough to get out and about the town. Frank enjoyed listening to their tall tales most of the time. These were the older gentlemen that held on to the petrol burners long after nuclear steam had taken over the automotive market. Now, most of their old classics either sat in storage or had been parted out due to a lack of available repair parts. Braegan and Josh had dropped in to visit after work and joined in with the rowdy, sometimes bawdy, talk of the elderly men seated around the shop. Josh was busily making coffee to keep up with demand, even in this heat. He had fully planned on doing so, knowing that Frank's shop, Gramp's Garage, was a well-known place to stop in for a cup of coffee if you didn't mind talking gearhead talk in the process. The conversation went on and on with jokes and completely inaccurate stories shared until well past normal closing time. Frank had a lot of business and just kept working. He didn't mind the company hanging out and occasionally lending a hand. Finally, as the sun streamed in through the low windows in the West, the older gentlemen went home. Only Frank, Josh, and Braegan remained. These three were close brothers, some would say. Frank stopped working and sat on his tall stool that was near the coffee countertop. Josh offered him a cup of coffee and he declined, exhausted and too hot for hot drinks, for now.

"Josh, B, What are you two doing hanging out so late? I think I am, at last, where I can stop for the day and feel like I accomplished a little something," Frank said, addressing them with a tired smile. Josh took a sip of his coffee that he had cooled in the little refrigerator in the office and replied," Well, I just tuned the injector nozzle on my bike, and I thought we could take all of them out for a ride, but I am sure you are much too tired. A man your age working such a long day? It's probably your bedtime, now." Frank smiled widely while Braegan chuckled at the obvious dig. The three were within a couple of years of age from each other, and each loved riding their cycles as much as the other. Frank leaned to peer through the open shop door and commented on Josh's bike," It looks like you finally washed it, too. That's good to see. Were you hoping it would be faster without the wind catching all of the dirt?" Braegan was becoming antsy. He loved jokes and backtalk as much as anyone, but he was in the mood to ride!

Frank drank his last cup of coffee even though it had gotten colder than he liked sitting on the counter. Walking with his two closest friends, locking up the shop as he went, Frank drank in the cooling evening air. The faint scent of rain made the air seem crisp compared to midday when the humidity and stillness made everything seem sticky and stale. The sun was beginning to drop below the skyline of Eagle's Roost's City Centre's tall buildings. Josh and Braegans cycles leaned on their kickstands by the now lowered and locked overhead shop door. Frank smiled, he loved anything automotive or mechanical. He was a naturally gifted mechanic with a passion for restorations and customs. "Well, Frank? Where'd you hide your bike?" Braegan asked impatiently. Frank sensed the frustration in Braegan's voice and, like any close friend, began moving even more slowly to purposefully frustrate him. "You know, B. It's funny you call it a "bike" instead of a cycle or even a motorcycle..." He drawled slowly in his South Midwestern US accent. Braegan sighed loudly, fully aware that he was now the target of what would be a lengthy joke at his expense. Frank continued educating as he strolled slowly along the side of the shop building, Braegan and Josh closely in tow, "They started to become popular in the early 1900s and were simply bicycles with engines stuck on them," Josh smiled as Frank monologued. Not only did he find it funny to irritate Braegan, but he also enjoyed Frank's knowledge. "When the USA, and later the world," Frank continued," switched to tiny nuclear reactors heating steam for power units, Harley Davidson was one of the first to create a steam-powered bike. They called it the Automatic Steam Generation Auto-Cycling Regulated Drive system or ASGARD. They named the first Bike with the system the Sleipnir, after the Nordic horse god. No one knew what a Sleipnir was, though, so folks just called it an autocycle: Short for all the stuff in ASGARD." Frank leaned on a lean-to-shed wall by the side of the shop. It was a small maintenance shed at one time, Frank's shop having once been an automotive showroom at the front of a factory. Braegan stared at him incredulous then finally spoke up," OK, Frank. Can we just get your bi...ahem, autocycle, from wherever you have it stashed and go tear up some pavement?" Frank laughed and threw open the shed door. Frank's cycle was an older model but immaculately restored. Its large water tank and tubing, a mixture of copper and aluminum, gleamed in the lowering light. The jet-black frame seemed to swallow any hint of the light that reflected from the polished handlebars and tank. The "Norton" badge seemed to veritably glow from the side covers. Frank reached out at arm's length while strapping the door open with a bungee and flicked the heater switch to get the tiny nuke engaged and the flash boiler heated. "Well, fellas, you had better run to your bikes because I'm in the mood to outrun you both again tonight," Frank teased. Braegan and Josh took off at a quick jog back to the front of the shop. Braegan yelled back over his shoulder," Autocycle, Frank, not bike!" When Frank idled his bike around the edge of the building, all three men pulled their cycle throttles wide open, and with a loud whoosh of steam pushing through valves and a scream of tires squealing on pavement, Braegan in a wheel stand, the friends launched out into the evening breezes and headed for the farm country and crooked roads.

Past the farmhouses with covered porches, the men zoomed. Braegan and Frank switched back and forth for the lead. Joshua, a competent rider but less aggressive, was content to sit in the back of the pack of three and observe. Braegan and Frank only playfully raced. Neither man pushed his machine nor himself past any reasonable levels of safety. The dust from the outlying paved roads they rode kicked up in clouds around them into the dim evening light. The wind ripped past Frank in his work clothes. His greasy t-shirt flapped in the wind, and his overalls whipped his lower legs. He sounded to himself like he was a flag in a windstorm. It was a welcome feeling, even at these speeds. The freedom, the wind, the smells of the fresh air, and the countryside. He knew the others felt the same. Occasionally an ill-fated bug would fly in front of him, and he felt it hit his chest or saw it splat against his helmet's face shield. There was a cafe up ahead that they hadn't noticed in the past. Frank made a mental note that the next time they were daytime riding, they needed to stop in for some coffee and lunch. Old country cafes like this one were a favorite of his. They rode well past their normal landmarks and could see the dim lights of the neighboring town in the North, past dark silhouettes of grazing cattle in the rising moonlight. Braegan, the leader at the moment, pulled up into a short driveway to a hay field. Motioning with his hand, he turned around. The others, familiar with the signal, followed, and they began a more relaxed ride back. Nighttime had arrived. The air was cool, and the heat from the steam engine no longer felt uncomfortable against their legs. The water in the condensers and collectors was cooling off fast enough that it could be heard gurgling like a coffee pot percolating. Braegan thought about these friends, Frank in particular. He'd do anything for these men. He had made many mistakes in relationships and had some children with women he wished he hadn't. His girlfriend now was hot-tempered; of course, maybe, he deserved it. But these fellas, he thought to himself, have always been here for me. I'm going to be here for them. Josh also thought of the brotherhood of his riding partners. Brotherhood, he thought, because these two really are like brothers. Josh had no brothers of his own. The three of us, Josh nodded with contentment as he rode; we're brothers.

Back at the shops, goodbyes were swift. Braegan had to get home to his girlfriend. Josh needed to get laundry going for work tomorrow. Frank was simply exhausted. The other two men gone, Frank walked his cycle back into the shed. He had a design in mind for a monster of an autocycle. His own creation would not be a rotary piston engine like these; it would sparkle in the light and menace in the dark with brass accents and polished stainless against a jet black background. He smiled as he pictured it in his mind. He closed the shed door and stared down the long wall of the old factory that adjoined the office area and showroom he used as his shop. "I wonder what is in all of that," he pondered out loud, "I've been here long enough I know I should have explored it and cleaned it all out. I just never found the time or need." He shook his head and dismissed the curiosity again. I'm sure they took everything of any worth with them when they abandoned the old place, he thought silently. Franklin Greene strolled tired and content to the front, boarded his old steam-powered service truck, hit the warmers, and headed home. It had been a good day.