***

When we last left Carl and Emma, they had just left a crooked mechanic in an utter state of dismay.  We join them now, as they head north, toward St Louis, with The Whale purring gently along at exactly two miles per hour over the speed limit.

***

Carl bit off a plug of tobacco and stuffed it in his left cheek, then he took a huge bite of a Triple Whopper hamburger and stuffed that in his right cheek.  This was followed by a small handful of greasy french fries that went in the front of his mouth.  Somehow, he managed to chew the burger, the fries and the chaw without getting them mixed up.

Or at least Emma thought he kept them separated!   She shuddered at the thought of any human being eating food mixed with chewing tobacco juice.  "Carl, how can you eat food and chew tobacco at the same time?"

"Hmmopph?  Thhhsss go frprommman. thfff.."

"Never mind, dear.  I guess I shouldn't ask you to talk with your mouth full."

Carl reached up on the console, grabbed a bottle of Yoo Hoo Chocolate Soda and somehow managed to get a drink past everything else in his mouth.  Emma shuddered.

Carl disposed of the fries first, then transferred the burger home. "What I was sayin', is that it takes practice.  Many is the time when I was in the Navy, that I had to grab a bite on the run.  You learn some valuable skills in the service.  Why, how do you think I learned how to eat breakfast, go to the bathroom and shine my shoes all at the same time?"

Emma just shook her head.  "Well, are you still going to stop in St. Louis and see your old friend who owns that motorcycle shop?"

"Sure, if he's still alive.  Old Fat Jack was pushin' 70 when I used to race motocross.   I ain't seen him for 20 years at the very least.  That old buzzard taught me everything that I know about dirt bikes.  He used to be a great rider in his days, back when men was men and bikes were, too."

Emma looked confused.  "I'm not sure I understand that, dear?"

Carl laughed.  "Hah!  you wouldn't.  Because racin' is a man's sport.  How do you think I got to be such a great off-roader?  By learnin' on dirt bikes when I was a kid, that's how.  I read in the magazines where lots of the  best racers learnt on dirt bikes.   Rod Mears, Ironbutt Stewart, Roger Hall, Dan Adams, Murray Esquerra, Walter Evans, Gordy Gordon, Parsley Jones, Snoot Vessels... you name 'em.  Dirt is dirt, and dirt bikes ride on the dirt.  Hard to argue with that logic."

Emma didn't even try.

"Anyways, I hope the old coot is still alive.  He usta have a Triumph, BSA, Greeves and Bultaco dealership back then.  I was one of the first guys to race a 'Bul.  Man, I flew on those  things!   'Course, it wasn't real reliable.   I think I only finished four races in three years.  Or was it three races in four years?  Either way, I was a force to be dealt with back then.

"I was stationed near St. Louis back then before I met you. You shoulda seen me ride, Emma.  Poultry in motion!  I made moves that even dazzled me!  Sometimes I'd go sixty, seventy feet off the jumps, with one hand in the air, wavin' to all the pretty girls.  In fact, I once jumped over eleven guys at one time to take the lead, but got disqualified for cuttin' the course.  You see, I jumped from the sixth turn all the way to the eighth turn in the air, without touchin' a wheel down in turn seven.  The crowd went nuts!"

Emma's eyes were wide!  "So that's why you can ride our trail bikes so good!  I thought it was just a natural talent."

Carl beamed.  "Oh yes, it's that, of course.  But a lot of it has to do with incredible balance, keen eyesight and a feel for machinery.  Hmmmm.  Wonder what that thumping sound is?  Hope I  didn't hit some poor animal...."

Emma looked up from her knitting.  "You just flipped a tread on your left rear tire.  I felt it "bubble" a few miles back, but  didn't want to interrupt you while you were talking.  Shall I get out and change it for you, dear?"

"Naw.  You did them last two flats.  I owe you one."

***

Twenty minutes later they were under way, and a half hour after that, St. Louis popped into view.  Emma got out the map and read the directions to Carl, and not much later, The Whale pulled up in front of a huge motorcycle shop.   The sign said "MOTORCYCLES 'R US", and dozens of brand new gleaming bikes were lined up in front of the huge plate glass windows.

Carl parked The Whale in front, and walked inside.  There was a machine directly by the door with a sign on it:  “Take a number, please."  Salesmen were flitting around the Salesmen WITH DAMNED TIES ON!  Carl was stunned!  What motorcycle shop was this?

Carl walked up to the counter. “Uh, ‘scuse me, but is this here …”

The lady behind the counter (lady!!!), smiled.  “What’s your number, sir? We're serving number 92 right now."

Carl took a deep breath.   "Lookee here, is Fat Jack still around, or is he dead?"

She looked startled. “You don’t mean Mr. Splinkowitz, do you?"

Carl beamed.   "Yeah!   You mean that old buzzard is still alive?  Well, I'll be!  Is he around?  If he is, go git him."

The lady looked startled.  "Oh, I couldn't do that, sir!  He's the boss and nobody bothers him when he's in his office."

Carl fixed the lady with a cold stare.  "Well, tell you what. You get your butt back in there and tell him old Crash and Burn Carl is out here, ready to race again."

She stuttered and stammered for a while, but gave up and headed toward the back of the huge dealership.

Less than a minute later, a huge man with a large nose, three chins and an imposing beer gut charged up to the counter.  "Carl! Old Crash and Burn Carl!  As I live and breathe.   Thought I'd never see you again, not after you blew up three of my bikes in one day, and set a fourth one on fire when you took out the hot dog stand and nearly killed the ambulance driver.

"What brings you here?  Wait.  Don't tell me... let me guess? You're here for the Old Timers Motocross Nationals this weekend. Wow!  I am impressed.  Didn't think you had it in you anymore."

Carl  looked at the crusty face of his old friend and sponsor, smiled weakly, and answered:  "Uhh, yeah...  that's what I'm here for all right.  Can't stay away from racing, you know."

Fat Jack beamed.

Emma let out a low moan and started pounding her head against the counter.

***

Good grief!  Is Carl really going to race again, after all these years?  And will Emma let him?  And if he does, will he get severely killed several times over?  We'll find out next month.