THE DEERSLAYER

My bike has developed a taste for blood.
It is my creation, my Jesse James Pinocchio child which has taken on its own identity, and grown up to be a killer. It's the blue one in the photo gallery.
The 1971 T120R was rebuilt in the late 80's, about 26,00 miles ago but it has evolved over the years I've owned it with various modifications and upgrades occurring randomly, often after accidents. I have crashed the bike more than six times. I can no longer claim full control for its appearance and behavior.
There is also nothing more permanent than a temporary repair.
It was a day in June when I got around to a session where a number of niggling details which had evolved through sequence of events not of my choosing. After a few hours with the tank off, the Bonneville had no situation to be rectified. I declared it perfect and took it out for a ride that night.
I was wearing what I call the Dead Man's Hat, a white open helmet I inherited from a former client who had a fondness for heroin that eventually took his life. This headgear apparently has a supernatural power to protect me the wearer from death, much like a temporary acquisition of a super power.
I was returning from my destination late that night on the South Shore Road just over a mile from my house when a deer bolted out from behind a guard rail and tackled the bike before I could even hit the brakes. Traveling about forty five miles an hour, I stood up and launched into a roll with my left shoulder making first impact for three full turns. I could see the bike sliding sideways on the road with the deer pinned underneath, when the deer dug in at the gravel shoulder of the road and the bike flipped upside down before landing on the gas tank against the edge of the pavement.
I walked the fifty feet back and picked up the bike while the deer blinked and moved its doomed head stupidly. The bars were bent on the left, but I yanked them up so it cleared the tank and I could steer. I fumbled into neutral while I expected the sheriff to come round the corner with a bunch of stupid questions. The bike started second kick and I puttered home in the dark. As I got the bike in the garage I realised my keys were no longer hanging from the snap clip on my beltloop. I was forced to walk back down the road with a flashlight and find the keys to my house and vehicles, so there was anything but compassion in my heart for the pitiful and clearly homicidal creature laying in a splintered heap of just deserts thirty feet from my keys.
The pain in my shoulder had mostly subsided by the time all the replacement parts had arrived and my spare gas tank fetched. The new tank was a different style and came down low onto conflict with the oil cooler, which had to be removed. Aside from the bars and some shredded rubber bits, the chrome had just acquired a few tiny scabs which were acceptable patina due to my condition of poverty. The bike looked low and mean with its wide black tank and a new seat cover was shiny. It definitely looked more badass and stated"no bullshit" quite clearly.
Riding again was another story especially at night, where every shadow in the forest was reading to leap out smash into you. I had a deer run into the side of my truck in broad daylight just a few months previous, a couple hundred yards from the driveway. I was stuck on high alert. By August another deer had assaulted my poor little Toyota on the way in to the track one early morning and that was a new windshield and mirror. Right about then, a friend's father struck a deer while riding his motorcycle in Connecticut and was killed a few miles form his home.
By that October of 06 I was very carefully pottering my way over to my pal Bart's house to watch Monday night football. As I crossed the dam a few miles away, I saw 2 deer charge up from the water again from the left and form a moving barrier across the road in my path. I grabbed all the brakes I could and steered away from the closest with my back wheel just locked. Which brought me skidding into his buddy who was able to easily smash into me as I slowed to a walking pace.
The deer went flying back about eight feet and my bike was knocked instantly sideways, trapping my right foot under the gearshift lever and swinging my body against the pavement like a rag doll. This broke some ribs on my left side and caused some soft tissue trauma to my foot as fulcrum. The deer scrambled to its feet and struggled up the hillside after his departed partner, so the second kill remains unconfirmed.
After some difficulty finding neutral, I was able to start the bike and ride home in the dark with another smashed headlight. I should also point out that there is no cellphone service in the Adirondack Park where I live.
At this point I parked the bike in the garage and left it for a year or so until returning in the depth of winter after my neighbor hacked a hole in the six foot high frozen plow berm with an excavator for access to the garage. I loaded my wounded warrior into the chevy and drove it out to Vancouver. The black tank had some issues keeping all the combustible contents inside so I found a small old style tank for a hundred bucks and put my old badges and knee pads on it after a quick rattle can. Some new headlight glass and more rubber bits made it fully functional and a pretty, compact oil cooler sourced cheaply from Lordco has now transformed my big boy into a lean American killer. Black and blue, alloy and chrome, the angry hotrod has people asking about it every time I ride it.
And we cannot be killed.