Altoids and Ice Cream
By Larry Floyd. There is nothing better than rolling off the throttle, leaning into a curve, then rolling on some power as your willing steed settles into the arc, and feeding in some high octane go juice; the center line acting like an invisible rubber band, flinging your metal beast forward toward the sun-bathed maw of a country road.
…we motorcycle junkies seek out and lust for those exhilarating moments of bliss…
That’s the way it’s supposed to be. Certainly, we motorcycle junkies seek out and lust for those exhilarating moments of bliss; but there is a whole lot of time spent in yawn city while looking for that curve induced high. So, what to do while waiting for the adrenaline to kick in? You could mentally balance your checkbook, count how many barns you see in a mile, or resort to the old mom and dad on a family vacation ploy of having you look for out of state license plates.
In my youth, you could call “slug bugs, no slug backs”, a kid’s game where the first person who sees a Volkswagen Beetle can punch the other player in the arm. You have to remember to add “no slug backs”, otherwise, you just have a backseat fight and mom and dad don’t just threaten but actually do pullover, and, in politically incorrect fashion, smack the snot out of you.
I once read an article which stated that if you are feeling sleepy while driving, it helps to eat something or suck on something that encourages saliva flow. My unofficial research has convinced me that this is a sound recommendation, at least for me.
When you are driving in a car, there are lots of tasty snacks that can be kept easily within reach. You can stuff hard candies or nuts in the cup holder, toss a package of Twizzlers on the dash, or put a bag of potato chips on the seat next to you. Messy, perhaps, but effective.
Snacking on a motorcycle is a different animal altogether. You pretty much have to keep your hands on or near the controls. If you have any sense at all and want to be one of Darwin’s species that survives, then you have on a helmet that covers as much of your precious head as possible. This means opening a bag of miniature Snickers bars with your teeth can be problematic.
Chances are you are also wearing gloves. Just try to open up a box of Junior Mints with one hand that is sporting a waterproof leather gauntlet. Sharon tried to eat a pretzel one time while riding. She managed to pick out a single heart shaped mini-pretzel from her jacket pocket with her gloved hand and awkwardly stuff it under the chin bar of her helmet. When she let go, it began to circle around between the helmet shield and her face, sort of like how the ping pong balls bounce around in the plastic box before one of them travels up the tube to anoint a new lottery winner. She kept biting at it in a vain attempt to catch it in mid air until she lifted the shield and it escaped.
I’ve tried different items over the years. For a while, I found paper tube wrapped Mentos mints worked fairly well. The tubes are large enough to fit into the back pocket of my tank bag in a way that my gloved hand can retrieve and replace them. I can lift my face shield and bite off
the end Mentos through the paper and foil, then spit out the waste like a spitball. It works, but I feel guilty about creating even this small amount of litter on the beautiful roads I love so much. The Mentos, however, are semi-soft and beg to be chewed, not slowly dissolved. They don’t last long.
I have moved on to a more efficient solution. I buy a small tin of Altoids. The tin is about three inches tall by two inches wide by a little less than an inch thick. It probably holds about 40 or 50 small Altoid hard candies, shaped like tiny footballs. The tin fits securely in the rear pocket of my tank bag, next to the tire gauge, and is easily accessed. The top is a plastic lid with a snap closure that has proven over the miles to be secure as well as water proof, and can be flipped
up with a gloved thumb. I can lift the chin bar of my helmet, open the lid of the Altoid box, and shake three or four tangy treats into my mouth with my left hand off the clutch side of the handlebar for mere seconds.
The Altoids have a sharp initial bite, then settle into a nice wave of lovely flavor that lasts for several minutes and puts the zing back into the attention part of my brain. The small tins of Altoids are not sold at all of the gas station stores where I stop, and there are only three flavors, Wintergreen, Peppermint, and my personal favorite, Arctic Strawberry.
My system works well most of the time. I did drop a tin once. It was less than half full and, considering the lid was open, not worth the risk of hauling down in traffic and zigging to the side of the road to get it back.
On a recent trip, my Altoids fixation did result in a minor hitch. Jeff was ahead of me on the Blue Ridge Parkway. I flipped up my helmet chin bar, fished out the Altoids’ tin, popped the lid, and tossed a few into my mouth. At that point, Jeff decided to pull over suddenly at an overlook.
My situation was messy. My right hand was on the throttle; my left hand was occupied with an open candy container, thusly unable to grab the clutch, and I had to slow down right now to keep from overtaking my leader. A glance in the rear-view mirror revealed a small white car with two occupants which was also pulling off at the overlook right behind me. My mind raced with all the options open to me. However, I pretty much rejected creative solutions and just braked.
The bike, which was in fourth gear, slowed, with the idling engine still straining to push forward.
The bike, which was in fourth gear, slowed, with the idling engine still straining to push forward. The brakes eventually won the battle and the bike shuddered and lurched twice before the engine stalled, my left foot shooting out awkwardly just before the bike reached critical lean over. The two people in the car behind me both gasped in a “deer in the headlights” type of expression. The best I could do to recover my image was to quickly stow the tin, start the bike and, with a confident twist of the throttle, pull smartly into a parking spot. The tangy wintergreen mouth-rush was little solace for the loss of my motorcycle cool.
So much for Altoids, how about ice cream? Most people I ride with think I have a fixation for ice cream. Oh, I like ice cream just fine. My favorite was the homemade concoction that came out of a wooden bucket with a hand crank that my dad would turn for what seemed like hours, salty brine trickling from the vent hole on the side to run down the basement drain. Sometimes he would let me crank it for a while. It was sort of reminiscent of the story about Tom Sawyer cleverly conning his friends into white washing aunt Polly’s fence by pretending to make the task look like fun. I could only crank for a short time and when the sugary milk brew began to thicken, I had to turn it over to Dad to finish it off. But, you can’t very well hand churn ice cream on a motorcycle trip.
I often ride with people who have the stamina of a charging rhino on loco weed.
The truth is, I get tired between about three and four in the afternoon when I am on an all-day or multi-day ride. I often ride with people who have the stamina of a charging rhino on loco weed. I just plain wear out in the mid-afternoon and I really need a break. As a result, I typically approach the ride leader at the first afternoon gas stop and suggest that we maybe look for a Dairy Queen in an hour or so.
Most of the time, this suggestion is enough to get me the break I need. I don’t necessarily have a love specifically for Dairy Queen. It’s just that there are a lot of them and therefore there is a reasonable probability that one will crop up at an appropriate time. They are generally fairly clean and come equipped with a bathroom, another welcome benefit on an extended ride.
I prefer an independent dairy bar – you know, the kind housed in a small white building by the side of the road with a sign in the shape of a swirly ice cream cone. The best dairy bar I ever visited was in northeastern Pennsylvania. Sharon and I were in a caravan with Gene and Barb Kautz, Jay Green, and Dick Smith. We were headed for Watkin’s Glen on a three-week trip to the New England states. It was late August and, while not brutally hot, it was warm, it was mid-afternoon, and I was hitting my predictably low point of the day. Since I was leading at that time, it was an easy decision to pull over when I spotted the roadside dairy bar ahead.
It was perfect. There was a line, but not too long, that afforded us time to peruse the hand painted menu next to the walk-up window. My eyes zeroed in on the blueberry sundae. It was blueberry picking season in a blueberry growing part of the country. My sundae was made with actually scooped hard ice cream, not the soft, mushy stuff that squirts out of the metal teat of a machine, and it was lusciously covered with a fresh syrup with whole berries dotting the cold, yummy dome of cream, vanilla, and sugar corralled by the cardboard cup.
I slowly scrapped the red plastic spoon along the side of the glistening mound, carefully collecting just the right amount of ice cream, syrup, and freshly ripened whole berries. Wow. It was the best blueberry ice cream sundae I ever had or ever will have. The combination of the day, good friends, humming motorcycles and a magnificent treat at just the right time will never be exactly repeated. There would be other trips, and there are hopefully more to come, but there will never be a blueberry sundae like this one. However, I am committed to continuing to look for something at least comparable on every trip I take.
There is nothing better than leaning into a curve, sucking an Altoid, and spotting an ice cream palace ahead. It helps to have good friends to share.