...he, Peter Fonda he, Dennis Hooper, Captain America he, Bill The Kid he, Hunter Thompson he, hell, Sonny Barger or one of one hundred grunge, nasty mother keep your daughters indoors under lock and key Hell's Angels brethren he (as if that would help, help once she, the daughter, saw that shiny silver sleek Indian , Harley, Vincent, name it, whatever and did some fancy footwork midnight creep out that unlocked suburban death house ranchero house back door ), just wanted to drive down that late night Pacific coast highway (naturally, where else to have the wind at your back and the hard-hearted ocean at your right. Somehow Maine icy stretch Ellsworth Point did not make its case ), drive, motorcycle drive just in case you thought this was some sedan buggy family, dad and mom, three kids and Rover, car saga, maybe with his sweet mama behind holding on to her easy rider in back, and riding against the pounding surf heading south heading Seals Rock, Pacifica, Monterrey, Big Sur, Xanadu, Point Magoo, Malibu, Carlsbad, Diego, south right to the mex border, riding down to the see, sea. Riding down to the washed sea.
Easy, just an easy rider and his sweet, sweet mama, her hair, her flaming red hair, or whatever color it was that week, blowing against the weathers, against the thrust of that big old engine, all tight tee- shirt, tight jeans, tight. Maybe a quick stop off at Railroad Jim’s (and if he wasn’t in then Saigon Pappy’s, Billy Blast or Sunshine Sue’s) to cope some dope (weed, reefer, a little cousin cocaine to ease that ‘Nam pain, the one Charley kissed his way one night when he decided to prove, prove for the nth time that he, Charley, was king of the night) to handle those sharp curves around Big Sur, and get her in the mood (she, ever since that midnight creep out Ma’s back door had craved her cousin, craved it to get her into the mood, and just to be his outlaw girl).
Yah, it was supposed to be easy, all shoreline washed clean, stop for some vista here, some dope there and then down to cheap Mexico, cheap dope, and a haul back norte and easy street, easy street, laying around with sweet mama, real name, Susan White, road moniker, Little Peach (an inside joke) until Red Riley needed another run, another run against the washed sea night. Then it turned into one thing after another. He took a turn around Pacific way too fast, went way over the edge with his right hand throttle (Little Peach so excited by this her first outlaw run she slipped her hands low, too low while he was making that maneuver, thinking, maybe, they were in bed) and skidded hair- pin twirl skidded off the on-coming road. Little Peach was hurt a little but the bike was dented enough to require some work at Loopy Lester’s (Red Riley had guys up, bike magic guys, up and down the coast) back in Daly City. So delay.
Then, a couple of days delay, they ran into rain down around Big Sur, pouring rain and Little Peach moaned about it and they had to shack up in a motel for a couple of days, days looking at that fierce ocean. More delay. Then he made his first (and last) serious mistake, short on funds he decided (not decided, he was hard-wired to make that decision, hard –wired by his whole sorry, beautiful life, his father then mother left him Oakland dump, his whore first wife while he was in ‘Nam, his very real ‘Nam pain, and, a little his dope habit. Little Peach, and the ocean, when it co-operated, his only rays) to rob a liquor store in Paseo Robles. Trouble was the liquor store owner must have thought he was Charley, shot at him, nicking him, he grabbed the owner’s gun in a tussle and bang, bang. Grabbed the dough and the extra and ammo and roared off , Little Peach trembling, into the Pacific highway night.
Serious mistake, for sure, they caught up to him just outside Carlsbad, South Carlsbad down near the airport road, near the camp sites, where he was resting up a little (bleeding a little too). He had left Little Peach (and most of the dough) back in Laguna to keep her out of it. So alone, not wanting to face some big step, not another downer in his sorry, beautiful life, the heathered, rock strewn, shoreline just below, he took out that damn gun, loaded the last of the ammo, doubled around to face the blockading police cars and throttled –up his bike. Varoom, varoom…
Ballad Of Easy Rider Lyrics
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