Baker's Dozen E-Book

Richard Critter Davis

• Herausgeber: BooxAi
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

This is a story of good and bad, Political and Police corruption, murder and the lengths that good people will go to protect those they love.
It is the story of love, hate, the pursuit of happiness and the preservation of a lifestyle that they have chosen. A lifestyle that is more than a style of dress or a type of transportation but is the essence of who they are!
It is a story of how misunderstandings and misguided thinking, left unchecked and uncorrected, can fester and contaminate until it destroys what is surrounding it. 
It is a story about how a true Brotherhood can rise from animosity, prejudice, confronting and changing misguided perception if both parties are willing to see reason, and blossom and bear fruit.

Leseprobe

Rick (Critter) Davis

Baker's Dozen

All rights reserved

Copyright ©️ 2022 by Rick (Critter) Davis

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by BooxAi

ISBN: 978-965-577-948-6

BAKER'S DOZEN

THE BANSHEE WAILS

RICK (CRITTER) DAVIS

Dedication

I would like to dedicate this book firstly to my wife of fifty plus years for putting up with me and encouraging me to follow my dreams that didn’t always pan out, and who stuck by me through thick or thin and good times as well as bad.

And to Donny Petersen HAMC, a much-respected biker, author, Technical writer and consultant, motorcycle mechanic, shop owner, innovator, custom motorcycle builder, World traveler, philanthropist, boxer, weight lifter, friend and a full fledged 1% Biker. His influence and knowledge extended around the World, he was fearless, yet humble, and yet could be shy at times. He was an ambassador of the World of bikers to the outside World and he always did things by his rules, and he did it with class, dignity and style. He didn’t back away from a fight, be it with the police and the legal system or some heavies looking for trouble.

His writing took us from the small towns and neighborhoods of Toronto and then around the World, into dense jungles and then to the top of Mount Everest and then into the mean streets, back alleys, slums of some of the Worlds most dangerous neighborhoods.

I thoroughly enjoyed Donny’s books and he was the inspiration for me to do what I always wanted to do but didn’t know I could. He encouraged me to do it, but told me straight up: “Do it because you love to write. There isn’t any money in it!” He read some early drafts of this book as I was writing them, and I heeded his advice.

His presence at the Riders Mag booth at the Motorcycle Shows always drew crowds and the Show had offered him his own space for free. He called me up and asked if he could be at our booth instead because, as he put it, “I’d rather be with the real people.”

He called things as he saw them, and didn’t sugar coat things, didn’t care if you agreed with him or not! He was his own man and a true original!

Donny Petersen

1947 – 2021

Gone But Not Forgotten. Love and Respect. Ride in Peace

As this book is set-in small-town Ontario, Canada, I would like to further dedicate this book to all the Motorcycle Clubs of Southern Ontario, who have influenced me from my earliest recollections to present. In the days when every MC would attend all Club Field meets and participate to the fullest, in times when the games were hard core, gritty, down and dirty and would quickly separate the men from the boys.

Things could get rough, and at times, medical attention was required, but they were a ball and the highlight of the year.

Today, Clubs come and go, sometimes without notice, but back in the early days, you knew who was who and what they stood for, because they made themselves be noticed and their intentions were clear. The old Clubs, whose patches were revered and prized as if they were gold. Clubs had history and pride and wore and represented their patches with honour against all and any challengers. Many of these Clubs still exist today, although mortality has taken its toll and many of the older members have passed on.

Some of the old Clubs have disappeared or were swallowed up by other, larger Clubs over the years. But they made their mark and had their role in the History of Motorcycle Clubs.

I had the honour and the privilege of being able to cover events for many different Clubs over my years as Photojournalist for The Rider’s Mag and was treated very well by so many people. 1%er Clubs and non 1%er Clubs and independent Riders alike. It has been an adventure and there are many stories to be told, and I will do my best to relate them to the readers, as these were the best of times! There like will never be seen again!

CONTENTS

Foreword

1. The Beginning!

2. Shifting Gears

3. Discovering Themselves

4. Finding their Way

5. Adventures Sometimes Just Happen!

6. Love and Relationships

7. Sad Endings, New Beginnings

8. Showdown at High Noon!

9. Dealing with the Pain

10. What Goes Good With Crow?

11. Let the Lessons Begin

12. Moving Forward

13. Taking Care Of Business And Things Left Unspoken!

14. The Funeral

15. Turning the Page

FOREWORD

There is one road that leads into and out of the Town of Swanton Harbour. It of course, ends at the lake, or starts there, depending on your perspective and intersects with the main highway. There is a large, attractive, roadside sign at the edge of Town, it reads; Welcome to the Town of Swanton Harbour. It continues with The Town’s catch phrase; “The Gem of a Town, that will exceed your expectations!” There are many who live here, who think that something like; “All that glitters, is not gold!” or “All that looks peaceful and serene isn’t always a little piece of Heaven.” Or even “All dark clouds don’t have a silver lining.” might be more appropriate.

The town, founded in 1909 by Steve Swanton and family, when they opened a feed mill, general store and post office, down near the lakeshore, which, served the local farming community. It grew from those humble beginnings to a Police Village, then achieving Town status, in 1961. For all intents and purposes, it is a nice place. It was, a small, peaceful, town in the late fifties and early sixties, nestled between the lake and the rich farmland that produced crops of corn, potatoes, onions and provided good grazing for cattle for both beef and dairy products.

It was also appealing to the horsy crowd and was home to many sprawling ranches with large fancy homes along with barns and stables that could often rival the houses, as to habitability. With 30 miles of shoreline on a fair-sized lake, the Town offered excellent fishing, boating, swimming and other water sports so it was also a great tourist destination. The rugged, hilly terrain that was plentiful; also supported many winter activities offering excellent skiing, and snowmobiling.

They had two Motels, one four-star hotel, two three stars hotels, two laundromats, two Bowling allies, three Movie theatres, a large Community Centre, and fair grounds, plus two Arenas, and seven baseball Diamonds. There was an IGA store, an A&P, a Dominion Store, a Steinburg’s, and Loblaws, was rumoured to be looking to open here as well. They had a Canadian Tire, and a United Co-op, and were considered to be one of the fastest growing Towns in the Province!

There was a High School, Public, Elementary school, a Catholic School, and a Private School. All the major churches were represented as well; Baptist, United, Anglican, Catholic, Presbyterian and a Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witness, were all here, if you needed to save your soul, or to make you feel blessed!

It was also home to; Gino’s pizza and Chinese take out, Ruby’s Diner, Chuck’s Burger and a Kentucky Fried Chicken Outlet, Grumpy Bob’s Garage and tire service, who also ran a fleet of two Tow Trucks and Nick’s Full-service Gas Station, and Convenience Store. It was a growing Community alright! It was close enough to the nearby city of Toronto to be considered convenient, but far enough away and rooted in farm Country to still be thought of as Rural.

This was an ideal spot to raise a family and promised good wholesome living. You might expect that the Murder of a Police Officer, Police Corruption, Motorcycle gangs, Political Scandal, Organized Crime, Sex scandals, bribery, gambling syndicates and the like, to be big city crimes, certainly, not the fare for nice, quiet, peaceful, little bedroom communities like Swanton Harbour. You would be wrong!

You may think, in a small Town such as this, Police corruption and such, if it existed at all, would be on a somewhat, lesser scale. However, the size of the Town, doesn’t necessarily dictate the size crime it can attract, or impact it can have! Corruption and crime know no borders or boundaries, the insidious seeds, no matter how small and innocuous, they may seem, are cast indiscriminately and can be germinated, take root and thrive anywhere! The impact can be just as damaging and devastating, to the victims, no matter where it rears its ugly head!

The murder of a Police Officer is still, the murder of a Police Officer, no matter where it occurs, and raises the bar substantially, on the scale, of how much media attention it receives, how seriously the Police take it and how extensive the investigation is! Plus, in a small tight-knit community such as Swanton Harbour, where the rumour mill works over-time, and gossiping, speculation, and second guessing is a favourite pastime, and to have truth, compete with conjecture and rumours, can be a daunting task in itself!

Parents, however well intentioned, often, mistakenly, move to these small communities, in hopes of escaping and sheltering their children, from the evils and temptations of the “Big City”, only to find that those evils and temptations, have already beaten them here. They find that their kids have readily imported all of the “Big City” stuff so they, could escape the seclusion and boredom of life in the burbs and beyond and not be labelled as hicks!

Some, made an escape from the mundane, by other means! They formed, or joined into groups of those who share similar interests be it music, sports, stamp collecting or whatever. One of these groups, turned to their passion and love of a sport, that was actually, more about love and respect for each other, combined with the love of motorcycles, the motorcycle culture, and lifestyle. They created and modified a lifestyle and a community of their own, that to them, was real, distinctive and tangible and, to them, more acceptable.

However, much of Society, didn’t understand, or care to understand, the attraction that some felt towards motorcycles or the motorcycle culture. Those, who adopted that culture, and all that went with it, got to be branded as outcasts, misfits! They were harassed and were bullied and maligned by those who were supposed to protect the rights of all citizens, not just the one’s that they (By the authority that they felt the badge entitled them to.) felt were worthy of the rights of citizenship. They did so, with the blessings and full support of the rest of society, who were conditioned to this type of behavior by propaganda by police agencies and main stream media who were more interested in juicy headlines than truths.

That was OK by them, these were Bikers! Or rather, in this case, they were a baseball team, a bunch of kids, who became Bikers and also came to play a prominent roll in the Murder and the investigation.

CHAPTERONE

THE BEGINNING!

The late October wind, coming off the Lake was cold and bitter and was rapidly performing its task of stripping the trees, of their colourful foliage, now that the first frost, that occurred a few days previous, had taken its toll. It seemed to slice right through Dan’s heavy leather jacket and gloves with ease and made him shiver. He, piloted the bright orange, knucklehead, bobber, off the long meandering country roadway, through the beautiful stone archway that marked the entrance to the Cemetery’s narrow driveway.

He cruised at an easy pace, the throbbing heartbeat of the big, V Twin motor, breaking through the absolute silence. Nearby birds took flight and several squirrels sought shelter in nearby trees! He proceeded along the driveway, winding between the various plots and monuments, and followed it along until it opened up to a wonderful vista of the lake and the rapidly diminishing cavalcade of colour that was, the surrounding woodlands. This marked the spot where would he veer off, down a small pathway for a hundred yards or so, then glided slowly and carefully across the well manicured grass that was quickly being covered by an immense carpet of leaves, towards a recently occupied gravesite.

The Cemetery, was tranquil, and serene, as well as almost empty, save a few souls who were dressed to suit the inclement weather. It served as fair warning, that Winter would soon hold us in its icy grip. These folks, were visiting loved ones of their own and went about their business of tending to the graves. They did however, cast curious looks towards him, as his arrival had caught their attention, firstly, for being out on a motorcycle, that wasn’t exactly quiet, on such a cold, inhospitable day and secondly because they recognised him.

He noticed that some floral arrangements were still in place, as he came to a stop, beside the grave. The cold wind, once again caught him a little off his guard and a sudden chill, ran through his body, as he sat there just staring at the grave for several minutes. He let the motorcycle sit, at its signature, pulsating, uneven idle, before he twisted the throttle a couple of times in quick succession, listening, as the throaty growl reverberated throughout the cemetery, before shutting it down and dismounting. The sound was pleasurable to him and he knew it would certainly appeal to REB, should he be able to hear it. What the Hell? It didn’t do anybody any harm even if it couldn’t reach REB’s ears. He breathed in deeply, enjoying the musky, heady, scent of the decaying leaves, that hung in the crisp Autumn air, filling his lungs and soothing his senses with its invigorating fragrance.

“That should get your attention!” He said out loud, and slowly walked over towards the grave, until he was standing directly in front of the handsome, large black marble headstone, that marked the place they had laid his friends body to rest just a few short weeks ago. He reached out and touched it, perhaps hoping to feel something other than the cold hard surface and then examined the offerings that had already begun to accumulate atop the grave marker. Different, personal items, that had been left there as tokens of love and respect, by friends, who, like himself, had come here for some private time with him, and to make peace with his spirit. There was a small Inukshuk, possibly, built and left there by Tramp, or perhaps his Uncle or other family members to mark this as a sacred place in accordance with the ways and beliefs of their indigenous culture.

Some of the items, could be considered to be junk to some; various bottle caps (Guinness mostly), pocket knives, buttons, patches, locks of hair, lapel pins, rings and other various jewelry items and trinkets that had some connection or meaning, between them and their departed Brother. There were also envelopes, containing various amounts of cash, obviously, to settle debts owed, and were now considered to be paid. He left everything undisturbed, other than leaving an item of his own, an old, Swanton Harbour, Chief of Police shoulder flash that he had encased in clear acrylic resin.

On the tombstone, it was inscribed; Robert Edward Baker, Sept 12, 1945 – Sept. 12, 2020 – R.I.P. – G.BN.F. – L&R – A&F. Loving Son, Husband Father and Brother. There was the Club Logo emblazoned on it with; The Bakers Dozen in a rocker above, and below, it said; President and founder. He will be missed!

“Well old friend; It has been quite a ride and an adventure! And we’ve certainly come a long way, on roads that I ever would have imagined I would travel, and to destinations that I hadn’t planned on going! It has been quite a transition from Chief of Police, to where I am now! I guess, I really have turned the page.”

Dan took off his gloves, unzipped the front of his jacket, and extracted a bottle of Wiser’s Deluxe, Rye Whiskey, that he had tucked in there. He unscrewed the cap and poured some of the potent liquid on the ground just in front of the headstone. “Sláinte, Mo Chara!” He then raised the bottle to his lips and took a long pull. He could feel the comforting warmth, as the strong liquor made its journey to the depths of his stomach. He would repeat that procedure several more times during the course of his visit.

“I got your message the other day! Trust you, to throw one last curve at me, you, old coot! You know I’m a sucker for an inside curve, and I guess I should have expected it!” He said with a grin while shaking his head.

He poured them each another stiff shot, and just sat there on the ground, with his old friend, while looking out at the lake, watching the white caps form on the waves, before they crashed against the rocky shoreline. The wind, suddenly picked up, sending leaves scattering between the graves in little eddies and another shiver ran through Dan’s body. He quickly did up the jacket, and then just sat there, leaning back against the black marble monolith, in silence.

That is something that they did quite regularly throughout the years, just sitting in silence, together, gathering their thoughts and formulating their conversation, until one of them figured that they had thought long enough, and decided it was time for discussion. They found that often, silent time with someone that you’ve bonded with, could often be as comforting and as stimulating as conversation! Sometimes, words are just so unnecessary.

For Dan, now, it was time to ponder, reflect, and assess the things that had occurred over a lifetime, along with recent choices and decisions that were made. Right or wrong, good or bad, would be determined by others, after life had left his body and his time on earth was done. This would be based on how these people, perceived him, personally, weighed things out, and calculated his worth as a human being. He hoped they would approve, but as REB would say; “Fuck ‘em if they don’t!”

For men like he and REB; they just tried to do the best they could, and lived the best they could by their own rules and the standards, that they set for themselves. In the end; what if, you could take one final look back and make a final assessment, what would you change, if you could? That was a question he had no answers to.

Shaking his head, and smiling, he rose to his feet, and they shared one last shot of the whiskey! He then said out loud; “Your secret, is now our secret, my friend, and it goes to the grave with me! I’ll leave this, here with you, Mo Chara, so you’ll have something to share, with me or the next person that comes up to visit you! I will bring more.” He then placed the half empty bottle on the grave, leaning it against the fine, black marble marker.

This place, held more cherished memories for Dan, and he was not done visiting quite yet. He solemnly, made his way down to the next plot, where the bodies of his wife and two children also lay. He was now crying, as he sat on the cold ground, amongst his family, overwhelmed by the sense of loss and sadness. He had no words, he just sat there for and immeasurable amount of time, sobbing and trying to make sense of it all. He again, rose to his feet, regained his composure, but still not able to bring voice to the words that stuck in his throat. Not wanting to just leave without expressing something, he simply, blew a kiss towards the graves, turned and quickly walked away, a lump burning in his throat like he’d swallowed a blazing ember!

Dan, then, walked back to the orange motorcycle, that he and his friend both loved, and one kick brought it back to life! The harsh bark of the short exhaust pipes, breaking the silence and sanctity of the place once again. This, was a far cry from the sound of the massive Funeral procession, that had filled this place, not so long ago.

He then raised his right hand pointed towards REB’s grave, in a familiar, one finger salute, which he quickly converted to a thumbs up. Smiling broadly, he gave the throttle a good twist, before heading back through the rustling leaves, and off into the chilly late afternoon, Autumn splendour! The rumble of the exhaust marked his passage and soon faded off letting silence and serenity once again be restored.

Dan’s journey through life continues, however, there is a void that could never be filled. Although, his family’s and his friend’s body, may well lie cold, and lifeless, beneath the hallowed ground of this place, their spirit rides away with him on that bright orange bobber. He could feel REB’s presence as he turned from the driveway onto the paved road, twisted the wick and roared off with the cold wind stinging his face. That was the winds kiss, and that, brought him to life and he twisted the throttle even further, leaning into the turns of that winding road like it was a challenge! He could almost hear his Brother urging him on! REB may be gone from this Earth but his, legacy, memory, and his achievements will live on in the hearts and minds of many for years to come.

Robert Edward Baker, was born to Francis and Edna Baker, on a bright sunny late summer’s day on September 12th in the year 1945. They were of solid Irish stock, who left their Native Ireland, to forge a better life here in Canada. They had very little in the way of money, and very few possessions, upon arrival in the Country, and worked at whatever jobs they could find, until they could get enough to open the Bakery shop of their dreams. Jobs, was the operative word as they both worked multiple jobs, and it seemed that they were always working.

They had rented a small house, from a farmer, just outside Town. It wasn’t much more than a shack, but it was a roof over their heads, which they desperately needed as Robert was due any time. They even had a spot to grow a small garden, which was essential to their survival.

Francis, got hired on as a carpenter’s helper, and put in long, hard, tiring, days, then pitched in, to help his landlord with chores, in the evening and on weekends to help pay the rent. He would chop wood, worked in the fields, harvesting crops, and loading hay onto a wagon with a pitch fork. He was hard working, tough as nails, multi talented and determined to succeed. There was no day of rest for these folks, and they didn’t expect one.

Edna, cleaned houses, took in laundry, helped picking crops, and would bake, cookies, scones, cakes, bread, biscuits, pies and tarts, that she would load into large wicker baskets, and trudge ten miles into Town and sell to the General Store. Her baked goods, got to be very popular, and sold out almost as fast as she could put them out. Francis made her a small wagon, to transport her goods and in winter a sled that he fashioned out of scrap material served her well. They weren’t getting rich, but they were managing to save some money, and when a shop in town, with living quarters above came available, they were able to put a small down payment on it, and that was Baker’s Baked Goods first home.

Edna, gave birth to Robert at home, in that ramshackle, little shack, with the help of a Mid wife, and just never seemed to miss a beat, in her busy life, and was back working, just as soon as she could. After he was born, the Midwife who was cleaning him up, noticed that he had a small red and very distinct birthmark on his left chest just above the nipple. She remarked at the time, that it resembled a wailing Banshee! She, being of old Irish stock, had experienced a life, rife with, and steeped in, old beliefs, superstitions, folklore and tales of the supernatural and such. She was a little unnerved by the discovery at the time, but no one else gave it any consideration and any concerns she might have had, were dismissed as happenstance.

He was to be their only child, and although Edna never complained, it was hard on her, as she and Francis, had both hoped for a large family. They would have liked more children, but they didn’t have much choice, money was tight, times were hard, work had to be done, and they chose to be thankful with what they had.

Young Robby, was a blessing to them, and he had such a good temperament, and could amuse himself for hours with the simplest of toys, was well behaved, mindful, and respectful of his parents. He, as well, seemed to pick up on his parents work ethic, and was always eager to pitch in wherever he could, even as a toddler.

But, he had a rebellious side to him, and as well, he possessed a fearsome temper! He was absolutely fearless in his approach to anything and everything. There was always a bit of a hard edge to him, although, it was undetectable most of the time, but it was definitely there. It lay, just beyond what was visible to the eye, so, if you looked closely enough, you knew that something ominous, dark and dangerous, lay dormant within, just below the surface. That, could, and did, cause some problems for him and his parents, from time to time. Robby was also very analytical in the way he dealt with things, and his actions even as a young lad, always seemed measured and well thought out. He very rarely, just charged into anything, without giving it some solid thought and consideration first, as to how he would go about things.

He, also had a true “Poker Face” even in childhood, and his facial expressions, other than pure joy or happiness, never betrayed his true emotions, thoughts, or whatever action or reactions lay in store. Emotions such as anger, fear, disgust, or hurt were masked and obscured by that “poker face”. His ice blue eyes, were his most dominant feature and, he could lock into an intense stare, that could make most people uncomfortable. Some said if he was pissed off, he would fix you with a look that while not showing any emotion or intent, would send a chill down their spines as if someone was digging their grave. He was skilled in letting the other person’s guilt, dishonesty, fear or anger betray them with just a look from him.

Robby was an average student in most subjects, but excelled in art, music, and sports. He was an excellent athlete and displayed natural abilities in any sport. This presented a challenge, to the hard-working family, for whom every penny was needed to keep their fledgling business going as they needed to expand their little shop, to keep pace with demand. Sports equipment was expensive and while they didn’t want to curtail their son’s involvement, it did present a problem. But things had a way of working out for them, as they had made fast friends in the community, through their honesty, hard work and their generosity.

When someone in Town got sick, or injured or had fallen on hard times; the Bakers were the first ones to offer to help. They would drop off large baskets of baked goods or a pot of home-made soup, or stew. They were always careful and mindful of their money but would occasionally miscalculate an order and drastically undercharge for goods for someone who was facing hard times. People would try to make them aware that a mistake had been made, but they would just get a smile in return, and know that it was no mistake. Often, they would add items to someone’s order and tell them that it was older stock that they didn’t want to stock any more, but it was still good, and they would rather, give it to them, rather that throw it out. Their customers certainly appreciated them.

One such customer was Police Chief, Stanley Marshal, who had known the Bakers since they first came to Town and was very impressed by the hard-working couple, and the way the fit into the Community. He also saw something in young Robby that he felt needed nurturing.

Stan Marshall, was not a big man by any means, and certainly, not typical of those hulking six foot, plus, ex football players, who usually were attracted to this type of work. He only stood five foot, seven and a half inches tall, and weighed in at one hundred and fifty-five pounds. He was well muscled and was as tough as they come, when he needed to be, and was certainly capable of making his presence known, again, the key words apply; when he needed to. His size and demeanor were deceiving and many a big tough man, was quickly made aware of his ability to scrap and take care of himself. He was totally fearless when faced with any situation. However, in his entire career, he never drew his gun, other than to clean it, practice or lock it away. Secretly he hated guns! He knew how to use one as verified by his performance at the gun range, he appreciated that guns had a purpose and were often necessary to have, but he still hated them! I guess his wartime experiences, led to his aversion to them. He was prepared however, and would do what he needed to.

He was affable, had a kind nature, a soft voice and an easy-going mannerism and attitude, which was sort of unusual for someone making a career in Law Enforcement. He had an avid interest in sports and was a contradiction to that old adage about coaches, that stated; Those who can play, play. Those who can’t play, coach!

The coach, could play as well as anyone, and in rough and tumble sports, like hockey, when someone would think that he could rough Stan up in the corners, taking him in hard against the boards, they were in for a surprise! Instead of an easy target, they found a formidable adversary, skilled in applying elbows and knees to vulnerable and painful spots on the body and the refs and linesmen were mostly oblivious to it. They thought twice about trying it again.

Stan however, found his true talent, was in coaching, teaching the game and its fine points, shaping future all stars and even had a couple of his charges make it to the NHL. He had a way of getting the absolute best performance from his players, be they top calibre or mediocre. He loved what he did and put his heart into it.

The same applied to his approach to Law enforcement, he did not regard his badge, as a privilege that gave him authority, with which to rule over others in the Community, but considered his job an honour to be charged with the responsibility to help and protect as many in his Community as he could. He preferred to be liked, and earn respect through his deeds and performance rather than by demands or fear and intimidation. You could always expect a fair shake from Chief Marshall, as long as you were up-front and honest, however, he could also be harsh, when and if he needed to be!

He took a real interest in young Robby Baker, and from time to time, could be seen, just sitting on the steps of the store with him, just having a conversation. The feeling was mutual, and Robby was thrilled when he got to be on coach Marshall’s Hockey team or when “The Coach” would drop by one of their baseball games or practices.

When Robby went to sign up for the Baseball team, he found out that his only nemesis, Danny O’Reilly, was on the team already, and they didn’t get along, and rather than get the whole team involved in their rivalry, he decided not to play. Coach Marshall could understand his position, and sought him out, and it was his suggestion, that Robby start a team and league of his own. He knew Robby had the initiative, the drive and the ability to make it work, and he would be there to mentor him all the way through it. He had no idea, at the time, but Chief of Police, Stan Marshall had inadvertently set things in motion that would eventually lead to the formation of The Bakers Dozen, Motorcycle Club!

He recognised in Robby, a natural leadership capability, and charisma, and he also noticed, that many of the kids in Town, who did not come from affluent families, had fallen through the cracks, in the current sports programs that currently existed in the community.

Many of the more well-heeled parents, and politicians, were more obsessed with winning, championship pennants, trophies and the like, than having their children learning and playing, for the pure love of the game and just playing! Playing sports, was expensive, or at least, too expensive, for many families to buy equipment, pay to register, and all the rest!

Stan did what he could, but, he was far from wealthy himself, and just didn’t have the time it would take. But, he saw in Robert Edward Baker; the makings of a protégé and he did have many contacts and quite a bit of influence, with many of the major Sports franchises in the Province, and they came through for him. Robby was a natural, and he did the rest, with a lot of help and guidance from the Chief.

Stan, had two boys a little older than young Robby, and one slightly younger, and they were all into sports in a big way. He, himself, was coaching, baseball, football, soccer and hockey. He would drop off boxes of sports equipment, like baseball mitts, skates, balls, bats, pads, hockey pucks, hockey sticks, helmets and other items that he said his boys had outgrown, at the Baker’s house or shop.

Despite his assertion, as to the source of this much needed and appreciated equipment, by the sheer volume of stuff, you had to know, that he had sourced them from other places, as well, as his own collection of hand me downs and cast offs! This was especially evident, when shoes and skates in sizes like 14, 15, and larger which, co-incidentally happened to fit the “Beanpole”, Chuck Taylor, who, was always outgrowing everything he had.

Robby always found the right recipients for every piece of equipment and collected outgrown stuff and in turn found new owners for it as well. Stanley Marshall was pleased, as more kids who otherwise would do without, and not play, could! He figured, what goes around, comes around and always liked to pay it forward. Besides, if these kids were playing sports, they weren’t getting into trouble and making work for him and his Department!

Robby liked to play, but he had the ability to realize, that the game, always came first, and winning was just something that happened, when you played the game properly, and things went your way. He was patient and kids, of all ages, loved and respected him. He displayed no ego, and the other kids recognized that he was a truly gifted athlete, who chose to hang out with them, when he had the ability to play with those, older, and far more talented, than themselves.

His parents, sponsored the Team, The Bakers Dozen, but Robby was pretty sure that Chief of Police was also behind that it in some way, as well. He knew his parents could not afford to buy the boxes of new baseball gear and uniforms that were dropped off at their door on occasion. He knew, that they couldn’t afford a lot of the other expenses that were paid either. He also knew that the old Chief was happy to see a bunch of kids, who would not have otherwise, be able to participate and have fun, and doing just that! Robby recognised early, when you have a true friend, you just have to treasure that friendship and that friend for what, and who they were, and that there are people who just try to do what is right, just because of the way their heart feels! He could see that look, in whatever you wanted to call him; Chief Marshall, Coach Marshall, or just plain Friend, Marshall’s, eyes, when he came out to the games or practices. Chief Marshall was the first and only Cop that he trusted, respected, admired and truly loved for many years to come. The Chief, to him, was a man and a humanitarian first, the Cop thing was how he made a living!

Robby loved playing hockey, and his natural athleticism and ability to read situations and plays, suited him for the game and his position at centre. And his leadership abilities, made him the obvious choice as team Captain. He could make some brilliant plays all on his own, as he could stick handle, and skate circles around most of the other players, but he was always willing to set up a goal and make a pass rather than try to showboat.

He was happy when the teams were put together that he wasn’t on a team with Danny O’Reilly as he was a Showboat and they were constantly fighting. It wouldn’t have been much fun. It was hard enough when the two teams played against each other, because he would know for certain, that they would clash and they would spend more time in the penalty boxes than on the ice, and the fun was playing, not sitting in the penalty box! He wasn’t sure what Danny’s problem was, but he would come after him whenever they were on the ice together. He wasn’t afraid of him and had nothing really against Danny, but he wasn’t about to take any crap from him. He wished he would just go away and leave him alone!

The first year Robby and Danny both made the All-Star team. Robby found out that he would have to not only be on the same team, but Coach Marshall had put them both on the same line together. He was at centre and Danny on Right Wing, he went to the Coach to tell him that he wanted to drop off the team.

Danny was equally upset, not because he was on the same team and line, but because he felt he should be at Centre, because that was his normal position, and that is where he shined, and could best outshine Robby Baker.

The coach, took them both aside, separately and talked both into just giving it a try and promised, that, if it didn’t work he would change it up! But he told them, that they had to give it an honest effort. He told them not to think about who they were playing with, but who they were playing against, and just play hockey, the way they both knew it should be played. He told them not to plan plays, that the plays would just happen naturally.

Both, Dan and Robby, as well as all of their teammates, most parents and other coaches, thought the old Coach was nuts! The other teams, were in Heaven, because they figured that those two, who were considered to be two of the best players in the league, would spend more time fighting and trying to out-shine each other, to actually play the game, and that they would just have a cake-walk to the Championship.

It was awkward at first, as there was still a real tension between them, but, after the first couple of scrimmages, the natural chemistry started to manifest itself, and the magic started to happen, and they weren’t even aware that it was happening, it all just started to flow. Natural instincts were now at play and it was a sight to behold! The two were working together as if they had played together all their lives.

They were making plays that looked as if they had been carefully and meticulously choreographed without any forethought, simply because that was the way to do it, that is what their natural instincts told them to do. The two just seemed to sense that they were in sync, and playing alongside a player of equal calibre and ability and took full advantage of it. The others on the line, and the rest of the team, also picked up on the vibe and they too, played in unison, with heart and conviction, in a way that they never had before. Danny and Bobby could even be seen smiling at each other once in a while, and caught themselves doing “High Fives” even an occasion impromptu hug was exchanged.

The opposing team, could not believe what was happening. The game was a complete blow out! As was, the rest of the series and The Swanton Harbour, All-Stars, went on to win the Championship in glorious fashion! When the MVP award was to be decided, they couldn’t pick only one and for the first time, two MVP awards were presented to both Dan and Robby!

You might think, that, that experience, would have marked the end to the rivalry between the two. It did not! The next two years All Star Games were a repeat of that first year’s victory. The two could play in complete symmetry on the same line as if they were meant to be, but when the series was over, they went right back to the status quo.

CHAPTERTWO

SHIFTING GEARS

The whole motorcycle thing, started innocently enough, but would evolve, and in turn, shape the lives of many, for years to come.

It began, when REB, showed up at the property, that Robby’s parents owned, and the kids now used, as a hang out spot, one afternoon. He said that he had found an old, what were called; Pie Wagons or Servi cars, and he had it bought off some guy who owned a gas station down on River Street, cheap and rode it there on the QT, avoiding Cops. He didn’t have any ownership for it, as it had been lost years ago, but didn’t care, they weren’t going to plate it, or take it on the road! It was nothing to look at, but it ran OK, and they all loved it!

REB’s folks owned quite a bit of land out this way and this was a parcel that REB really took a shine to, and they he and his friends use it. His folks, were figuring one day, they might move out of Town, and be farmers one day, as farm land, around here, back in those days, was plentiful and cheap! This parcel, that they bought, even had a rickety old house, a dilapidated old barn and a drive shed that were still standing! When they died, they left everything to REB.

This was the perfect spot for this bunch, to hang out and riding the Hell out of that old Trike was a bonus. They took the lid off of the box and would load everybody they could in there and just tear around the fields, bouncing through ruts, ditches and small creeks, terrorizing groundhogs, rabbits and other assorted woodland creatures, and just had a ball.

It would break down on occasion, because of all the hard use and abuse, they put it through, and, by necessity, they all, even the girls, learned how to fix everything from ignition and electrical problems, to tires and wheels and welding stuff back on. Snagging gussets and brackets in place became a regular pastime and occurrence and they were also always on the lookout for hunks of metal. Calamity, was probably the best of the bunch when it came to fixing those old buckets of bolts.

Then someone else, found a deal on an old Indian Chief, that had been chained up to a telephone pole or something on this service station parking lot, for years. It was painted bright orange with black stripes like a tiger. The motor was seized and it took a lot of effort just to load it into the back of an old pick-up truck, and get it back to the property. It was a real challenge, but they got it done. Now to get it running!

They did all that they could, but to no avail. One day, a few of them stopped into a small motorcycle shop down on Elm St., and chosen spokesperson; Calamity, went in and talked to an old mechanic, who worked there, by the name of Tony. Tony didn’t seem to mind answering their questions and giving them tips, he even loaned them a couple of manuals and parts catalogues. He was rough looking, swore a lot, had a bunch of jailhouse tattoos, chain-smoked cigars and constantly and regularly could be seen swigging from a large bottle of tequila, that he kept in a drawer in his tool chest.

He seemed to like them, and even loaned them some of his specialty tools like pullers and wrenches, some of which had been modified just to work on one specific part for one specific job. Many of these tools had been designed and fabricated right in the shop, welding, heating, bending, cutting, filing, and twisting or whatever was necessary until the tool worked. Sometimes it took longer to fabricate the tool than it did to do the job that it was designed it to do. The magic, came in the fact, that without that tool; the job wouldn’t have been able to be accomplished. Patience, ingenuity and knowledge were key and they learned that from Old Tony and others whom they had yet to meet.

This old Indian, though, appeared to be well beyond their skill level. Calamity went back to this mechanic and told him the situation, he agreed that it just might be more than what they could handle at this time. He said that he would come by in the evening after work and take a look.”

“He showed up, just like he said he would, driving this old Chevy panel truck, that was his main transportation. His absolute pride and joy, however, was a 1949 Panhead FL Hydra glide, that he treasured. At first glance, you wouldn’t know that anyone cared about, or for, his motorcycle, judging from the bike’s appearance!

We learned, that this particular, style of motorcycle became affectionately known as a “Rat, or Rat Bikes”. These bikes had a distinct appearance that could be easily be mistaken as neglect! The one thing these Rats had in common, is that they were interesting and had a charm, character and personality that was as individual and personal as those who rode them. They came to love and appreciate them both.

Tony’s bike and he, suited each other well, the bike, had character all its own, and got as much or more attention, wherever and whenever he rode it, than those with the fancy paint and kept in pristine condition. It was always, very dirty, the leather and padding on the seat was worn and tattered and almost non-existent. The bike, had, over the years, gathered many stickers, pins, bottle caps, sports pennants, raccoon tails, rabbits’ feet, and anything else, that captured Tony’s imagination, or unusual sense of design and it could be glued, taped, screwed, bolted, or otherwise attached to the body of this unusual motorcycle! He even had the actual skeleton of a dead rat in a sprung trap, that he had glued in place on top of the front fender. A Davy Crocket lunch box sat where the tool box used to sit, a wooden Coca Cola crate was bungee corded to the rack over the rear fender and it was full of odds and sods. Derby covers, fabricated from old canned ham cans replaced OEM covers. Tons of little things that could keep you occupied for hours and you still would probably have overlooked something.

That damned motorcycle was fun, and fun was supposed to be the objective! Was it not? Sometimes, friends would just stick something on, that they spotted on their travels and Tony would always be able to spot it right away, and was appreciative of his friend’s contributions to his labour of love. He could identify where each and every item had come from, and for him, every look at that old motorcycle was like a ride down memory lane!

It was however, in perfect running condition, and mechanically, was well maintained. But it also, naturally, because of its appearance, got the attention of Law Enforcement, on a regular basis, and he would get pulled over, often.

Initially, they’d looked over the bike to see if it was roadworthy, and then, the inspection could go on for an hour or more, as the bike inspired interest, and closer examination, as it captured people’s attention and appealed to their natural curiosity, sense of humour, and could be a real conversation starter!

These inspections usually just turned into a gabfest with old Tony shaking hands with the Coppers at the end of it, and they would part company on good terms. Sometimes, the Cop, would have something that he thought would add something to the bike and occasionally he would get stopped just so the Cop could give it to him! Tony, was only too happy to attach it! It was indeed a labour of love and a bit of a Community project!

He had painted it yellow, although, over the years, the paint had become faded, chipped or worn off in places. He had given it the name, or it just became known as “The Dirty Rat” which was hand painted in white and black paint on each side of the tank, above that was a caricature of a Rat, dressed in a dark, pinstriped, double-breasted suit, wide colourful tie, wearing a wide brimmed Fedora hat and holding a revolver in his hand, which he had also personally, hand painted, showing off his artistic flair and talents as well as things, mechanical. The rat was done to resemble actor “James Cagney” who was often misquoted for the line “You dirty rat! You killed my Brother” from the 1932 film Taxi! The actual line was “You yellow bellied dirty rat,” Tony had the kind of unique character and personality that he could carry over to his motorcycle and visa versa and they were like a matched set.

Anyway, he gave that old Indian that they had named “Tony Tiger”, because of it’s black and orange paint-job, a once-over, and just shook his head. He then, went back to his truck and when he returned, he was carrying a complete Indian motor in his arms! “This one works fine and it will fit in here nicely! You can have this one and I’ll take yours back to the shop and rebuild it, I have all the parts, you can help if you want, and learn how to do it yourselves. Then you can have it back as a spare. I got enough old crap taking up space at the shop!” he told them. He then, proceeded to swap out the motors and started to give the bike a real good look over. He’d shake his head, take something off and go back to his truck and get some other parts and replace this and that or he’d swap out the wheels and tires.

He was working away for about four hours and they were starting to worry. No one had asked about what all this would cost, as money, they had none! They were hoping that he could just give us advice, not do all the work! He was rough looking, and there was talk that he was a member of a motorcycle gang. Were they nervous and more than a little scared? Damned straight!

“Cal was picked to talk to him, and in spite of being scared stiff, just walked up, and flat out told him, that they were just hoping for advice, on what to do, and how to do it, but had no money to pay him for motors and all the work he was doing.”

“He suddenly, threw his tools down into the dirt in disgust, and looked her straight in the eyes. “No fucking money eh? No money? Who, the fuck mentioned money? I sure as fuck didn’t! The loud tirade brought the others rushing into the shed, but no one spoke! “You needed help! I’m helping, or trying to, if you fucking kids would stop fucking interrupting me! If a helping hand from a friend, for some friends isn’t good enough for you, Fuck you all!” They were all totally taken aback by the outburst, and didn’t know what to say.

Old Tony continued! “Now this thing is almost ready to go, do you want me to continue, or do you want to fucking insult me some more?” With that he, chomped down hard on his cigar, picked up his tools and continued to work. A half hour later, the Old Indian responded to his kicks, by springing to life, for the first time in years.

Tony Boiko, was their new friends name, a Ukrainian, who had Immigrated here just before the war, and joined the Canadian army and served as a despatch rider, which is where he hooked up with many of his buddies, and formed a real bond with them, which just carried over into civilian life. He was a highly intelligent man, mostly self educated, but he was an avid reader with an insatiable thirst for knowledge and the ability to retain absolutely everything he ever learned, read, saw or heard about with a photographic memory and natural intelligence, that knew no bounds. He was fluent in eight different languages, including profanity!

Tony seemed to know something about absolutely everything, it didn’t matter if it was, World history, local history, geography, how and why, something was made, anything! He was a wealth of knowledge and information and they loved being around him and he seemed to like them pretty well too! When that old Indian fired up, he was as excited as the kids were, perhaps even more so because he got to see the look of pure joy on their faces.

Old Tony, was their first introduction to anyone remotely resembling a “Biker”. They were impressed! They then learned that all “Bikers” were not the same, and the same holds true with people, animals and anything else, he would tell them! “Always look for what lurks beyond the surface. Look past what appears to be obvious.” He told them over and over, that in general, no matter what race, creed, colour, job, education, religion or profession, there was always going to be a mix of good, bad and sometimes evil. The trick he said, was to be able to spot the difference and avoid whatever or whomever before they could do you harm. If you think someone is going to hit you and you can’t get away, hit first and give it everything you got and don’t stop until you can walk away!

Just because someone rides a motorcycle, doesn’t mean that they ride it well, or has the same values as you. Just because he or she says they are your friend doesn’t always mean that they are! Don’t call him a biker, until you’ve seen him ride, and don’t trust anyone until they have proved themselves worthy of your trust! Words that they all learned to live by!

They learned a lot from Old Tony, and loved hanging around with him. “They practically haunted the shop where Tony worked, until one day, when they got there, he wasn’t. Mr. Johnston, the owner of the shop, was there sweeping the place out, and he told them that Old Tony was really sick and couldn’t work anymore. He was going to close up the shop, as without Old Tony, he just couldn’t do it himself! Tony, as it turns out, didn’t just work there, but was his partner. He was a keen, highly skilled motorcycle rider and racer as well as an excellent mechanic.

Looking back on it, they had all noticed that Tony was losing a lot of weight, and was always, very tired, and that had been the case, for some time. He would get winded, just doing something simple, and would have to sit down a lot, to catch his breath. Although he never mentioned it, he always seemed to be in a lot of pain, was taking a lot of pills and was no longer, indulging in his usual hearty slugs of Tequila. In fact, the bottle was no longer in the drawer of his tool chest. His ever-present cigar remained clenched between his teeth, but he never lit it anymore.

“Although young, they were now, thanks to Tony, somewhat capable and quite comfortable with wrenches and equipment and were quick studies and could now troubleshoot and detect many mechanical problems and even fix them. They were more than willing to help out wherever and whenever they could! Old Tony gladly took them up on their offer to help!