Svetlana in Olive Drab

Of course, Natalia regarded herself to be much too old now to really begin that career all over again.

But Nikky pushed and prodded and Natalia suddenly found a job writing columns and covering the news desk four days out of seven for a small paper which was still around and published both a full version and a weekend edition which was full of flyers and sales at the stores in the surrounding area.

That was why Natalia had heard the call over the scanner about the pile-up out on the highway. The other reporter had called in sick and so Natalia had just gotten the details from the office on her cellphone as she drove off.

The rest seemed so surreal now. As she drove, Natalia had been looking back and thinking that life had been very kind to her and Nikky. Her sister was beautiful and always seemed to have a different man in her life, and it was far faster than Natalia could keep up with, not that it was her business to anyway, she smiled to herself.

She'd never found much of an interest in anyone again, other than in her sister's arms. There might be little romances for Nikky now and then, but they still preferred each other. Natalia didn't mind. She was happy that at least Nikky could have a good life and that made her own life better.

And then she was idling past the police roadblock after showing her press credentials. The air was lit up with flashing strobelights from the fire trucks and the police cruisers. The road seemed to be covered in crumbled safety glass for hundreds of feet, since there were at least a dozen vehicles involved.

But then Natalia had seen the firemen trying to work the Jaws of Life in through an opening so that they could pry apart enough twisted metal to get to the driver of the dark blue BMW partially crushed under the cab of the semi.

Almost right next to where she'd been told to park.

It would be five minutes before the tow trucks could haul a few more of the wrecks away, they told her. Natalia knew how this would go. She ought to be getting a few shots for the paper, but the main thing was when the mess was being cleared away. That was when she'd get her terse briefing as to what and how this had happened. She'd make the best sense of it and it would make the paper the next week.

But she was barely listening as she heard what she was being told. They were just waiting for either the diesel towtruck to move the rig or with any luck the firemen would get that lady out and they could begin to wind this up.

Natalia heard it all and nodded absently as she recognized the color of the bit of hair that she could see on the head under the blankets of the paramedic gurney being hustled off to the waiting ambulance.

That hair, ... just a touch of natural orange in the blonde, ...

Any woman would know the exact shade of her sister's hair, wouldn't she?

The ambulance was loaded in a heartbeat, the doors closed and it was gone an instant after that, already singing its plaintive wails.

Natalia's eyes betrayed her then.

She hadn't wanted to see, already having seen enough. But her eyes snapped back to take in the damning detail which would prove to her, ... beyond the last measure of doubt which she so needed to still have to hold onto.

She recognized the plate on the back of the almost obliterated car.

She didn't even feel it as she sank to her knees onto the broken glass until a policeman who knew her from seeing her around at other scenes where she sometimes showed up ran over and she said nothing because she had no voice right then. She only pointed.

Now ...

Natalia was alone on the far side of the world.

--------------------------------------

Pete's eyes darted back and his mouse cursor followed to hit the 'back' button on his browser.

He'd already decided that he didn't want another hog. His own had been a lot of fun for him and Maggie, just because. They just loved to ride the thing together and there was no pretense to it.

When it had come up between them, Pete would pull into the lot of a coffee shop, trying to park well away from the lifestylers. They often met a few folks regardless, but that was alright with them. They just weren't into the lifestyle.

Where they'd grown up on the streets, they could both plainly remember the people who a lot of these insurance brokers and account managers were trying to emulate and they didn't need the reminders.

But they played along in a social sense, knowing that the others knew nothing of it all and were often just in it for the look. And besides, for the most part, they were all really nice people. Most bikers of any stripe usually are, no matter what they ride.

If anyone asked, Pete would joke that they'd parked way the hell over where they were as a public service, not wanting any of the dead bug syndrome to spread to the pristine bikes which never saw any wet pavement in their lives.

He smiled when he remembered all of the times when Maggie had come bouncing to a stop in front of him in her rain suit, almost begging to go for a ride in the summer rain.

Coming back to the present, he remembered that he'd been out to the garage that morning to perform the weekly ritual. He didn't know if it was all because of Maggie, or whether his having to go through the expense of another battery was just bad timing. The beast had started right away and rumbled contentedly as the oil in its gut warmed up. He supposed that if it was a living thing, that it had been offering it's apology for all of the trouble.

Pete himself didn't so much blame the bike. It was an inanimate object, after all. But today, he'd felt the change. He was past having fallen out of love with it.

He hated it now.

The previous page listing dealer's sites opened again and he scanned down until he saw the brand that he'd thought that he'd seen. He had to admit to a little surprise that they were still around, but then he smirked a little and asked himself why not?

Harleys were an even older design at over a century old now and other than fuel injection and an on-board computer, they were still pretty much the same primitive things that they'd always been. They just carried a lot more shiny to them these days, that was all.

His last real roadburner would have been twenty years old now and even so, it was light-years ahead of what sat in his garage now from a technical standpoint. At least the Japanese had made finding neutral at a stoplight easy. Any Harley made couldn't make the same boast.

He followed the link to the dealer's site and was amazed that it was within say, fifty kilometers of him.

He reached for his mug of tea and, ...

Well it was Saturday after all and he wasn't doing anything.

A phone call told him they were open until six. He looked at his watch.

Three hours.

He was in his jeep and gone into the afternoon gloom of an autumn rain. As he drove, he thought about a few things, but overall, he found himself having something small to look forward to. At least it had gotten him off his ass, and that surprised him a little.

Pete had always loved the fall season. What he'd never minded -- as long as he hadn't been out in it working -- was the cold autumn rain. Today, as he rode down the road with his wipers slapping, he felt a tiny little hope for himself in a strange way.

He didn't really know what it was, but he knew that he liked it.

The photos didn't do what he was looking at any justice at all, he decided. He and the dealer talked for a long time and the man made it plain and very clear that these things weren't for everyone. He explained that they didn't even ride or handle like any motorcycle -- unless you bought one which came without the sidecar and even then, you'd be buying something so far out of date technologically that --

"I ride a Harley," Pete smiled, "It only knows how to say one word.

Potato.

I'm a little tired of hearing potato-potato-potato-potato, to tell you the truth. If you ignore the fuel injection and the on-board processor and really look at it, it's not much more than a long-throw flathead and that's an older thing than the boxer twin that these have."

The dealer nodded with a smile, "There is something else here that I have to stress -- a couple of things, actually. Riding a sidecar rig is different, as I've said. They don't lean in turns, so you have to -- especially right turns, or that wheel will begin to float off the ground. Go too far, and it can roll over. But it is a vehicle from a different time, a slower one, as you'd soon find out, though some might say that it hearkens back to a more romantic one. Some of our models really emphasize that aspect.

But as you've said, you know the history behind these, or some of it. These are still made in the same factory set up on the western edge of Siberia and well out of the range of Hitler's bombers long ago. Their first products, thousands of them, were for military use. Those days are gone, thankfully, and the company is now a private one, still making the same products, though with revisions here and there.

Most of our products are made for private use, on and off-road, since those ones are two-wheel-drive, once you engage the drive shaft to the sidecar wheel. But they are still mostly military-grade."

He smirked a little then, "I think that there are still a lot of the military ones around in the hands of some of the satellite countries' militaries. Somebody told me that they still carry a NATO designation and if that's true, I'm not surprised.

My point is that they are made to be a little tough and if that makes them a little less comfortable, well, that's just how it is. They're made to be serviced in the field. See the tires? All three are the same and that one comes with a spare mounted on a wheel. And that spare wheel can go on either the rear wheel or the sidecar position. All of the shock absorbers are identical, so if you hit something hard enough to ruin one, you just bolt on the spare.

No motorcycle anywhere is sold with a standard tool kit like the one which comes with these ones. There is even a pair of leather work gloves in the kit. These are made to be fixed wherever they might fail."

"Leather gloves in the toolkit?" Pete asked, a little incredulous, "What for?"

"Think about it," the dealer smiled, "Where these are made, it's nothing for a winter day to go at twenty-five below Celsius. They're made to start and run day after day at temperatures that most vehicles of any sort might have trouble in. I doubt there are many bikes which even could. Many of these are operated year-round there.

By the way, as long as I'm on the subject, I'm telling you now that if you decide to buy one, you ought to have the deep oil sump installed to replace the one that it comes with. There's not a thing wrong with making sure that everything in there gets slathered with oil. It really helps in the colder part of the year. Also," he smiled, "the machine will know that you're serious then, just saying."

Pete stared for a moment, "Are those, ... Am I really looking at actual carburetors in 2013?"

The man nodded, "Why? Does that put you off? To be happy with one of these, you need to be pretty much self-reliant, but the factory stands behind what it sells."

"No," Pete smiled, "I just haven't seen one in a while on a heavy motorcycle, that's all. I'm no stranger to working on them at all." He pointed out something, "Why does this model have a, ... What is that?"

"It's a spotlight," the man grinned, "You can turn it on and move it around by the little knob on the back of it. I don't know why you might want that, and a lot of our customers just tighten it down so that it points straight ahead almost like another high beam. These come with an alternator which makes serious juice, far more than you'd see on pretty much any other bike.

By the way, you ought to know that this engine design won't give you tons of horses. It's a 750, and it only makes about 40 horsepower. So it's no rocket. The transmission has only four speeds, plus reverse. It's a little clunky."

"Once again, I own a Harley," Pete grinned, "It shifts like a tractor compared to the Japanese bikes I've owned."

"Then you'll feel almost right at home," the dealer smiled, "These shift like farm implements too."

They spoke for a little more time and then seeing as the rain had stopped for at least the moment, Pete was led to the shop and offered a little test ride around the yard if he wanted it. He readily accepted and he learned in the next five minutes that the sidecar made it want to go to one side if he accelerated and to the other if he pulled off the gas. But he found that he liked it, overall.

"Absolutely normal for a sidecar rig," the man said, "You'll get used to that. If you're not going to be using it to haul your mother-in-law around, I'd suggest putting a couple of sandbags in the trunk of the sidecar."

Pete stared into the cave of the trunk for a moment and then he laughed as he thought of his frustration years before over the pack of gum.

"If you don't want to wait for my factory shipment over the winter, I've got that one to sell as a bit of a demo. It was owned for a short time by a man who kept thinking that riding these would be like riding most bikes. I guess he scared himself." He mentioned a price and Pete thought about it for a moment.

"You'd be buying a vehicle with a useful load of over 800 pounds," the dealer said, "These things aren't fast, but they can work. I've got one in the shop that I'm restoring for myself," he smiled, "Not much has changed since 1953, apparently."

Pete looked at the low number on the odometer and then he looked at it overall, trying to decide if he was up for this adventure. He concluded that he was and didn't really mind the camo paint scheme too much.

"I'll let you know on Tuesday," he said, "I never buy a vehicle of any kind on the day that I set eyes on it the first time. But I find that I do like it. My days of lighting up the road are long behind me. I'm in no hurry to get anywhere anymore."

"Well that's a good thing," the man chuckled, "because you'd be buying a vehicle which was made to have the same opinion. They can cruise at 100 kilometers an hour, but they're happier at 80. This one here would be in heaven at 15, as long as it was in the woods in two-wheel-drive."

"Just one thing," Pete said, "This red paint here on the sidecar."

He was looking at some lettering which had been sprayed on through a stencil by the previous owner, he guessed. "I don't give a rat's ass about the red star, since it's pretty small. I don't think I care about the rest, but that hammer and sickle thing has to go."

"I can see your thoughts on it," the dealer said, "But it would only take a moment with a can of forest green touch-up paint to cover that."

Pete nodded, "Thanks for taking the time to talk to me and I'll call you one way or the other on Tuesday. If it's a go, you just get out the spray paint and kill the hammer thing. I know where it's made and I even like that, but I had relatives who had to look at that hammer and sickle shit for too long to make it fine with me."

He was told of a site to go to where he could download an Adobe file which would teach him the basic considerations which went with riding one of these things, but they also had hard copies, so Pete bought that instead, along with an embossed key fob.

It was just something that he'd always done whenever he'd bought a bike. This one fascinated him a little, he had to admit. It had the logo on one side and he'd been told that they were offered for sale this way in all of the countries where the firm exported them to.

There were words in Russian on the other side.

He spent the next couple of days asking himself some tough questions.

But what settled it for him was that he'd be able to tootle off for some store coffee -- as idiotic as that notion was when he thought about it. Sure it was stupid, but it made Pete smile every time. Considering how the last year had gone for him, Pete would take that and be glad.

He still missed Maggie something terrible. But now he felt like he had a way to move forward from where he was.

So he phoned on the Tuesday and he said that he'd be there to take delivery on Saturday, if that was alright. "I've been looking at your accessories and I think I want the deep oil sump as you told me and if I could, I'd want the big-assed cop-style fairing and windscreen too. If they make leg shields to bolt onto the engine guards, that would be good as well. I'm pretty sure that -- while I don't expect to go on any winter expeditions, I might want something to hide behind in a stiff breeze. Let me know the final price with the taxes in and the accessories out. I'd prefer to pay for them separately on Saturday with my bank card.

And I'll need the serial number and that stuff so I can wake up my insurance agent."

--------------------------------------

On Thursday morning, Pete called in and booked the day off as a personal leave. He stopped in at his bank and then he made sure to have a sit-down in town in a hair-cutting place -- and he made certain to ask for a dye-job.

"I haven't really taken a good look at the way that I look since before last April, before my wife passed away," he said, "I'd bet anything that I was only gray then. Now I'm white and it scares the crap out of me, quite frankly. I'm not trying to impress anybody so much as I'm trying to feel a little better about myself these days. Otherwise, I'm afraid that I'll just get miserable."

It began to snow late in the morning and it carried on though the afternoon and into the early evening. Nothing deep or intense, just about four inches of stuff that some people might not have been prepared for just yet.

Natalia was one of them.

Pete met her for the first time at the only store in the little town, a slightly thin-looking woman with sort of mildly orange blonde hair in a short boyish kind of cut which looked to be a little frosted with a touch of gray to him and who was surprisingly attractive to him, but that wasn't what motivated him in the ensuing conversation.

It was that she was just this side of tears, and he could see from her eyes that there had been a bit of recent history there in some regard.

He walked in as she was trying to absorb what the clerk had told her, that she didn't know anyone personally who offered snow-ploughing services, though she said that there surely must be someone. "But by now they'd all be as busy as a buck during the spring rut. They all like to get things like those contracts sewn up long before it snows," she said.

The woman stood there looking a little lost and he watched as she lowered her face. Pete knew what that was, though he didn't know the details.

The snow was secondary, though it was the present issue for her.

He saw her struggling not to cry.

He didn't know a thing about her at all, but he knew about not having much of a reserve to one's inner strength after it had already largely been used up. A small and stupid little irritant like a four inch snowfall might be enough of a push for tear ducts that were already halfway opened.

"Here's Pete," the clerk said, "Hey, this lady needs her driveway ploughed and she's stuck. Couldja help her out Pete?"

"Sure," he nodded as he looked over, "Excuse me, Ma'am," he said, "But where do you live?"

She sniffled once and looked up, "I live over on the tenth line, about halfway to the first concession road -- I think it is."

Pete stared at her, knowing that his Grand Cherokee was the only vehicle parked outside at the moment. "You walked here from there? In this? Do you have a car?"

She nodded, "Yes, but it is stuck in the snow from the plow. I do not know what to do. I have only a little garden shovel. I have to get the car unstuck and then shovel the driveway -- and I may have to go to work tomorrow as well."