That One Time In Nevada
Storytime
“In the moment, right or wrong, always have your brother’s back!”
-Unknown
Nevada 2004
“Where are we going?”
“Genoa.”
“Italy is pretty far from here, Brian.”
“Not that one. The town is only 30 minutes from Reno, bro.”
And that was how I found out Brian and I were riding our bikes to a tiny town known for (disputed though) being the first settlement in the great state of Nevada. While I grew up riding dirt bikes, mopeds, and even the occasional three-wheeler, this was my first street bike, a new (to me) Harley Davidson. Brian owned a Fat Boy and had been my riding partner for the past two months as I happily pretended I was a character from the movie Easy Rider. We mostly rode around Reno and sometimes did the Virginia City and Lake Tahoe loop. I was still new to street riding and Brian was a great mentor during those amateur learning stages.
We had become fast friends a year earlier in a smoke-filled bar after shooting pool together. Brian was almost 30, while I was just a few years passed 21 and still had to flash an ID to get a drink. At that age, anyone around or over 30 is wise. They’ve seen some stuff and have stories to tell. He was no different and after a stint in the military as a Hospital Corpsman, he had quite a few tales from traveling the world.
The road to Genoa was a fun one to ride on, with lots of rolling hills that give that “butterflies in the stomach” feeling if one goes fast enough. It felt like we were riding a roller coaster and we kept speeding faster on each successive hill the road went up. For some reason, Brian slowed down while going up an especially steep hill. It was good that he did because as we reached the top and were about to go down, a car was parked halfway in the road and grassy ditch. As we quickly slowed down, we noticed a family outside the car looking at a spot beside the road. After pulling over and parking, we walked to where the family was gathered and took in the situation. It was grim.
The car had California plates and the family looked as if they had stepped out of central casting of a Full House episode. The mom and dad had that Bay Area power couple dynamic and the kids were very clean-cut. From the look on the dad’s face, I could tell he did not expect the family vacation to include hitting a deer with the family roadster.
“He just darted out in front of us. We didn’t mean to hit him,” the woman said. I didn’t suspect they were purposely on a road trip to hit as many woodland creatures as possible, but I understand that saying you didn’t mean to do something tragic like this is an axiomatic response.
The deer was laying in the grass. A small spot of blood streaming from his mouth. Not a big fellow either, just an unlucky yearling who picked the wrong time to cross the road. As a native Texan, I was well-versed in seeing all kinds of roadkill along country roads, but this was the first time arriving at a scene such as this. With the location being right below the crest of the hill, we quickly decided the smart thing to do would be to move the carcass off the road.
“Oh, damn Art, he’s still breathing,” Brian said.
The deer looked in rough shape so it seemed putting the poor creature out of his misery would be the best course of action. I drew my Buck knife from its sheath and began to walk towards him.
Brian walked over with me and then abruptly says, “No. Wait.”
“Hold his Hooves.”
Wut.
Brian repeated his statement so I complied by getting on the ground and securing Bambi’s front and back legs. I figured he was about to pull some Mr. Miyagi Karate Kid movie magic and he acted like he knew what he was doing.
I was wrong.
While I held the yearling down, a creature already having a bad day, Brian proceeded to wrap his gloved hands around the deer’s neck and started squeezing what life remained out of him… or at least that might have been the plan. I couldn’t help myself at that moment of absurdity and blurted out, “Go towards the light Bessie! Go to the LIGHT!” After a minute or so of this sitcom moment happening on the side of a Nevada highway, Brian released his grip on Bambi’s neck. “I don’t’ have the strength”, he said in a defeated manner.
At this point, we walked over to the obviously horrified family who would most certainly go back home and tell their friends and family about the leather-clad bikers stalking the Nevada roadways in search of small animals to choke.
“An officer is on his way. Thank you for your…help,” the woman said to us.
“Are they bringing a veterinarian?” I asked her. Brian glared at me. After an uncomfortable moment, we mounted our bikes and went on our way.
Genoa was only a couple of miles at that point so we were parked once again in front of a saloon that took the claim of Genoa being the first town in the state quite seriously. They had at least a dozen signs out front proclaiming that yes, indeed, they were the first bar in Nevada. We went in and sat down at the bar, ordering two well-deserved beers after a rough day of deer wrangling.
Brian still appeared shook up from the experience, but after a few healthy swigs from his beer, he looked at me with a serious expression and said, “Well, that didn’t work out like I thought it would.”
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