I scout out the cleanest machine, and after relieving Jake of the laundry bag, I dump all of my dirty clothes inside the washing machine before sitting down on a bright yellow plastic chair with legs that slightly bend outward.

“Where you from,” I ask Jake.

He sits deep in an old couch in the corner, perhaps purple or dark grey, but with so much dirt and whatever else, it’s impossible to tell. “California,” Jake answers.

“Me too. Where ’bouts?”

“San Francisco. You?”

“Fair Oaks. A little place outside Sacramento.”

“I know that area. With all the chickens, right?”

“Right,” I smile.

Jake gives me a blank stare then cautiously responds: “I remember seeing a sign for Fair Oaks. I got friends that live in Folsom, and we sometimes go to Players to drink.”

The sound of rushing water stops as the washing machine begins to run its cycle. The morning sun, now fully awake, penetrates an uncovered window near the game room. I hear a cowbell make noise when an attractive young lady opens the front door to an office/store across the way. 

It’s a modest structure from the early 1970‘s with “KOA” painted in massive white lettering on an incredible slope of a 2-story a-frame building. The office and store make up the main downstairs portion, with a women’s restroom and showers on the left, and a men’s restroom and showers on the right. No code needed for either one. 

Upstairs is the living quarters for the campground host, which consists of a stripped-down studio apartment with a wood staircase in the back that’s attached to the side of a beige stucco wall. Privacy protected by a handmade cardboard sign hanging from a rope dangling across the staircase entryway declaring “No Entry” in red lettering.

Jake is looking at his phone focused on something else, while I pull out my phone pretending to do the same, all before I finally interrupt his reading with “so, Jake, what brings you to a laundromat at a KOA in Benson?” 

Jake looks up from his phone and explains: “I’m on a motorcycle ride, heading to NOLA. I was just waiting for the office to open, so I can check out a day early without having to pay a fee.”

“That’s awesome,” I barely get out before Jake continues with, “so what you doing? Other than laundry, I mean.”

“I’m riding too,” I tell Jake with enthusiasm. “I’m hoping to make a big loop all around the country. I took a couple months off work. I’m calling this a sabbatical.”

“Where you going next?” Jake asks.

“Tombstone,” I quickly tell him. “I wanna see Boothill, and the O.K. Corral,” I couldn’t wait to admit.

“I’m heading that way too,” Jake tells me. “Wanna ride out together?”

I’m surprised by Jake’s suggestion, which makes me pause and think, but then I answer him with “that works. Let me finish my laundry. I could be ready in about an hour?”

“Okay. Let me check out, and I’ll pack up. I’m in a tent over by the pool. Where you at,” Jake wonders.

“I’m in one of those one room cabins,” I explain, “just around the corner and up the hill. It’s 8 o’clock now. Why don’t we meet in front of the store around 9:00 or so?”

“That works.”

—ooOoo—

Jake rides a 2012 Indian Chief Classic, two-toned Indian Red and Ivory Cream, with gold script inscribing “Indian” on both sides of the gas tank, and old school tan leather saddlebags that match the Corbin custom made touring saddle that he installed just before the ride.

It doesn’t matter what flavor of bike a dude rides, everyone loves an Indian; especially with a full chrome engine package on top of those iconic valance long fenders. This was one of the first bikes made after Polaris started making Indians, and it was Jake’s most favorite toy.

After triple-checking his gear, but ultimately shoving the extra bungee cord into his backpack, Jake throws his right leg over the bike and takes a seat. “What am I doing? This is crazy,” he thinks to himself while taking a hit from a pipe that he quickly puts into his jacket pocket after exhaling.

The Indian starts right up, and Jake kicks-up the kickstand while simultaneously revving the engine. His fingers, a bit fatigued from riding days before, ache a little more as he lets out the clutch and turns the bike toward the store, where Mike is now waiting to ride to Tombstone with him.