It was, of course, a dark and stormy night. Actually the rain had stopped for a little while, but it was the kind of weather that strongly suggests that Murphy's Law was on overtime. But, other than ice and snow, bikers often pay no heed to the weather.
By the time this particular night came around, Doc had been stuck at home for 2 days due to unseasonal monsoon kinda rain. Cabin fever had set in, and he needed some wind like a junkie needs dope. In spite of sissy mary warnings of flash flooding, he had to get out and about. He decided to ride into town at least. He could always stop and rent some old war movies if nothing else came up.
So, he went out and walked his V-Twin out of the shed and fired it up. Doc kept the shed up so it was drier inside there than in his house. The old girl started immediately and settled into the ka-chug ka-chug resonance that stirred him to his soul. The music the old girl sang tugged at him with promises of feeling free. Doc stuffed the extra helmet (damned law) into the saddlebags with his chaps. He carried the flask of Remy Martin XO in the inside pocket of his leather, and checked the snifters he kept in a padded compartment of his bags. On nights like this, the cognac was often worth it's weight in gold.
He mounted his ride, kicked her into first with a responding clunck, and pulled away accelerating through the gears, feeling tensions fall from him to mix with the roar left behind from his exhaust. He stopped at the gas station on the outskirts of town to feed the fat tanks thinking he might just get some miles in tonight after all.
After topping off, he was replacing the caps when he heard a voice so sexy he wondered if he'd be able to swing his leg over the bike without splitting the zipper of his jeans. He turned slowly, trying to stay cool, and fell into the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen. They belonged to a thin young girl with dark hair framing her face and continuing to her waist. She wasn't skinny, but not overbuilt either. More balanced in a petite way.
Taking a deep breath as he fought for control of his hormones, he tried to regain his speech. He cleared his throat and lowered his eyes from hers to look at the cushioned pad he'd put on his back fender for times like this. Apparently she was as impressed as he with what she saw before her. "Beautiful bike", she she said, "what kind is it?"
"She's a Big Johnson" he replied with a smile. "The only one of it's kind registered for the road. There are supposed to be two others. One is in the Smithsonian, and the other is wasting away in in some rich duck's private collection."
"It's so big", she breathed in awe.
Usually Doc would just blow the groupie types of as they were more trouble than they were worth, but tonight for some reason, he suggested a ride and he would tell her the bike's story.
Then Doc kicked the engine over 4 times without response. "She's a little jealous sometimes", he mumbled. The girl climbed onto the pad as he caught his breath, and promising the bike extra wax and polish, he tried again and the bike fired and settled into an idle as if it was fresh from the factory. Before pulling back onto the road, he took a second to introduce `Lucille' to the girl. Then, with a snort of power and a scent of possible adventure, Lucille pressed into traffic.
As they cleared the other side of town, Doc started the tale of how Lucille got her name ...and her place in time.

"You see", started Doc, "Lucile's first rider and she were in the military during WW2. They would run classified information behind the battle lines and occasioally get some easy duty escorting the brass from one headquarters to another. Lucille and her partner gained a reputation for being "charmed" as they were always successful where others failed. It was said that Lucille and her partner, `Sarge', had a special bond or made some kind of deal. There were a lot of stories going around, but no one ever mentioned anything around Sarge or the bike. The two of them travelled from the deserts of Africa to the streets of Paris, and Sarge kept the bike spotless and always serviced it himself.
One day, Sarge got a letter from his girlfriend's parents who lived in New Orleans. It told of his girlfriend's death. She had died tragically at the hands of a man who was later shot for treason. As it happenned, the girl's name was Lucille. There was also some rumor and gossip that his girl had studied as a Priestess before her family moved to New Orleans from Haiti, but she had a heart of gold and if she practiced any magic, it would certainly have been benevolent. Before Sarge had shipped overseas, she had sworn to him that no matter what ever happenned she would always be with him. It was upon learning of his girlfriends death that this motorcycle became Lucille.
It was around this time that other soldiers noticed Sarge sometimes talking to his bike; and stranger yet; the bike was said to become `temperamental' in ways that sometimes were more like a woman than a motorcycle."
At this point, Doc pulled off the country road they found themselves on saying it was time for a stretch. "Also, seems about right for a smoke and a sip while I finish the story."
The cognac, sipped between hits on a joint, spread warmth throughout them. Doc surprised the girl when he poured a little cognac into the gas tank. "Lucille likes a little taste on chilly nights", he explained. "Reminds her of Paris", he smiled.
The story continued, relating countless legends of times Sarge should have died. He'd been shot by a sniper once while riding hell bent for leather behind the lines, and the sniper's bullet had gone through him and then through the gas tank. No rational explanation was ever found as to how Sarge, unconscious from blood loss, got back to base on a bike that not only stayed upright till they got there, but had two large holes in the tank and was empty of fuel. The stories grew in number and ferocity, but none were ever disproven or explained. And although both Sarge and Lucille were wounded and damaged numerous times, they always got back to base, and both always recovered. One other strange thing is that other than registration of the serial number when she joined the service, no other records of service or repair have ever been found for Lucille.
"The bike came to me after Sarge died. He went in his sleep during a nap in the barn, lying next to the motorcycle. He'd spend a lot of time out in the barn with her, polishing and mumbling. Sarge was my uncle."
Ever since Lucille came to stay with me, I haven't had to do anything to her but change her oil and keep her shiny. There's been more than one time I should have gone over the high side but Lucy always gets us home. Sometimes we'll be out riding, and I swear I can feel my uncle with me."
The cognac empty, and the joint smoked, Doc got up and was getting ready to get back in the wind.
The girl came to him and said, "the ride tonight has felt special, different somehow. Sometimes I'm afraid of bikes this big but tonight it almost felt like someone was holding me onto the bike."
Doc looked at her, and realized, "I've been so busy talking, I told you my name and Lucy's name, but I didn't ask yours."
"My name is Heather", she replied. "Do you think she likes me?", she asked as she ran her hand along the fender.
"Oh hell yeah", Doc said, "how can you help but like a girl whose name rhymes with leather"?

By J. Alex

Lucille copyright J.Alex 8/1999

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