Going Gonzo

GOING GONZO

A lost day at the Owl Farm

BRENDA BUTTNER

YOU SOUND crazy,” he growled over the phone, his voice rumbling like loose gravel trapped in a cement mixer. I had just proposed to the Prince of Wild and Weird a ride through the Rockies on two very fast, very red motorcycles. “Crazy.”

I didn't argue. Those were strong words coming from Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, shining light of “Gonzo” journalism and National Affairs editor at Rolling Stone magazine (see “Polo is My Life,” RS 697); few know the meaning of “crazy” better than lie. This is, after all. the outlaw writer who knocked heads with the Hell's Angels (and has the broken nose to prove it). The maverick reporter who took on President Nixon before it was chic to do so. and covered a District Attorneys’ Drug Conference with a fistful of psychedelic

drugs. This is the anti-politician who ran for Sheriff of Aspen with the Freak Power Party, the war correspondent who nearly got killed yelling obscenities in a Vietnam battle zone. Yes, this best-selling author (Hell's Angels, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail, Better than Sew to name just a few titles) has made himself a household word-not to mention a character in “Doonesbury”-by pushing the bounds of the ordinary, searching for truth in places where others didn’t dare.

And, yes, perhaps it was a little less than sane to think of loaning him a brandnew $10,000 Ducati 900SP. The good Doctor is also, after all, a connoisseur of the finer things in life (especially when on someone clsc’s expense account), and he mentioned several times that he just might like this bike too much to give it back.

Yet, as Thompson would be quick to agree, sometimes you have to take some risks to get the truth. And the truth is that this hard-drinking, rough-talking iconoclast delivers prose as powerful as a straight shot of his favorite Wild Turkey.

Crazy or not, we made the arrangements.

And so it wasn’t long before I headed for Hunter’s hangout, The Owl Farm, which perches on a low-slung hill a few miles out of Aspen in Woody Creek, Colorado. Two metal vultures. riddled with bullet holes, greeted me. As did a sign on the front door of a weathered log eabin, warning away potential visitors with a photo of the wrong end of a rille. (Thompson has quite a loudness for fine firearms.)

There was no turning b a e k now, and besides, a pictureperfect day for a ride beckoned.

Hints of Indian Summer crackled in the air, and golden aspens flashed like splashes of sunlight against the dark face of the mountain. I parked my Honda VFR next to the Doctor’s Ducati

Supersport, which had been delivered earlier. (Both motorcycles were graciously-or bravcly-on loan by Fay-Myers dealership of Denver). The bikes gleamed like bright beacons, overshadowing even the purple-breasted peacocks Thompson keeps as pets on his property.

It would be a while, however, before we took to the snaky switchbacks that coil around the cliffs of the Rockies. You see, the rhythms of the Owl Farm do not echo those of the outside world, and although it was 4 in the afternoon, Hunter had just finished breakfast. With a trademark tumbler of bourbon in one hand and a remote control in the other, he held court from his desk in the kitchen, barking out orders and observations. “Explain yourself,” he grumbled to a

CNN talk show, flinging a ball at the TV set. It just missed

and caromed instead off a nearby wall (which is adorned

with a fax from President Clinton and a latex model of a pair of breasts.)

Then there were guns to shoot, and boxing to bet on, and theology to debate. “I figured out how that drug-addled carpenter conned everyone with the loaves and fishes story,” he announced.

Finally, after most in the room were convinced that Lucifer really was Jesus and vice-versa, Thompson submitted to the temptation of the Italian prize waiting in his driveway. “I hate motorcycles,” he joked upon seeing it, “yet I may have to steal this one.” Thompson is no stranger to motorcycleshe's had at least one in his garage since he bought a BS A 650 in the late 1960s. An old BMW rests there now. But this was his first time aboard a high-end Ducati and he took care to do more than merely admire its racing lines, examining the ermine careful ly and asking many questions, especially about its limited turning radius. “You don't want to make a dumb mistake.” he advised. “Crazy mistakes are okay, but forget the dumb ones.”

WITH A THUNDEROUS BOOM, HE BLASTED THE DUCATI DOWN /M i HIS M r 6RAVEL ^ n Awri DRIVEWAY...BY THE TIME I JUMPED ABOARD THE HONDA, HE WAS A BLUR OF SCARLET IN THE DISTANCE.

My mistake was in turning away for a moment. With a thunderous boom, he blasted the Ducati down his gravel driveway then whipped it around a tight turn. By the time I Jscarlet jumped in,hedistance...... aboard the Honda, he was a blur of

“Just showing off a little," he later explained to me from the seat of another very fast, very red vehicle: his 1971 Pontiac convertible. Hugging the centerline, tires screeching in protest, he screamed through a corner with two wheels almost off the ground. After one of his friends along for the ride let out a little shriek, he mumbled.

“Gotta take some risks.”

No kidding. When 1 said good-bye, he was busy plotting a way to sneak the Ducati onto Aspen's airstrip. “Get going about 140 mph,” he said, “That's where that bike belongs. There are some things you just gotta do! What could it be...” he chuckled, “a federal offense, maybe?” Wind-whipped, roadweary and brain-tired, I declined the offer to join him on the runway, leaving Hunter to explore the outer reaches of the 900 Supersport by himself.

I may be crazy, but there are some places of the Mind and Earth where even the most certifiable don't follow Hunter S. Thompson.