We’ve all been there. It happens at rest areas, hotels, restaurants and everywhere in between. I’m at a gas station in Nevada this time. It’s so hot my leathers are melting like a popsicle meeting a blast furnace. I do the usual, fumble to find the key to the Ultra’s gas cap, look around the bike, check the T-Bag, feed the pump my credit card and start pumping away. Then, like always, lightening strikes.
Out of the corner of my eye, six pumps over, I see Mr. and Mrs. Inquisitive zeroing in on me like a laser beam. They’re older folks and it’s just a glance at first but quickly morphs into a game of chess. The jousting begins.
He takes a peep, I check my oil. I wash my windshield, he checks his oil. I check my tires, he steals a look between two pumps. He knows that bikers fall into one of two categories, the obsessive, perfectionist type (me) that cleans the bike at every stop, or the “other type” like my friend Andy who’s a, “hose her off once a year” kind of guy. The old man wonders, is he a bling, chrome, shiny kind of guy, or an oil, mud and the more grease the more manly kind of guy. Is it tattoos and piercings, or a crew cut, “I just got out of seminary college” look. Is that hot babe with him or is he riding solo? Is it suntan lotion or a dried, fried wrinkled leather look by the time I’m 30. On it goes.
Suddenly, the moment of truth arrives. The poor fella’s curiosity can no longer be contained. I smile to myself knowing what’s next. He walks my way and boy is he on a mission. No more craning his neck to sneak a peek for the beautiful machine is sitting out in all it’s glory for all the world to see. He smiles. As I return the pleasantry, he races to my license plate. It took me years to figure out why they always go to the back of the bike first, they have to see where you came from. This also opens the door for discussion. It begins like this.
“You rode that Harley all the way from Indiana?”
“I did indeed,” I reply grinning so big it would take a surgeon to remove my smile.
“Where ya headed”?
“Everywhere,” I say. His facial expression tells me he wants specifics so I rattle of ten, twelve or however many States I’m hitting this trip. The old man is more comfortable now as he inspects the bike much closer.
“How long ya been gone”?
“Bout three days”.
“How many miles is it from Indiana to Nevada”?
“Bout 1,500,” I reply.
His mind swirls, he marvels as he calculates that 500 miles a day is quite the feat. I shrug my shoulders saying it’s not all that many. He asks if it’s rained, if so, how much. Have there been any close calls with cars, critters or “those other biker types”.
I laugh. Martha, still in the car is not amused. The desert sun is frying her to a crisp but the old man doesn’t notice. He’s on a roll, filled with excitement at his new found best friend, who represents all the freedom he's ever dreamed of embracing. He has spunk for his age and with an ever-beaming smile, his barrage of questions continue with the speed of a gatling gun.
“How much and what kind of gear do you pack? You camp or hotel it? You ever get scared? Ever run out of gas? (see pic) How many years you been doin this? You ever wash your clothes, yourself”?
As I answer his remaining questions, the momentum builds. I feel the climatic conclusion of our conversation coming to an end as his mood abruptly changes. When the mood begins to change, I know exactly what’s coming next. I see it in his eyes. I feel it in my soul. I want to scream out, so I won’t hear the line I’ve heard a million times in 36 years of riding from one coast to the other. I try with all my might to stop it but it’s no use.
It spews forth anyway as he says, “I always wanted to do that, travel across country on a Harley”.
My heart sinks. His excitement wanes. The old man just minutes before was in full stride and is now paralyzed knowing the tables have been turned. He has asked every single question up to this point, but I get to ask the final, the most profound question of all and he sees it coming.
His head drops and his once sparkling eyes dancing off the chrome have now been dimmed by the Nevada dust. The question freezes him. I pray the Harley gods will restore a dream in the old man that once was but has now been withered away by father time. The old man never answers the question but I know the answer already. It’s one word. Fear.
As he lifts his head, my outreached hand meets his in mid air. When we shake hands, I pull him toward me and I give the old man a big hug. It’s an unspoken thing. There are no words. We give each other a final nod. As the old man turns to walk away, I notice his left hand brushing his eye, wiping away a tear.
I saddle up and as I pull away, I take one last look in my mirror at the old man and I realize this is one time the cager and the biker understand each other. One is desperately seeking a dream that perhaps never really was and will never be. The other is living a dream in the present, ever ready to chase, but yet another. I motor on.
